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Poirot abhors violence, but even with Poirot’s restraining presence by my side, I could barely contain my anger until the door of the cab had clicked shut. Certainly, I knew that but for Poirot, I would have given the man a black eye.
In the cab, we said nothing on our trip back to Whitehaven Mansions, and Poirot looked stoically out of the window. I, on the other hand, grew steadily more incensed the further we got from the police station.
Even when we reached our destination, he still said nothing, his expression not giving away hint of the anger he must have been experiencing. Once inside his flat, I watched in growing surprise as Poirot removed his hat and gloves and placed them in their proper place on the stand. He removed his scarf then his coat, methodically brushed it down before hanging it on the hook beside his hat. Still nothing.
I followed him through to his office, filled with expectation and assuming I would finally hear what Poirot thought on the matter. But Poirot said nothing and within moments, I could no longer contain myself.
‘How dare he say such a thing!’ I said, in strained tones. ‘The bare-faced effrontery of the man!’
For a moment I paced the room, then I braced myself and turned to face Poirot. Even though I knew him well, I had expected to see more expression on his face. My friend looked up at me, and gave his little shrug. Though he was hiding it well, I was sure he was equally as furious.
‘How dare he!’ I repeated.
I continued to pace. After a minute or so, I looked round, and was surprised to see that my friend had settled down in his usual spot in front of the oval mirror that hung on the wall and was very slowly and carefully trimming imaginary hairs off his moustache.
‘Poirot!’
He looked round at me, his eyebrows raised.
‘How can you just stand there like that!’ I exclaimed hotly. ‘How can you just… how… can you…’ I ran out of words, faced with Poirot’s most implacable expression. We looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Poirot inclined his head slightly.
‘Bon, Hastings, ‘ he said. ‘It would be more agreeable if you would show less of your displeasure.’
I have to admit, I was somewhat hurt by his tone.
‘I’m only angry on your behalf!’ I said tightly. He gave another little dismissive shrug that did nothing to mollify my anger. ‘Besides, if one can’t be angry on the behalf of one’s friends, then… then… when can one be angry!’
Poirot regarded me calmly, and under his steady gaze I began to feel slightly foolish for my outburst. Nevertheless, I persisted.
‘But Poirot, he did it!’ I said. ‘He killed his own brother, it’s as plain as the nose on his face! And you know that as well as I do!’ Poirot’s face grew sombre, and in that instant I regretted my ill-considered outburst. In the moments of silence that followed I managed to curb my anger and when I next spoke it was in a more reasonable tone.
‘How can you just stand there and not do anything?’ I asked him.
At that, Poirot frowned.
‘And tell me, mon ami, what would you have me do?’
‘Well, you should get Japp to arrest him. Bring him in for questioning, get some answers!’ Poirot inclined his eyebrows once more. Encouraged, and warming to my topic now I had Poirot’s implied approval, I continued. ‘Get Japp to take him down a peg or two. He’s bound to crack under pressure.’
Poirot was very slowly shaking his head.
‘Think about the psychology for one moment,’ Poirot said. ‘Imagine you have just killed your brother for the family fortune. And have killed him in such a way as well. It requires skill and the nerve, Hastings. The killer must have the nerves made of steel, and a heart that has no care for others. Such a man will cover his tracks well. Such a man will not care about the police questions and will not crack under pressure. Such a man will have confidence in himself that no one can catch him.’
‘So you’ll do nothing?’
‘Precisement.’
‘But… but he called you such unpleasant names,’ I said, my face flushing at the thought of the words. ‘How can you stand that?’
Once more, Poirot shrugged.
‘I do not consider myself any of those things,’ he said simply. ‘And becoming angry will not help the little grey cells get to the truth of this case. What is more, I am from Belgium.’
I couldn’t see the connection myself, but I accepted his explanation with a nod.
‘So what are you going to do, Poirot,’ I said.
‘Now, Hastings, I do nothing.’
Sometimes, Poirot’s calm can be quite infuriating and I was quite distressed at his obstinate reply. My feelings clearly showed on my face as Poirot added:
‘Now is not the time for the action, Hastings. The action, it will come soon, I promise. But for now, we must wait.’
‘But if you suspected something, Poirot, I don’t see why you didn’t say something there and then!’ I said indignantly. ‘Have it out with him!’
‘Non, non, non, Hastings,’ he replied, wagging a finger at me.
‘But it looks like he’ll get away with it! He’s laughing at you right this minute, I’ll bet, the swine!’
A small smile, the first I’d seen all evening, crossed Poirot’s face.
‘Ah, Hastings, my very good friend, so offended on my behalf! But I beg of you, do not continue with these thoughts.’
‘But…’
‘Non, Hastings!’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘It all goes along with the plan of Poirot!’
‘But…!’
I caught sight of his expression and it stopped my next impassioned plea before it left my mouth. Instead, I took a stilted breath in.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But the very least you could do is tell me why!’
‘Pourquoi?’ he asked. ‘Do you not see yourself, Hastings?’
I shook my head.
‘Not even Poirot would challenge the lion in his den, for there he is at his greatest strength.’ Poirot’s smile grew wider. ‘Non! We must wait until the lion, he comes out to hunt! That man…’ I noticed with considerable pleasure that Poirot didn’t even deign to use his name, ‘he will give himself away. He considers Poirot a fool, the worst kind of fool, the lowest, the simple foreigner from a strange land! And this man, he knows that the English, they are of the most clever. No, this man, he knows that an “obnoxious little man from France” is no match for his intellect. And that will be his undoing.’
As Poirot spoke, his smile grew and grew, and his eyes lit up. He laid a consoling hand on my arm.
‘So have no worry, mon ami,’ he said. ‘This most arrogant of men will have his just reward very soon, and both you and I will be there to enjoy it.’
And, sure enough, eventually we were.