"Yes, Hastings, she was murdered."
"Then why try to hush it up - to have it labelled and put aside as suicide? That stops all enquiry."
"Precisely."
"You want that?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
"Is it conceivable that you do not see? Never mind - let us not go into that. You must take my word for it that it was murder - deliberate, preconceived murder. I told you, Hastings, that a crime would be committed here, and that it was unlikely we should be able to prevent it - for the killer is both ruthless and determined."
I shivered. I said:
"And what happens next?"
Poirot smiled.
"The case is solved - labelled and put away as suicide. But you and I, Hastings, go on, working underground like moles. And, sooner or later, we get X."
I said:
"And supposing that - meanwhile - someone else is killed?"
Poirot shook his head.
"I do not think so. Unless, that is, somebody saw something or knows something - but if so, surely, they would have come forward to say so...?"
Chapter 15
My memory is a little vague about the events of the days immediately following the inquest on Mrs Franklin. There was, of course, the funeral, which I may say was attended by a large number of the curious of Styles St Mary. It was on that occasion that I was addressed by an old woman with rheumy eyes and an unpleasantly ghoulish manner.
She accosted me just as we were filing out of the cemetery.
"Remember you, sir, don't I?"
"Well - er, possibly -"
She went on, hardly listening to what I said.
"Twenty years ago and over. When the old lady died up at the Court. That was the first murder we had to Styles. Won't be the last, I say. Old Mrs Inglethorp, her husband done her in, so we all said. Sure of it, we was." She leered at me cunningly. "Maybe it's the husband this time."
"What do you mean?" I said sharply. "Didn't you hear the verdict was suicide?"
"That's what the coroner said. But he might be wrong, don't you think?" She nudged me. "Doctors, they know how to do away with their wives. And she wasn't much good to him seemingly."
I turned on her angrily and she slunk away, murmuring she hadn't meant anything, only it seemed odd-like, didn't it, happening a second time? "And it's queer you should be there both times, sir, isn't it now?"
For one fantastic moment I wondered if she suspected me of having really committed both crimes. It was most disturbing. It certainly made me realize what a queer, haunting thing local suspicion is.
And it was not, after all, so far wrong. For somebody had killed Mrs Franklin.
As I say, I remember very little of those days. Poirot's health, for one thing, was giving me grave concern. Curtiss came to me with his wooden face slightly disturbed and reported that Poirot had had a somewhat alarming heart attack.
"Seems to me, sir, he ought to see a doctor."
I went posthaste to Poirot, who negatived the suggestion most vigorously. It was, I thought, a little unlike him. He had always been, in my opinion, extremely fussy about his health. Distrusting draughts, wrapping up his neck in silk and wool, showing a horror of getting his feet damp, and taking his temperature and retiring to bed at the least suspicion of a chill - "for otherwise it may be for me a fluxion de poitrine!" In most little ailments he had, I knew, always consulted a doctor immediately.
Now, when he was really ill, the position seemed reversed.
Yet perhaps that was the real reason. Those other ailments had been trifling. Now, when he was indeed a sick man, he feared, perhaps, admitting the reality of his illness. He made light of it because he was afraid.
He answered my protests with energy and bitterness.
"Ah, but I have consulted doctors - not one, but many! I have been to Blank and to Dash (he named two specialists) and they do what? - they send me to Egypt where immediately I am rendered much worse. I have been, too, to R."
R. was, I knew, a heart specialist. I asked quickly:
"What did he say?"
Poirot gave me a sudden quick sidelong glance - and my heart gave a sudden agonized leap.
He said quietly:
"He has done for me all that can be done. I have my treatments, my remedies, all close at hand. Beyond that - there is nothing. So you see, Hastings, to call in more doctors would be of no avail. The machine, mon ami, wears out. One cannot, alas, install the new engine and continue to run as before like a motor car."
"But look here, Poirot, surely there's something. Curtiss -"
Poirot said sharply: "Curtiss?"
"Yes, he came to me. He was worried - You had an attack -"
Poirot nodded gently.
"Yes, yes. They are, sometimes, these attacks, painful to witness. Curtiss, I think, is not used to these attacks of the heart."
"Won't you really see a doctor?"
"It is of no avail, my friend."
He spoke very gently but with finality. And again my heart felt a painful constriction. Poirot smiled at me. He said:
"This, Hastings, will be my last case. It will be, too, my most interesting case - and my most interesting criminal. For in X we have a technique superb, magnificent - that arouses admiration in spite of oneself. So far, mon cher, this X has operated with so much ability that he has defeated me - Hercule Poirot! He has developed the attack to which I can find no answer."
"If you had your health -" I began soothingly.
But apparently that was not the right thing to say. Hercule Poirot immediately flew into a rage.
"Ah! Have I got to tell you thirty-six times, and then again thirty-six, that there is no need of physical effort? One needs only - to think."
"Well - of course - yes, you can do that all right."
"All right? I can do it superlatively. My limbs they are paralyzed, my heart it plays me the tricks, but my brain, Hastings - my brain it functions without impairment of any kind. It is still of the first excellence, my brain."
"That," I said soothingly, "is splendid."
But as I went slowly downstairs, I thought to myself that Poirot's brain was not getting on with things as fast as it might do. First the narrow escape of Mrs Luttrell and now the death of Mrs Franklin. And what were we doing about it? Practically nothing.
II
It was the following day that Poirot said to me:
"You suggested, Hastings, that I should see a doctor."
"Yes," I said eagerly. "I'd feel much happier if you would."
"Eh bien, I will consent. I will see Franklin."
"Franklin?" I looked doubtful.
"Well, he is a doctor, is he not?"
"Yes, but - his main line is research, is it not?"
"Undoubtedly. He would not succeed, I fancy, as a general practitioner. He has not sufficiently what you call the 'side of the bed manner.' But he has the qualifications. In fact I should say that, as the films say, 'he knows his stuff better than most.'"
I was still not entirely satisfied. Although I did not doubt Franklin's ability, he had always struck me as a man who was impatient of and uninterested in human ailments. Possibly an admirable attitude for research work, but not so good for any sick persons he might attend.
However, for Poirot to go so far was a concession, and as Poirot had no local medical attendant, Franklin readily agreed to take a look at him. But he explained that if regular medical attendance was needed, a local practitioner must be called in. He could not attend the case.
Franklin spent a long time with him.
When he came out finally, I was waiting for him. I drew him into my room and shut the door.
"Well?" I demanded anxiously.
Franklin said thoughtfully:
"He's a very remarkable man."
"Oh! That, yes -" I brushed aside this self-evident fact. "But his health?"
"Oh! His health?" Franklin seemed quite surprised - as though I had mentioned something of no importance at all. "Oh! His health's rotten, of course."
It was not, I felt, at all a professional way of putting it. And yet I had heard - from Judith - that Franklin had been one of the most brilliant students of his time.
"How bad is he?" I demanded anxiously.
He shot me a look.
"D'you want to know?"
"Of course."
What did the fool think?
He almost immediately told me:
"Most people," he said, "don't want to know. They want soothing syrup. They want hope. They want reassurance ladled out in driblets. And of course amazing recoveries do occur. But they won't in Poirot's case."
"Do you mean -" Again that cold hand closed round my heart.
Franklin nodded,
"Oh yes, he's for it, all right. And pretty soon, I should say. I shouldn't tell you so if he hadn't authorized me to do so."
"Then - he knows."
Franklin said:
"He knows, all right. That heart of his may go out - phut - any moment. One can't say, of course, exactly when."
He paused, then he said slowly:
"From what he says, I gather he's worrying about getting something finished, something that - as he puts it - he's undertaken. D'you know about that?"
"Yes," I said. "I know."
Franklin shot me an interested glance.
"He wants to be sure of finishing off the job."
"I see."
I wondered if John Franklin had any idea of what that job was!
He said slowly:
"I hope he'll manage it. From what he said, it means a lot to him." He paused and added: "He's got a methodical mind."
I asked anxiously:
"Isn't there something that can be done - something in the way of treatment -"
He shook his head.
"Nothing doing. He's got ampoules of amyl nitrite to use when he feels an attack is coming on."
Then he said a rather curious thing.
"Got a very great respect for human life, hasn't he?"
"Yes - I suppose he has."
How often had I not heard Poirot say: "I do not approve of murder." That understatement, made so primly, had always tickled my fancy.
Franklin was going on:
"That's the difference between us. I haven't...!"
I looked at him curiously. He inclined his head with a faint smile.
"Quite true," he said. "Since death comes anyway, what does it matter if it comes early or late? There's so little difference."
"Then what on earth made you become a doctor if you feel like that?" I demanded with some indignation.
"Oh, my dear fellow - doctoring isn't just a matter of dodging the ultimate end - it's a lot more - it's improving living. If a healthy man dies, it doesn't matter - much. If an imbecile - a cretin - dies, it's a good thing - but if by the discovery of administering the correct gland you turn your cretin into a healthy, normal individual by correcting his thyroid deficiency, that, to my mind, matters a good deal."
I looked at him with more interest. I still felt that it would not be Dr Franklin I should call in if I had the influenza, but I had to pay tribute to a kind of white-hot sincerity and a very real force in the man. I had noticed a change in him since his wife's death. He had displayed few of the conventional signs of mourning. On the contrary he seemed more alive, less absent-minded, and full of a new energy and fire.
He said abruptly, breaking into my thoughts:
"You and Judith aren't much alike, are you?"
"No, I suppose we're not."
"Is she like her mother?"
I reflected, then slowly shook my head.
"Not really. My wife was a merry, laughing creature. She wouldn't take anything seriously - and tried to make me the same, without much success, I'm afraid."
He smiled faintly.
"No, you're rather the heavy father, aren't you? So Judith says. Judith doesn't laugh much - serious young woman. Too much work, I expect. My fault."
He went into a brown study. I said conventionally:
"Your work must be very interesting."
"Eh?"
"I said your work must be interesting."
"Only to about half a dozen people, To everybody else it's darned dull - and they're probably right. Anyway -" he flung his head back, his shoulders squared themselves, he suddenly looked what he was, a powerful and virile man - "I've got my chance now! God, I could shout aloud. The Minister Institute people let me know today. The job's still open and I've got it. I start in ten days' time."
"For Africa?"
"Yes. It's grand."
"So soon," I felt slightly shocked.
He stared at me.
"What do you mean - soon? Oh." His brow cleared. "You mean after Barbara's death? Why on earth not? It's no good pretending, is it, that her death wasn't the greatest relief to me?"
He seemed amused by the expression on my face.
"I've not time, I'm afraid, for conventional attitudes. I fell in love with Barbara - she was a very pretty girl - married her and fell out of love with her again in about a year, I don't think it lasted even as long as that with her, I was a disappointment to her, of course, She thought she could influence me. She couldn't, I'm a selfish, pigheaded sort of brute, and I do what I want to do."
"But you did refuse this job in Africa on her account," I reminded him.
"Yes. That was purely financial, though, I'd undertaken to support Barbara in the way of life she was accustomed to. If I'd gone, it would have meant leaving her very short. But now -" he smiled a completely frank boyish smile - "it's turned out amazingly lucky for me."
I was revolted. It is true, I suppose, that many men whose wives die are not precisely heartbroken and everyone more or less knows the fact. But this was so blatant.
He saw my face, but did not seem put out.
"Truth," he said, "is seldom appreciated. And yet it saves a lot of time and a lot of inaccurate speech."
I said sharply:
"And it doesn't worry you at all that your wife committed suicide?"
