With desperate energy I pulled myself to a sitting position.
"Poirot may be dead," I said weakly. "But his spirit lives on.
I will carry on his work!
Death to the Big Four!"
Then I fell back, fainting.
Chapter 16 THE DYING CHINAMAN
Even now I can hardly bear to write of those days in March.
Poirot - the unique, the inimitable Hercule Poirot - dead!
There was a particularly diabolical touch in the disarranged match-box, which was certain to catch his eye, and which he would hasten to rearrange - and thereby touch off the explosion.
That, as a matter of fact, it was I who actually precipitated the catastrophe never ceased to fill me with unavailing remorse.
It was, as Doctor Ridgeway said, a perfect miracle that I had not been killed, but had escaped with a slight concussion.
Although it had seemed to me as though I regained consciousness almost immediately, it was in reality over twenty-four hours before I came back to life.
It was not until the evening of the day following that I was able to stagger feebly into an adjoining room, and view with deep emotion the plain elm coffin which held the remains of one of the most marvellous men this world has ever known.
From the very first moment of regaining consciousness I had only one purpose in mind - to avenge Poirot's death, and to hunt down the Big Four remorselessly.
I had thought that Ridgeway would have been of one mind with me about this, but to my surprise the good doctor seemed unaccountably lukewarm.
"Get back to South America," was his advice, tendered on every occasion.
"Why attempt the impossible?"
Put as delicately as possible, his opinion amounted to this: If Poirot, the unique Poirot, had failed, was it likely that I should succeed?
But I was obstinate.
Putting aside any question as to whether I had the necessary qualifications for the task (and I may say in passing that I did not entirely agree with his views on this point), I had worked so long with Poirot that I knew his methods by heart, and felt fully capable of taking up the work where he had laid it down; it was, with me, a question of feeling.
My friend had been foully murdered.
Was I to go tamely back to South America without an effort to bring his murderers to justice?
I said all this and more to Ridgeway, who listened attentively enough.
"All the same," he said when I had finished, "my advice does not vary.
I am earnestly convinced that Poirot himself, if he were here, would urge you to return.
In his name, I beg of you, Hastings, abandon these wild ideas and go back to your ranch."
To that only one answer was possible, and, shaking his head sadly, he said no more.
It was a month before I was fully restored to health.
Towards the end of April, I sought, and obtained, an interview with the Home Secretary.
Mr. Crowther's manner was reminiscent of that of Dr. Ridgeway.
It was soothing and negative.
Whilst appreciating the offer of my services, he gently and considerately declined them.
The papers referred to by Poirot had passed into his keeping, and he assured me that all possible steps were being taken to deal with the approaching menace.
With that cold comfort I was forced to be satisfied.
Mr. Crowther ended the interview by urging me to return to South America.
I found the whole thing profoundly unsatisfactory.
I should, I suppose, in its proper place, have described Poirot's funeral.
It was a solemn and moving ceremony, and the extraordinary number of floral tributes passed belief.
They came from high and low alike, and bore striking testimony to the place my friend had made for himself in the country of his adoption.
For myself, I was frankly overcome by emotion as I stood by the grave side and thought of all our varied experiences and the happy days we had passed together.
By the beginning of May I had mapped out a plan of campaign.
I felt that I could not do better than keep Poirot's scheme of advertising for any information respecting Claud Darrell.
I had an advertisement to this effect inserted in a number of morning newspapers, and I was sitting in a small restaurant in Soho, and judging of the effect of the advertisement, when a small paragraph in another part of the paper gave me a nasty shock.
Very briefly, it reported the mysterious disappearance of Mr. John Ingles from the S.S. Shanghai, shortly after the latter had left Marseilles.
Although the weather was perfectly smooth, it was feared that the unfortunate gentleman must have fallen overboard.
The paragraph ended with a brief reference to Mr. Ingles' long and distinguished service in China.
The news was unpleasant.
I read into Ingles' death a sinister motive.
Not for one moment did I believe the theory of an accident.
Ingles had been murdered, and his death was only too clearly the handiwork of that accursed Big Four.