chapter 27

as the door closed behind tim and rosalie, poirot looked somewhat apologetically at colonel

race. the colonel was looking rather grim.

"you will consent to my little arrangement, yes?" poirot pleaded. "it is irregular - i know it is

irregular, yes - but i have a high regard for human happiness."

"you've none for mine," said race.

"that jeune fille, i have a tenderness toward her, and she loves that young man. it will be an

excellent match; she has the stiffening he needs; the mother likes her; everything is thoroughly

suitable."

"in fact the marriage has been arranged by heaven and hercule poirot. all i have to do is to

compound a felony."

"but, mon ami, i told you, it was all conjecture on my part."

race grinned suddenly.

"it's all right by me," he said. "i'm not a damned policeman, thank god! i daresay the young fool

will go straight enough now. the girl's straight all right. no, what i'm complaining of is your

treatment of me! i'm a patient man, but there are limits to my patience! do you know who

committed the three murders on this boat or don't you?"

"i do."

"then why all this beating about the bush?"

"you think that i am just amusing myself with side issues? and it annoys you? but it is not that.

once i went professionally to an archaeological expedition - and i learnt something there. in the

course of an excavation, when something comes up out of the ground, everything is cleared away

very carefully all around it. you take away the loose earth, and you scrape here and there with a

knife until finally your object is there, all alone, ready to be drawn and photographed with no

extraneous matter confusing it. that is what i have been seeking to do - clear away the extraneous

matter so that we can see the truth - the naked shining truth."

"good," said race. "let's have this naked shining truth. it wasn't pennington. it wasn't young

allerton. i presume it wasn't fleetwood. let's hear who it was for a change."

"my friend, i am just about to tell you."

there was a knock on the door. race uttered a muffled curse.

it was dr bessner and cornelia. the latter was looking upset.

"oh, colonel race," she exclaimed, "miss bowers has just told me about cousin marie. it's been

the most dreadful shock. she said she couldn't bear the responsibility all by herself any longer, and

that i'd better know, as i was one of the family. i just couldn't believe it at first, but dr bessner

here has been just wonderful."

"no, no," protested the doctor modestly.

"he's been so kind, explaining it all, and how people really can't help it. he's had kleptomaniacs in

his clinic. and he's explained to me how it's very often due to a deep-seated neurosis."

cornelia repeated the words with awe.

"it's planted very deeply in the subconscious; sometimes it's just some little thing that happened

when you were a child. and he's cured people by getting them to think back and remember what

that little thing was."

cornelia paused, drew a deep breath, and started off again.

"but it's worrying me dreadfully in case it all gets out. it would be too, too terrible in new york.

why, all the tabloids would have it. cousin marie and mother and everybody - they'd never hold

up their heads again."

race sighed. "that's all right," he said. "this is hush hush house."

"i beg your pardon, colonel race?"

"what i was endeavouring to say was that anything short of murder is being hushed up."

"oh!" cornelia clasped her hands. "i'm so relieved. i've just been worrying and worrying."

"you have the heart too tender," said dr bessner, and patted her benevolently on the shoulder. he

said to the others, "she has a very sensitive and beautiful nature."

"oh, i haven't really. you're too kind."

poirot murmured, "have you seen any more of mr ferguson?"

cornelia blushed.

"no - but cousin marie's been talking about him."

"it seems the young man is highly born," said dr bessner. "i must confess he does not look it. his

clothes are terrible. not for a moment does he appear a well-bred man."

"and what do you think, mademoiselle?"

"i think he must be just plain crazy," said cornelia.

poirot turned to the doctor. "how is your patient?"

"ach, he is going on splendidly. i have just reassured the little frдulein de bellefort. would you

believe it, i found her in despair. just because the fellow had a bit of a temperature this afternoon!

but what could be more natural? it is amazing that he is not in a high fever now. but no, he is like

some of our peasants; he has a magnificent constitution, the constitution of an ox. i have seen them

with deep wounds that they hardly notice. it is the same with mr doyle. his pulse is steady, his

temperature only slightly above normal. i was able to pooh pooh the little lady's fears. all the

same, it is ridiculous, nicht wahr? one minute you shoot a man; the next you are in hysterics in

case he may not be doing well."

cornelia said, "she loves him terribly, you see."

"ach! but it is not sensible, that. if you loved a man, would you try and shoot him? no, you are

sensible."

"i don't like things that go off with bangs anyway," said cornelia.

"naturally you do not. you are very feminine."

race interrupted this scene of heavy approval. "since doyle is all right, there's no reason i

shouldn't come along and resume our talk of this afternoon. he was just telling me about a

telegram."

dr bessner's bulk moved up and down appreciatively.

"ho, ho, ho, it was very funny that! doyle, he tells me about it. it was a telegram all about

vegetables - potatoes, artichokes, leeks - ach! pardon?"

with a stifled exclamation, race had sat up in his chair.

"my god," he said. "so that's it! richetti!"

he looked round on three uncomprehending faces.

"a new code - it was used in the south african rebellion. potatoes mean machine guns, artichokes

are high explosives - and so on. richetti is no more an archaeologist than i am! he's a very

dangerous agitator, a man who's killed more than once, and i'll swear that he's killed once again.

mrs doyle opened that telegram by mistake, you see. if she were ever to repeat what was in it

before me, he knew his goose would be cooked!"

he turned to poirot.

"am i right?" he asked. "is richetti the man?"

"he is your man," said poirot. "i always thought there was something wrong about him! he was

almost too word perfect in his rфle; he was all archaeologist, not enough human being."

he paused and then said: "but it was not richetti who killed linnet doyle. for some time now i

have known what i may express as the 'first half' of the murderer. now i know the 'second half'

also. the picture is complete. but you understand that, although i know what must have happened,

i have no proof that it happened. intellectually the case is satisfying. actually it is profoundly

unsatisfactory. there is only one hope - a confession from the murderer."

dr bessner raised his shoulders sceptically. "ach! but that - it would be a miracle."

"i think not. not under the circumstances."

cornelia cried out: "but who is it? aren't you going to tell us?"

poirot's eyes ranged quietly over the three of them. race, smiling sardonically, bessner, still

looking sceptical, cornelia, her mouth hanging a little open gazing at him with eager eyes.

"mais oui," he said. "i like an audience, i must confess. i am vain, you see. i am puffed up with

conceit. i like to say, 'see how clever is hercule poirot!'"

race shifted a little in his chair.

"well," he asked gently, "just how clever is hercule poirot?"

shaking his head sadly from side to side poirot said: "to begin with i was stupid - incredibly

stupid. to me the stumbling block was the pistol - jacqueline de bellefort's pistol. why had that

pistol not been left on the scene of the crime? the idea of the murderer was quite plainly to

incriminate her. why then did the murderer take it away? i was so stupid that i thought of all sorts

of fantastic reasons. the real one was very simple. the murderer took it away because he had to

take it away - because he had no choice in the matter."