LITMIR.BIZ

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in Soho, which is well known as a meeting-place of German agents.’

      ‘And the chauffeur?’

      ‘The chauffeur was nowhere to be found. He, too, had disappeared.’

      ‘So,’ said Poirot thoughtfully, ‘there are two disappearances: the Prime Minister in France, and O’Murphy in London.’

      He looked keenly at Lord Estair, who made a gesture of despair.

      ‘I can only tell you, Monsieur Poirot, that, if anyone had suggested to me yesterday that O’Murphy was a traitor, I should have laughed in his face.’

      ‘And today?’

      ‘Today I do not know what to think.’

      Poirot nodded gravely. He looked at his turnip of a watch again.

      ‘I understand that I have carte blanche, messieurs – in every way, I mean? I must be able to go where I choose, and how I choose.’

      ‘Perfectly. There is a special train leaving for Dover in an hour’s time, with a further contingent from Scotland Yard. You shall be accompanied by a Military officer and a CID man, who will hold themselves at your disposal in every way. Is that satisfactory?’

      ‘Quite. One more question before you leave, messieurs. What made you come to me? I am unknown, obscure in this great London of yours.’

      ‘We sought you out on the express recommendation and wish of a very great man of your own country.’

      ‘Comment? My old friend the Préfet –?’

      Lord Estair shook his head.

      ‘One higher than the Préfet. One whose word was once law in Belgium – and shall be again! That England has sworn!’

      Poirot’s hand flew swiftly to a dramatic salute. ‘Amen to that! Ah, but my Master does not forget … Messieurs, I, Hercule Poirot, will serve you faithfully. Heaven only send that it will be in time. But this is dark – dark … I cannot see.’

      ‘Well, Poirot,’ I cried impatiently, as the door closed behind the Ministers, ‘what do you think?’

      My friend was busy packing a minute suitcase, with quick, deft movements. He shook his head thoughtfully.

      ‘I don’t know what to think. My brains desert me.’

      ‘Why, as you said, kidnap him, when a knock on the head would do as well?’ I mused.

      ‘Pardon me, mon ami, but I did not quite say that. It is undoubtedly far more their affair to kidnap him.’

      ‘But why?’

      ‘Because uncertainty creates panic. That is one reason. Were the Prime Minister dead, it would be a terrible calamity, but the situation would have to be faced. But now you have paralysis. Will the Prime Minister reappear, or will he not? Is he dead or alive? Nobody knows, and until they know nothing definite can be done. And, as I tell you, uncertainty breeds panic, which is what les Boches are playing for. Then, again, if the kidnappers are holding him secretly somewhere, they have the advantage of being able to make terms with both sides. The German Government is not a liberal paymaster, as a rule, but no doubt they can be made to disgorge substantial remittances in such a case as this. Thirdly, they run no risk of the hangman’s rope. Oh, decidedly, kidnapping is their affair.’

      ‘Then, if that is so, why should they first try to shoot him?’

      Poirot made a gesture of anger. ‘Ah, that is just what I do not understand! It is inexplicable – stupid! They have all their arrangements made (and very good arrangements too!) for the abduction, and yet they imperil the whole affair by a melodramatic attack, worthy of a cinema, and quite as unreal. It is almost impossible to believe in it, with its band of masked men, not twenty miles from London!’

      ‘Perhaps they were two quite separate attempts which happened irrespective of each other,’ I suggested.

      ‘Ah, no, that would be too much of a coincidence! Then, further – who is the traitor? There must have been a traitor – in the first affair, anyway. But who was it – Daniels or O’Murphy? It must have been one of the two, or why did the car leave the main road? We cannot suppose that the Prime Minister connived at his own assassination! Did O’Murphy take that turning of his own accord, or was it Daniels who told him to do so?’

      ‘Surely it must have been O’Murphy’s doing.’

      ‘Yes, because if it was Daniels’ the Prime Minister would have heard the order, and would have asked the reason. But there are altogether too many “whys” in this affair, and they contradict each other. If O’Murphy is an honest man, why did he leave the main road? But if he was a dishonest man, why did he start the car again when only two shots had been fired – thereby, in all probability, saving the Prime Minister’s life? And, again, if he was honest, why did he, immediately on leaving Charing Cross, drive to a well-known rendezvous of German spies?’

      ‘It looks bad,’ I said.

      ‘Let us look at the case with method. What have we for and against these two men? Take O’Murphy first. Against: that his conduct in leaving the main road was suspicious; that he is an Irishman from County Clare; that he has disappeared in a highly suggestive manner. For: that his promptness in restarting the car saved the Premier’s life; that he is a Scotland Yard man, and, obviously, from the post allotted to him, a trusted detective. Now for Daniels. There is not much against him, except the fact that nothing is known of his antecedents, and that he speaks too many languages for a good Englishman! (Pardon me, mon ami, but, as linguists, you are deplorable!) Now for him, we have the fact that he was found gagged, bound, and chloroformed – which does not look as though he had anything to do with the matter.’

      ‘He might have gagged and bound himself, to divert suspicion.’

      Poirot shook his head. ‘The French police would make no mistake of that kind. Besides, once he had attained his object, and the Prime Minister was safely abducted, there would not be much point in his remaining behind. His accomplices could have gagged and chloroformed him, of course, but I fail to see what object they hoped to accomplish by it. He can be of little use to them now, for, until the circumstances concerning the Prime Minister have been cleared up, he is bound to be closely watched.’

      ‘Perhaps he hoped to start the police on a false scent?’

      ‘Then why did he not do so? He merely says that something was pressed over his nose and mouth, and that he remembers nothing more. There is no false scent there. It sounds remarkably like the truth.’

      ‘Well,’ I said, glancing at the clock, ‘I suppose we’d better start for the station. You may find more clues in France.’

      ‘Possibly, mon ami, but I doubt it. It is still incredible to me that the Prime Minister has not been discovered in that limited area, where the difficulty of concealing him must be tremendous. If the military and the police of two countries have not found him, how shall I?’

      At Charing Cross we were met by Mr Dodge.

      ‘This is Detective Barnes, of Scotland Yard, and Major Norman. They will hold themselves entirely at your disposal. Good luck to you. It’s a bad business, but I’ve not given up hope. Must be off now.’ And the Minister strode rapidly away.

      We chatted in a desultory fashion with Major Norman. In the centre of the little group of men on the platform I recognized a little ferret-faced fellow talking to a tall, fair man. He was an old acquaintance of Poirot’s – Detective-Inspector Japp, supposed to be one of the smartest of Scotland Yard’s officers. He came over and greeted my friend cheerfully.

      ‘I heard you were on this job too. Smart bit of work. So far they’ve got away with the goods all right. But I can’t believe they can keep him hidden long. Our people are going through France with a toothcomb. So are the French. I can’t help feeling it’s only a matter of hours now.’

      ‘That

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