Chapter 7
Having been persuaded to go back to bed, I woke feeling more like myself. I went in search of coffee, but became aware of a raised voice. Poirot was on the telephone, and most unusual for him, was bellowing in French into the receiver. I heard him say Inglethorpe, so I strode over and snatched it from his hand. I yelled down the line. "What have you done with her, you unspeakable swine? Tell me, you unconscionable bastard. Tell me where she is before I find you and remove your head from your shoulders."
Poirot tore the receiver from my clenched fist and replaced it. "Calm yourself Hastings. The police are tracing the call as we speak. Our job was merely to keep him talking, as you would say. He told us she is in a warehouse by the river, but we needed time to be sure."
"But why would he just give her up, unless...oh, god no!"
"Mon pauvre ami, to think how this man has tormented you. He claims she is still alive. We shall drive to the warehouse and find out. That is if you are up to it? If he has decived us, the the amiable Inspector and I shall leave you with him for five minutes, and say nothing."
I nodded my understanding, and we hurried downstairs to my car. I was well aware that I was exceeding the speed limit, but I could think only of getting to her as fast as possible. Poirot appeared to have no intention of telling me to slow down. Fortunately, there was almost no traffic and we covered the eight or so miles to Poplar in less than twenty minutes. We found the warehouse we had been directed to, a disused, derelict building that seemed about to fall down. We split up to find an open door and I drew my revolver, half-hoping that Inglethorpe would show himself. Putting my shoulder to a door with rusted hinges, it gave way with surprisingly little effort and my forward momentum carried me inside. I was about to yell to Poirot, but my throat closed up in shock. She was lying on the floor, clothes in tatters, and a pool of blood was spreading outwards from her pale body. I screamed for help, and was rewarded with the sound of footsteps and "Mon Dieu!" I barked at him that there were blankets in my car and he obediently set off on his errand. I turned my attention back to the woman in front of me. In the army I had seen injuries more horrific than most can imagine, so I was not squeamish, but this was entirely different. I leant forward and placed my cheek to her mouth. I held my breath. I was rewarded by the feeling of the faintest of breath on my face. Thank god! I rejoiced. I pulled off my overcoat and folded it into a pillow. As gently as possible, I lifted her head, and placed it underneath, relieved to find no damage there. A nasty burn covered her right shoulder and part of her neck, but what scared me most were the stab wounds. Ripping off one shirt sleeve, I wadded it up and pressed it against her side, using my tie to secure it. The other sleeve became a dressing for the other wound. I had seen enough penetrating wounds to know not to try and pull the knife out but to work round it. Suddenly Poirot was beside me with blankets and water. Leaving them and his overcoat with me, he disappeared again, presumably in search of a telephone. I poured some water on the burn and covered it with a piece of her dress, soaked in water. I covered her modesty as best I could with the blankets, and shifted my position to lay her head in my lap. Holding her as tightly as I dared, I mentally shook the red-blooded male inside me that revelled in the first glimpse of her naked form. All I could do was pray that it wouldn't be my last. I pulled her further into my arms and murmered words into her ear that I hoped would comfort and soothe her and keep her going until help arrived.