iv
dressing for dinner, adjusting his tie to an exact symmetry, hercule poirot frowned at his
reflection in the mirror.
he was dissatisfied—but he would have been at a loss to explain why. for the case, as he
owned to himself, was so very clear. frank carter had indeed been caught red-handed.
it was not as though he had any particular belief in, or liking for, frank carter. carter, he
thought dispassionately, was definitely what the english call a “wrong ’un.” he was an unpleasant
young bully of the kind that appeals to women, so that they are reluctant to believe the worst,
however plain the evidence.
and carter’s whole story was weak in the extreme. this tale of having been approached by
agents of the “secret service”—and offered a plummy job. to take the post of gardener and report
on the conversations and actions of the other gardeners. it was a story that was disproved easily
enough—there was no foundation for it.
a particularly weak invention—the kind of thing, poirot reflected, that a man like carter would
invent.
and on carter’s side, there was nothing at all to be said. he could offer no explanation, except
that somebody else must have shot off the revolver. he kept repeating that. it was a frame-up.
no, there was nothing to be said for carter except, perhaps, that it seemed an odd coincidence
that howard raikes should have been present two days running at the moment when a bullet had
just missed alistair blunt.
but presumably there wasn’t anything in that. raikes certainly hadn’t fired the shot in downing
street. and his presence down here was fully accounted for—he had come down to be near his
girl. no, there was nothing definitely improbable in his story.
it had turned out, of course, very fortunately for howard raikes. when a man has just saved
you from a bullet, you cannot forbid him the house. the least you can do is to show friendliness
and extend hospitality. mrs. olivera didn’t like it, obviously, but even she saw that there was
nothing to be done about it.
jane’s undesirable young man had got his foot in and he meant to keep it there!
poirot watched him speculatively during the evening.
he was playing his part with a good deal of astuteness. he did not air any subversive views, he
kept off politics. he told amusing stories of his hitchhikes and tramps in wild places.
“he is no longer the wolf,” thought poirot. “no, he has put on the sheep’s clothing. but
underneath? i wonder….”
as poirot was preparing for bed that night, there was a rap on the door. poirot called, “come
in,” and howard raikes entered.
he laughed at poirot’s expression.
“surprised to see me? i’ve had my eye on you all evening. i didn’t like the way you were
looking. kind of thoughtful.”
“why should that worry you, my friend?”
“i don’t know why, but it did. i thought maybe that you were finding certain things just a bit
hard to swallow.”
“eh bien? and if so?”
“well, i decided that i’d best come clean. about yesterday, i mean. that was a fake show all
right! you see, i was watching his lordship come out of 10, downing street and i saw ram lal
fire at him. i know ram lal. he’s a nice kid. a bit excitable but he feels the wrongs of india very
keenly. well, there was no harm done, that precious pair of stuffed shirts weren’t harmed—the
bullet had missed ’em both by miles—so i decided to put up a show and hope the indian kid
would get clear. i grabbed hold of a shabby little guy just by me and called out that i’d got the
villain and hoped ram lal was beating it all right. but the dicks were too smart. they were on to
him in a flash. that’s just how it was. see?”
hercule poirot said:
“and today?”
“that’s different. there weren’t any ram lals about today. carter was the only man on the
spot. he fired that pistol all right! it was still in his hand when i jumped on him. he was going to
try a second shot, i expect.”
poirot said:
“you were very anxious to preserve the safety of m. blunt?”
raikes grinned—an engaging grin.
“a bit odd, you think, after all i’ve said? oh, i admit it. i think blunt is a guy who ought to be
shot—for the sake of progress and humanity—i don’t mean personally—he’s a nice enough old
boy in his british way. i think that, and yet when i saw someone taking a potshot at him i leap in
and interfere. that shows you how illogical the human animal is. it’s crazy, isn’t it?”
“the gap between theory and practice is a wide one.”
“i’ll say it is!” mr. raikes got up from the bed where he had been sitting.
his smile was easy and confiding.
“i just thought,” he said, “that i’d come along and explain the thing to you.”
he went out shutting the door carefully behind him.
