The motorcar was following a twisting road through a small hamlet, with a few thatched cottages clustered around a crossroads at its center. Poirot looked out for a sign that said “Police Station,” assuming that was where Mackle was taking him; it was certainly where he had asked to be taken when he had telephoned to arrange the car first thing that morning.
“I suppose you have only the finest men working for you,” said Mackle with a baleful sigh. “That’s the difference, you see. I like my men well enough, but they don’t have my persistence. Not a one of them is as stubborn as I am when I know I’m right. Take this Stanley Niven murder case. Sure as I am born, it’s one of the man’s own relations that did it—his wife, his son, his daughter or his brother. They all claim to have alibis but one of them is a lie, and I think I know which. Proving it, though: that’s the tricky part.”
“Please, inspector, look at the road, not at me. It is not a straight road.”
“I know every curve and crimp of this coast road as well as I know my own two hands, Mr. Prarrow. As I was saying: I am almost positive I know whose alibi—”
“Please, hold the steering wheel with both of your hands, inspector.” Poirot pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and used it to mop his brow.
“I expect they all drive as proper as anything in London, do they?” said Mackle cheerily. “They won’t know the roads as well I know the roads here, mind. Tell me, as a London chap—why do you need so many?”
“So many of what?” said Poirot.
“Roads,” said Mackle.
“I only live in London,” Poirot told him. “I am Belgian.”
“Is that so? Fancy that. Well, I don’t mind where you’re from, as long as you’re not a quitter. Quitters fairly turn my stomach. I know you’re not one, mind you, from everything I’ve been told. It will be a welcome relief, working with you, after what I have had to endure from my own men. All day long it’s ‘There’s no point, Inspector Mackle’ and ‘It won’t work, Inspector Mackle.’ Well, of course it won’t if you give up, lads. Eh? Tell me, Mr. Prarrow, are you a lover of poetry?”
“Bien sûr.”
“I am too. I always say: when there’s a murderer to be caught, the only person I want to listen to is my friend Mr. Guest.”
“Who is he?”
“Edgar Albert Guest. American writer. He had the right attitude to quitting:
“So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it!
“And I, Gerald Mackle, will do it too—with your help, Mr. Prarrow. Do I presently know beyond doubt which of my four suspects is the guilty party? No, I do not. Am I determined to find out? Yes, I am. It is exactly as Mr. Guest wrote. He expressed it perfectly:
“There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure,
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
That ‘cannot be done,’ and you’ll do it.”
Mackle seemed to be driving ever deeper into the country-side.
“Pardon me, but how far is the police station?” asked Poirot. Almost all of the daylight had disappeared a few moments ago as the car had entered a wood, and now theywere in a thin, shadowy, green tunnel with a ceiling of thick leaves and bowed branches.
“Ah, we are not going there,” said Mackle. “I am taking you to meet somebody instead. Two somebodies, actually—from St. Walstan’s. Nurse Beatrice Haskins and Nurse Zillah Hunt. I promise you, you will want to hear what they both have to say.”
