Poirot Investigates by Agatha Christie (classic books to read .txt) 📕

a little scream, and a tall, handsome woman of middle-age appeared behind her in the hall.

“Shut the door, Edith. They are burglars, I expect.”

But Poirot swiftly inserted his foot in the door, and at the same moment blew a whistle. Instantly the other detectives ran up, and poured into the house, shutting the door behind them.

Norman and I spent about five minutes cursing our forced inactivity. Finally the door reopened, and the men emerged, escorting three prisoners⁠—a woman and two men. The woman, and one of the men, were taken to the second car. The other man was placed in our car by Poirot himself.

“I must go with the others, my friend. But have great care of this gentleman. You do not know him, no? Eh bien, let me present to you, Monsieur O’Murphy!”

O’Murphy! I gaped at him open-mouthed as we started again. He was not handcuffed, but I did not fancy he would try to escape. He sat there staring in front of him as though dazed. Anyway, Norman and I would be more than a match for him.

To my surprise, we still kept a northerly route. We were not returning to London, then! I was much puzzled. Suddenly, as the car slowed down, I recognized that we were close to Hendon Aerodrome. Immediately I grasped Poirot’s idea. He proposed to reach France by aeroplane.

It was a sporting idea, but, on the face of it, impracticable. A telegram would be far quicker. Time was everything. He must leave the personal glory of rescuing the Prime Minister to others.

As we drew up, Major Norman jumped out, and a plain-clothes man took his place. He conferred with Poirot for a few minutes, and then went off briskly.

I, too, jumped out, and caught Poirot by the arm.

“I congratulate you, old fellow! They have told you the hiding-place? But, look here, you must wire to France at once. You’ll be too late if you go yourself.”

Poirot looked at me curiously for a minute or two.

“Unfortunately, my friend, there are some things that cannot be sent by telegram.”

At that moment Major Norman returned, accompanied by a young officer in the uniform of the Flying Corps.

“This is Captain Lyall, who will fly you over to France. He can start at once.”

“Wrap up warmly, sir,” said the young pilot. “I can lend you a coat, if you like.”

Poirot was consulting his enormous watch. He murmured to himself: “Yes, there is time⁠—just time.” Then he looked up, and bowed politely to the young officer. “I thank you, monsieur. But it is not I who am your passenger. It is this gentleman here.”

He moved a little aside as he spoke, and a figure came forward out of the darkness. It was the second male prisoner who had gone in the other car, and as the light fell on his face, I gave a gasp of surprise.

It was the Prime Minister!

“For Heaven’s sake, tell me all about it,” I cried impatiently, as Poirot, Norman, and I motored back to London. “How in the world did they manage to smuggle him back to England?”

“There was no need to smuggle him back,” replied Poirot dryly. “The Prime Minister has never left England. He was kidnapped on his way from Windsor to London.”

“What?”

“I will make all clear. The Prime Minister was in his car, his secretary beside him. Suddenly a pad of chloroform is clapped on his face⁠—”

“But by whom?”

“By the clever linguistic Captain Daniels. As soon as the Prime Minister is unconscious, Daniels picks up the speaking-tube, and directs O’Murphy to turn to the right, which the chauffeur, quite unsuspicious, does. A few yards down that unfrequented road, a large car is standing, apparently broken down. Its driver signals to O’Murphy to stop. O’Murphy slows up. The stranger approaches. Daniels leans out of the window, and, probably with the aid of an instantaneous anaesthetic, such as ethylchloride, the chloroform trick is repeated. In a few seconds, the two helpless men are dragged out and transferred to the other car, and a pair of substitutes take their places.”

“Impossible!”

“Pas du tout! Have you not seen music-hall turns imitating celebrities with marvellous accuracy? Nothing is easier than to personate a public character. The Prime Minister of England is far easier to understudy than Mr. John Smith of Clapham, say. As for O’Murphy’s ‘double,’ no one was going to take much notice of him until after the departure of the Prime Minister, and by then he would have made himself scarce. He drives straight from Charing Cross to the meeting-place of his friends. He goes in as O’Murphy, he emerges as someone quite different. O’Murphy has disappeared, leaving a conveniently suspicious trail behind him.”

“But the man who personated the Prime Minister was seen by everyone!”

“He was not seen by anyone who knew him privately or intimately. And Daniels shielded him from contact with anyone as much as possible. Moreover, his face was bandaged up, and anything unusual in his manner would be put down to the fact that he was suffering from shock as a result of the attempt upon his life. Mr. MacAdam has a weak throat, and always spares his voice as much as possible before any great speech. The deception was perfectly easy to keep up as far as France. There it would be impracticable and impossible⁠—so the Prime Minister disappears. The police of this country hurry across the Channel, and no one bothers to go into the details of the first attack. To sustain the illusion that the abduction has taken place in France, Daniels is gagged and chloroformed in a convincing manner.”

“And the man who has enacted the part of the Prime Minister?”

“Rids himself of his disguise. He and the bogus chauffeur may be arrested as suspicious characters, but no one will dream of suspecting their real part in the drama, and they will eventually be released for lack of evidence.”

“And the real Prime Minister?”

“He and O’Murphy were driven straight to the house of ‘Mrs. Everard,’ at Hampstead, Daniels’