"So you're really Hercule Poirot ?"

"Precisely."

"And you were never fooled by that

body for a minute? You knew all along

that it wasn^t Marrascaud ?"

"Certainly."

"Why didn't you say so ?"

Hercule Poirot's face was suddenly stern.

"Because I wanted to be quite sure of

handling the real Marrascaud over to the

police."

He murmured below his breath:

"To capture alive the wild boar of Erymanthea. ..." 172

5

THE AUGEAN STABLES

^

i j

"^ | ^HE situation is an extremely deli|

cate one, M. Poirot."

JL A faint smile flitted across Hercule

Poirot's lips. He almost replied:

"It always is!"

Instead, he composed his face and put

on what might be described as a bedside

manner of extreme discretion.

Sir George Conway proceeded weightily.

Phrases fell easily from his lips--the

extreme delicacy of the Government's

position--the interests of the public-the solidarity of the Party --the necessity of presenting a united front --the power

of the Press--the welfare of the

Country....

It all sounded well --and meant nothing.

Hercule Poirot felt that familiar aching of

the jaw when one longs to yawn and polite173

ness forbids. He had felt the same sometimes

when reading the parliamentary

debates. But on those occasions there had

been no need to restrain his yawns.

He steeled himself to endure patiently.

He felt, at the same time, a sympathy for

Sir George Conway. The man obviously

wanted to tell him something--and as

obviously had lost the art of simple

narration. Words had become to him a

means of obscuring facts --not of revealing

them. He was an adept in the art of the

useful phrase--that is to say the phrase

that falls soothingly on the ear and is

quite empty of meaning.

The words rolled on --poor Sir George

became quite red in the face. He shot a

desperate glance at the other man sitting

at the head of the table, and that other

man responded.

"All right, George. I'll tell him.33

Hercule Poirot shifted his gaze from the

Home Secretary to the Prime Minister.

He felt a keen interest in Edward Ferrier - an interest aroused by a chance phrase from an old man of eighty-two. Professor

Fergus MacLeod, after disposing of a

chemical difficulty in the conviction of a

174

murderer, had touched for a moment on

politics. On the retirement of the famous

and beloved John Hammett (now Lord

Cornworthy) his son-in-law, Edward

Ferrier, had been asked to form a Cabinet.

As politicians go he was a young man - under fifty. Professor MacLeod had said:

"Ferrier was once one of my students.

He's a sound man."

That was all, but to Hercule Poirot it

represented a good deal. If MacLeod

called a man sound it was a testimonial to

character compared with which no popular

or press enthusiasm counted at all.

It coincided, it was true, with the

popular estimate. Edward Ferrier was

considered sound --just that --not

brilliant, not great, not a particularly

eloquent orator, not a man of deep learning.