The Labours of Hercules
Agatha Christie
In this set of short stories, Poirot sets himself a challenge before he retires – to solve 12 cases which correspond with the labours of his classical Greek namesake…In appearance Hercule Poirot hardly resembled an ancient Greek hero. Yet – reasoned the detective – like Hercules he had been responsible for ridding society of some of its most unpleasant monsters.So, in the period leading up to his retirement, Poirot made up his mind to accept just twelve more cases: his self-imposed ‘Labours’. Each would go down in the annals of crime as a heroic feat of deduction.
Copyright
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First published in Great Britain by
Collins 1947
Copyright © 1947 Agatha Christie Ltd.
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Ebook Edition 2010 ISBN: 9780007422418
Version: 2018-04-09
To Edmund Cork
of whose labours on behalf of
Hercule Poirot I am deeply appreciative
this book is affectionately dedicated
Contents
Copyright
Foreword
1 The Nemean Lion
2 The Lernean Hydra
3 The Arcadian Deer
4 The Erymanthian Boar
5 The Augean Stables
6 The Stymphalean Birds
7 The Cretan Bull
8 The Horses of Diomedes
9 The Girdle of Hyppolita
10 The Flock of Geryon
11 The Apples of the Hesperides
12 The Capture of Cerberus
E-Book Extras
About Agatha Christie
The Agatha Christie Collection
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Foreword
Hercule Poirot’s flat was essentially modern in its furnishings. It gleamed with chromium. Its easy-chairs, though comfortably padded, were square and uncompromising in outline.
On one of these chairs sat Hercule Poirot, neatly–in the middle of the chair. Opposite him, in another chair, sat Dr Burton, Fellow of All Souls, sipping appreciatively at a glass of Poirot’s Château Mouton Rothschild. There was no neatness about Dr Burton. He was plump, untidy, and beneath his thatch of white hair beamed a rubicund and benign countenance. He had a deep wheezy chuckle and the habit of covering himself and everything round him with tobacco ash. In vain did Poirot surround him with ashtrays.
Dr Burton was asking a question.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Why Hercule?’
‘You mean, my Christian name?’
‘Hardly a Christian name,’ the other demurred. ‘Definitely pagan. But why? That’s what I want to know. Father’s fancy? Mother’s whim? Family reasons? If I remember rightly–though my memory isn’t what it was–you had a brother called Achille, did you not?’
Poirot’s mind raced back over the details of Achille Poirot’s career. Had all that really happened?
‘Only for a short space of time,’ he replied.
Dr Burton passed tactfully from the subject of Achille Poirot.
‘People should be more careful how they name their children,’ he ruminated. ‘I’ve got godchildren. I know. Blanche, one of ’em is called–dark as a gypsy! Then there’s Deirdre, Deirdre of the Sorrows–she’s turned out merry as a grig. As for young Patience, she might as well have been named Impatience and be done with it! And Diana–well, Diana–’ the old classical scholar shuddered. ‘Weighs twelve stone now–and she’s only fifteen! They say it’s puppy fat–but it doesn’t look that way to me. Diana! They wanted to call her Helen, but I did put my foot down there. Knowing what her father and mother looked like! And her grandmother for that matter! I tried hard for Martha or Dorcas or something sensible–but it was no good–waste of breath. Rum people, parents…’
He began to wheeze gently–his small fat face crinkled up.
Poirot looked at him inquiringly.
‘Thinking of an imaginary conversation. Your mother and the late Mrs Holmes, sitting sewing little garments or knitting: “Achille, Hercule, Sherlock, Mycroft…”’
Poirot failed to share his friend’s amusement.
‘What I understand you to mean is, that in physical appearance I do not resemble a Hercules?’
Dr Burton’s eyes swept over Hercule Poirot, over his small neat person attired in striped trousers, correct black jacket and natty bow tie, swept up from his patent leather shoes to his egg-shaped head and the immense moustache that adorned his upper lip.
‘Frankly, Poirot,’ said Dr Burton, ‘you don’t! I gather,’ he added, ‘that you’ve never had much time to study the Classics?’
‘That is so.’
‘Pity. Pity. You’ve missed a lot. Everyone should be made to study the Classics if I had my way.’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘Eh bien, I have got on very well without them.’
‘Got on! Got on! It’s not a question of getting on. That’s the wrong view altogether. The Classics aren’t a ladder leading to quick success like a modern correspondence course! It’s not a man’s working hours that are important–it’s his leisure hours. That’s the mistake we all make. Take yourself now, you’re getting on, you’ll be wanting to get out of things, to take things easy–what are you going to do then with your leisure hours?’
Poirot was ready with his reply.
‘I am going to attend–seriously–to the cultivation of vegetable marrows.’
Dr Burton was taken aback.
‘Vegetable marrows? What d’yer mean? Those great swollen green things that taste of water?’
‘Ah,’ Poirot spoke enthusiastically. ‘But that is the whole point of it. They need not taste of water.’
‘Oh! I know–sprinkle ’em with cheese, or minced onion or white sauce.’
‘No, no–you are in error. It is my idea that the actual flavour of the marrow itself can be improved. It can be given,’ he screwed up his eyes, ‘a bouquet–’
‘Good God, man, it’s not a claret.’ The word bouquet reminded Dr Burton of the glass at his elbow. He sipped and savoured. ‘Very good wine, this. Very sound. Yes.’ His head nodded in approbation. ‘But this vegetable marrow business–you’re not serious? You don’t mean’ –he spoke in lively horror–‘that you’re actually going to stoop’ –his hands descended in sympathetic horror on his own plump stomach–‘stoop, and fork dung on the things, and feed ’em with strands of wool dipped in water and all the rest of it?’
‘You seem,’ Poirot said, ‘to be well acquainted with the culture of the marrow?’
‘Seen gardeners doing it when I’ve been staying in the country. But seriously, Poirot, what a hobby! Compare that to’ –his voice sank to an appreciative purr–‘an easy-chair in front of a wood fire in a long, low room lined with books–must be a long room–not a square one. Books all round one. A glass of port–and a book open in your hand. Time rolls back as you read:’ he quoted sonorously:
He translated:
‘“By skill again, the pilot on the wine-dark sea straightens
The swift ship buffeted by the winds.”
Of course you can never really get the spirit of the original.’
For the moment, in his enthusiasm, he had forgotten Poirot. And Poirot, watching him, felt suddenly a doubt–an uncomfortable twinge. Was there, here, something that he had missed? Some richness of the spirit? Sadness crept over him. Yes, he should have become acquainted with the Classics…Long ago…Now, alas, it was too late…
Dr Burton interrupted his melancholy.
‘Do you mean that you really are thinking of retiring?’
‘Yes.’
The other chuckled.
‘You won’t!’
‘But I assure you–’
‘You won’t be able to do it, man. You’re too interested in your work.’
‘No–indeed–I make all the arrangements. A few more cases–specially selected ones–not, you understand, everything that presents itself–just problems that have a personal appeal.’
Dr Burton grinned.
‘That’s the way of it. Just a case or two, just one case more–and so on. The Prima Donna’s farewell performance won’t be in it with yours, Poirot!’
He chuckled and rose slowly to his feet, an amiable white-haired gnome.
‘Yours aren’t the Labours of Hercules,’ he said. ‘Yours are labours of love. You’ll see if I’m not right. Bet you that in twelve months’ time you’ll still be here, and vegetable marrows will still be’ –he shuddered–‘merely marrows.’
Taking leave of his host, Dr Burton left the severe rectangular room.
He passes out of these pages not to return to them.
We are concerned only with what he left behind him, which was an Idea.
For after his departure Hercule Poirot sat down again slowly like a man in a dream and murmured:
‘The Labours of Hercules…Mais oui, c’est une idée, ça…’
The following day saw Hercule Poirot perusing a large calf-bound volume and other slimmer works, with occasional harried glances at various typewritten slips of paper.
His secretary, Miss Lemon, had been detailed to collect information on the subject of Hercules and to place same before him.
Without interest (hers not the type to wonder why!) but with perfect efficiency, Miss Lemon had fulfilled her task.
Hercule Poirot was plunged head first into a bewildering sea of classical lore with particular reference to ‘Hercules, a celebrated hero who, after death, was ranked among the gods, and received divine honours.’
So far, so good–but thereafter it was far from plain sailing. For two hours Poirot read diligently, making notes, frowning, consulting his slips of paper and his other books of reference. Finally he sank back in his chair and shook his head. His mood of the previous evening was dispelled. What people!
Take this Hercules–this hero! Hero, indeed! What was he but a large muscular creature of low intelligence and criminal tendencies! Poirot was reminded of one Adolfe Durand, a butcher, who had been tried at Lyon in 1895 –a creature of oxlike strength who had killed several children. The defence had been epilepsy–from which he undoubtedly suffered–though whether grand mal or petit mal had been an argument of several days’ discussion. This ancient Hercules probably suffered from grand mal. No, Poirot shook his head, if that was the Greeks’ idea of a hero, then measured by modern standards it certainly would not do. The whole classical pattern shocked him. These gods and goddesses–they seemed to have as many different aliases as a modern criminal. Indeed they seemed to be definitely criminal types. Drink, debauchery, incest, rape, loot, homicide and chicanery–enough to keep a juge d’Instruction constantly busy. No decent family life. No order, no method. Even in their crimes, no order or method!
‘Hercules indeed!’ said Hercule Poirot, rising to his feet, disillusioned.
He looked round him with approval. A square room, with good square modern furniture–even a piece of good modern sculpture representing one cube placed on another cube and above it a geometrical arrangement of copper wire. And in the midst of this shining and orderly room, himself. He looked at himself in the glass. Here, then, was a modern Hercules–very distinct from that unpleasant sketch of a naked figure with bulging muscles, brandishing a club. Instead, a small compact figure attired in correct urban wear with a moustache–such a moustache as Hercules never dreamed of cultivating–a moustache magnificent yet sophisticated.
Yet there was between this Hercule Poirot and the Hercules of Classical lore one point of resemblance. Both of them, undoubtedly, had been instrumental in ridding the world of certain pests…Each of them could be described as a benefactor to the Society he lived in…
What had Dr Burton said last night as he left: ‘Yours are not the Labours of Hercules…’
Ah, but there he was wrong, the old fossil. There should be, once again, the Labours of Hercules–a modern Hercules. An ingenious and amusing conceit! In the period before his final retirement he would accept twelve cases, no more, no less. And those twelve cases should be selected with special reference to the twelve labours of ancient Hercules. Yes, that would not only be amusing, it would be artistic, it would be spiritual.
Poirot picked up the Classical Dictionary and immersed himself once more in Classical lore. He did not intend to follow his prototype too closely.
There should be no women, no shirt of Nessus…The Labours and the Labours only.
The first Labour, then, would be that of the Nemean Lion.
‘The Nemean Lion,’ he repeated, trying it over on his tongue.
Naturally he did not expect a case to present itself actually involving a flesh and blood lion. It would be too much of a coincidence should he be approached by the Directors of the Zoological Gardens to solve a problem for them involving a real lion.
No, here symbolism must be involved. The first case must concern some celebrated public figure, it must be sensational and of the first importance! Some master criminal–or alternately someone who was a lion in the public eye. Some well-known writer, or politician, or painter–or even Royalty?
He liked the idea of Royalty…
He would not be in a hurry. He would wait–wait for that case of high importance that should be the first of his self-imposed Labours.
Chapter 1
The Nemean Lion
‘Anything of interest this morning, Miss Lemon?’ he asked as he entered the room the following morning.
He trusted Miss Lemon. She was a woman without imagination, but she had an instinct. Anything that she mentioned as worth consideration usually was worth consideration. She was a born secretary.
‘Nothing much, M. Poirot. There is just one letter that I thought might interest you. I have put it on the top of the pile.’
‘And what is that?’ He took an interested step forward.
‘It’s from a man who wants you to investigate the disappearance of his wife’s Pekinese dog.’
Poirot paused with his foot still in the air. He threw a glance of deep reproach at Miss Lemon. She did not notice it. She had begun to type. She typed with the speed and precision of a quick-firing tank.
Poirot was shaken; shaken and embittered. Miss Lemon, the efficient Miss Lemon, had let him down! A Pekinese dog. A Pekinese dog! And after the dream he had had last night. He had been leaving Buckingham Palace after being personally thanked when his valet had come in with his morning chocolate!
Words trembled on his lips–witty caustic words. He did not utter them because Miss Lemon, owing to the speed and efficiency of her typing, would not have heard them.
With a grunt of disgust he picked up the topmost letter from the little pile on the side of his desk.
Yes, it was exactly as Miss Lemon had said. A city address–a curt business-like unrefined demand. The subject–the kidnapping of a Pekinese dog. One of those bulging-eyed, overpampered pets of a rich woman. Hercule Poirot’s lip curled as he read it.
Nothing unusual about this. Nothing out of the way or–But yes, yes, in one small detail, Miss Lemon was right. In one small detail there was something unusual.
Hercule Poirot sat down. He read the letter slowly and carefully. It was not the kind of case he wanted, it was not the kind of case he had promised himself. It was not in any sense an important case, it was supremely unimportant. It was not–and here was the crux of his objection–it was not a proper Labour of Hercules.
But unfortunately he was curious…
Yes, he was curious…
He raised his voice so as to be heard by Miss Lemon above the noise of her typing.
‘Ring up this Sir Joseph Hoggin,’ he ordered, ‘and make an appointment for me to see him at his office as he suggests.’
As usual, Miss Lemon had been right.
‘I’m a plain man, Mr Poirot,’ said Sir Joseph Hoggin.
Hercule Poirot made a noncommittal gesture with his right hand. It expressed (if you chose to take it so) admiration for the solid worth of Sir Joseph’s career and an appreciation of his modesty in so describing himself. It could also have conveyed a graceful deprecation of the statement. In any case it gave no clue to the thought then uppermost in Hercule Poirot’s mind, which was that Sir Joseph certainly was (using the term in its more colloquial sense) a very plain man indeed. Hercule Poirot’s eyes rested critically on the swelling jowl, the small pig eyes, the bulbous nose and the close-lipped mouth. The whole general effect reminded him of someone or something–but for the moment he could not recollect who or what it was. A memory stirred dimly. A long time ago…in Belgium…something, surely, to do with soap…
Sir Joseph was continuing.
‘No frills about me. I don’t beat about the bush. Most people, Mr Poirot, would let this business go. Write it off as a bad debt and forget about it. But that’s not Joseph Hoggin’s way. I’m a rich man–and in a manner of speaking two hundred pounds is neither here nor there to me–’
Poirot interpolated swiftly:
‘I congratulate you.’
‘Eh?’
Sir Joseph paused a minute. His small eyes narrowed themselves still more. He said sharply:
‘That’s not to say that I’m in the habit of throwing my money about. What I want I pay for. But I pay the market price–no more.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘You realize that my fees are high?’
‘Yes, yes. But this,’ Sir Joseph looked at him cunningly, ‘is a very small matter.’
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
‘I do not bargain. I am an expert. For the services of an expert you have to pay.’
Sir Joseph said frankly:
‘I know you’re a tip-top man at this sort of thing. I made inquiries and I was told that you were the best man available. I mean to get to the bottom of this business and I don’t grudge the expense. That’s why I got you to come here.’
‘You were fortunate,’ said Hercule Poirot.
Sir Joseph said ‘Eh?’ again.
‘Exceedingly fortunate,’ said Hercule Poirot firmly. ‘I am, I may say so without undue modesty, at the apex of my career. Very shortly I intend to retire–to live in the country, to travel occasionally to see the world–also, it may be, to cultivate my garden–with particular attention to improving the strain of vegetable marrows. Magnificent vegetables–but they lack flavour. That, however, is not the point. I wished merely to explain that before retiring I had imposed upon myself a certain task. I have decided to accept twelve cases–no more, no less. A self-imposed “Labours of Hercules” if I may so describe it. Your case, Sir Joseph, is the first of the twelve. I was attracted to it,’ he sighed, ‘by its striking unimportance.’
‘Importance?’ said Sir Joseph.
‘Unimportance was what I said. I have been called in for varying causes–to investigate murders, unexplained deaths, robberies, thefts of jewellery. This is the first time that I have been asked to turn my talents to elucidate the kidnapping of a Pekinese dog.’
Sir Joseph grunted. He said:
‘You surprise me! I should have said you’d have had no end of women pestering you about their pet dogs.’
‘That, certainly. But it is the first time that I am summoned by the husband in the case.’
Sir Joseph’s little eyes narrowed appreciatively.
He said:
‘I begin to see why they recommended you to me. You’re a shrewd fellow, Mr Poirot.’
Poirot murmured:
‘If you will now tell me the facts of the case. The dog disappeared, when?’
‘Exactly a week ago.’
‘And your wife is by now quite frantic, I presume?’
Sir Joseph stared. He said:
‘You don’t understand. The dog has been returned.’
‘Returned? Then, permit me to ask, where do I enter the matter?’
Sir Joseph went crimson in the face.
‘Because I’m damned if I’ll be swindled! Now then, Mr Poirot, I’m going to tell you the whole thing. The dog was stolen a week ago–nipped in Kensington Gardens where he was out with my wife’s companion. The next day my wife got a demand for two hundred pounds. I ask you–two hundred pounds! For a damned yapping little brute that’s always getting under your feet anyway!’
Poirot murmured:
‘You did not approve of paying such a sum, naturally?’
‘Of course I didn’t–or wouldn’t have if I’d known anything about it! Milly (my wife) knew that well enough. She didn’t say anything to me. Just sent off the money–in one pound notes as stipulated–to the address given.’
‘And the dog was returned?’
‘Yes. That evening the bell rang and there was the little brute sitting on the doorstep. And not a soul to be seen.’
‘Perfectly. Continue.’
‘Then, of course, Milly confessed what she’d done and I lost my temper a bit. However, I calmed down after a while–after all, the thing was done and you can’t expect a woman to behave with any sense–and I daresay I should have let the whole thing go if it hadn’t been for meeting old Samuelson at the Club.’
‘Yes?’
‘Damn it all, this thing must be a positive racket! Exactly the same thing had happened to him. Three hundred pounds they’d rooked his wife of ! Well, that was a bit too much. I decided the thing had got to be stopped. I sent for you.’
‘But surely, Sir Joseph, the proper thing (and a very much more inexpensive thing) would have been to send for the police?’
Sir Joseph rubbed his nose.
He said:
‘Are you married, Mr Poirot?’
‘Alas,’ said Poirot, ‘I have not that felicity.’
‘H’m,’ said Sir Joseph. ‘Don’t know about felicity, but if you were, you’d know that women are funny creatures. My wife went into hysterics at the mere mention of the police–she’d got it into her head that something would happen to her precious Shan Tung if I went to them. She wouldn’t hear of the idea–and I may say she doesn’t take very kindly to the idea of your being called in. But I stood firm there and at last she gave way. But, mind you, she doesn’t like it.’
Hercule Poirot murmured:
‘The position is, I perceive, a delicate one. It would be as well, perhaps, if I were to interview Madame your wife and gain further particulars from her whilst at the same time reassuring her as to the future safety of her dog?’
Sir Joseph nodded and rose to his feet. He said:
‘I’ll take you along in the car right away.’
II
In a large, hot, ornately-furnished drawing-room two women were sitting.
As Sir Joseph and Hercule Poirot entered, a small Pekinese dog rushed forward, barking furiously, and circling dangerously round Poirot’s ankles.
‘Shan–Shan, come here. Come here to mother, lovey–Pick him up, Miss Carnaby.’
The second woman hurried forward and Hercule Poirot murmured:
‘A veritable lion, indeed.’
Rather breathlessly Shan Tung’s captor agreed.
‘Yes, indeed, he’s such a good watch dog. He’s not frightened of anything or any one. There’s a lovely boy, then.’
Having performed the necessary introduction, Sir Joseph said:
‘Well, Mr Poirot, I’ll leave you to get on with it,’ and with a short nod he left the room.
Lady Hoggin was a stout, petulant-looking woman with dyed henna red hair. Her companion, the fluttering Miss Carnaby, was a plump, amiable-looking creature between forty and fifty. She treated Lady Hoggin with great deference and was clearly frightened to death of her.
Poirot said:
‘Now tell me, Lady Hoggin, the full circumstances of this abominable crime.’
Lady Hoggin flushed.
‘I’m very glad to hear you say that, Mr Poirot. For it was a crime. Pekinese are terribly sensitive–just as sensitive as children. Poor Shan Tung might have died of fright if of nothing else.’
Miss Carnaby chimed in breathlessly:
‘Yes, it was wicked–wicked!’
‘Please tell me the facts.’
‘Well, it was like this. Shan Tung was out for his walk in the Park with Miss Carnaby–’
‘Oh dear me, yes, it was all my fault,’ chimed in the companion. ‘How could I have been so stupid–so careless–’
Lady Hoggin said acidly:
‘I don’t want to reproach you, Miss Carnaby, but I do think you might have been more alert.’
Poirot transferred his gaze to the companion.
‘What happened?’
Miss Carnaby burst into voluble and slightly flustered speech.
‘Well, it was the most extraordinary thing! We had just been along the flower walk–Shan Tung was on the lead, of course–he’d had his little run on the grass–and I was just about to turn and go home when my attention was caught by a baby in a pram–such a lovely baby–it smiled at me–lovely rosy cheeks and such curls. I couldn’t just resist speaking to the nurse in charge and asking how old it was–seventeen months, she said–and I’m sure I was only speaking to her for about a minute or two, and then suddenly I looked down and Shan wasn’t there any more. The lead had been cut right through–’
Lady Hoggin said:
‘If you’d been paying proper attention to your duties, nobody could have sneaked up and cut that lead.’
Miss Carnaby seemed inclined to burst into tears. Poirot said hastily:
‘And what happened next?’
‘Well, of course I looked everywhere. And called! And I asked the Park attendant if he’d seen a man carrying a Pekinese dog but he hadn’t noticed anything of the kind–and I didn’t know what to do–and I went on searching, but at last, of course, I had to come home–’
Miss Carnaby stopped dead. Poirot could imagine the scene that followed well enough. He asked:
‘And then you received a letter?’
Lady Hoggin took up the tale.
‘By the first post the following morning. It said that if I wanted to see Shan Tung alive I was to send £200 in one pound notes in an unregistered packet to Captain Curtis, 38 Bloomsbury Road Square. It said that if the money were marked or the police informed then–then–Shan Tung’s ears and tail would be–cut off!’
Miss Carnaby began to sniff.
‘So awful,’ she murmured. ‘How people can be such fiends!’
Lady Hoggin went on:
‘It said that if I sent the money at once, Shan Tung would be returned the same evening alive and well, but that if–if afterwards I went to the police, it would be Shan Tung who would suffer for it–’
Miss Carnaby murmured tearfully:
‘Oh dear, I’m so afraid that even now–of course, M. Poirot isn’t exactly the police–’
Lady Hoggin said anxiously:
‘So you see, Mr Poirot, you will have to be very careful.’
Hercule Poirot was quick to allay her anxiety.
‘But I, I am not of the police. My inquiries, they will be conducted very discreetly, very quietly. You can be assured, Lady Hoggin, that Shan Tung will be perfectly safe. That I will guarantee.’
Both ladies seemed relieved by the magic word. Poirot went on: ‘You have here the letter?’
Lady Hoggin shook her head.
‘No, I was instructed to enclose it with the money.’
‘And you did so?’
‘Yes.’
‘H’m, that is a pity.’
Miss Carnaby said brightly:
‘But I have the dog lead still. Shall I get it?’
She left the room. Hercule Poirot profited by her absence to ask a few pertinent questions.
‘Amy Carnaby? Oh! she’s quite all right. A good soul, though foolish, of course. I have had several companions and they have all been complete fools. But Amy was devoted to Shan Tung and she was terribly upset over the whole thing–as well she might be–hanging over perambulators and neglecting my little sweetheart! These old maids are all the same, idiotic over babies! No, I’m quite sure she had nothing whatever to do with it.’
‘It does not seem likely,’ Poirot agreed. ‘But as the dog disappeared when in her charge one must make quite certain of her honesty. She has been with you long?’
‘Nearly a year. I had excellent references with her. She was with old Lady Hartingfield until she died–ten years, I believe. After that she looked after an invalid sister for a while. She really is an excellent creature–but a complete fool, as I said.’
Amy Carnaby returned at this minute, slightly more out of breath, and produced the cut dog lead which she handed to Poirot with the utmost solemnity, looking at him with hopeful expectancy.
Poirot surveyed it carefully.
‘Mais oui,’ he said. ‘This has undoubtedly been cut.’
The two women waited expectantly. He said:
‘I will keep this.’
Solemnly he put it in his pocket. The two women breathed a sigh of relief. He had clearly done what was expected of him.
III
It was the habit of Hercule Poirot to leave nothing untested.
Though on the face of it it seemed unlikely that Miss Carnaby was anything but the foolish and rather muddle-headed woman that she appeared to be, Poirot nevertheless managed to interview a somewhat forbidding lady who was the niece of the late Lady Hartingfield.
‘Amy Carnaby?’ said Miss Maltravers. ‘Of course, remember her perfectly. She was a good soul and suited Aunt Julia down to the ground. Devoted to dogs and excellent at reading aloud. Tactful, too, never contradicted an invalid. What’s happened to her? Not in distress of any kind, I hope. I gave her a reference about a year ago to some woman–name began with H –’
Poirot explained hastily that Miss Carnaby was still in her post. There had been, he said, a little trouble over a lost dog.
‘Amy Carnaby is devoted to dogs. My aunt had a Pekinese. She left it to Miss Carnaby when she died and Miss Carnaby was devoted to it. I believe she was quite heartbroken when it died. Oh yes, she’s a good soul. Not, of course, precisely intellectual.’
Hercule Poirot agreed that Miss Carnaby could not, perhaps, be described as intellectual.
His next proceeding was to discover the Park Keeper to whom Miss Carnaby had spoken on the fateful afternoon. This he did without much difficulty. The man remembered the incident in question.
‘Middle-aged lady, rather stout–in a regular state she was–lost her Pekinese dog. I knew her well by sight–brings the dog along most afternoons. I saw her come in with it. She was in a rare taking when she lost it. Came running to me to know if I’d seen any one with a Pekinese dog! Well, I ask you! I can tell you, the Gardens is full of dogs–every kind–terriers, Pekes, German sausage-dogs–even them Borzois–all kinds we have. Not likely as I’d notice one Peke more than another.’
Hercule Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully.
He went to 38 Bloomsbury Road Square.
Nos. 38, 39 and 40 were incorporated together as the Balaclava Private Hotel. Poirot walked up the steps and pushed open the door. He was greeted inside by gloom and a smell of cooking cabbage with a reminiscence of breakfast kippers. On his left was a mahogany table with a sad-looking chrysanthemum plant on it. Above the table was a big baize-covered rack into which letters were stuck. Poirot stared at the board thoughtfully for some minutes. He pushed open a door on his right. It led into a kind of lounge with small tables and some so-called easy-chairs covered with a depressing pattern of cretonne. Three old ladies and one fierce-looking old gentleman raised their heads and gazed at the intruder with deadly venom. Hercule Poirot blushed and withdrew.
He walked farther along the passage and came to a staircase. On his right a passage branched at right angles to what was evidently the dining-room.
A little way along this passage was a door marked ‘Office.’
On this Poirot tapped. Receiving no response, he opened the door and looked in. There was a large desk in the room covered with papers but there was no one to be seen. He withdrew, closing the door again. He penetrated to the dining-room.
A sad-looking girl in a dirty apron was shuffling about with a basket of knives and forks with which she was laying the tables.
Hercule Poirot said apologetically:
‘Excuse me, but could I see the Manageress?’
The girl looked at him with lack-lustre eyes.
She said:
‘I don’t know, I’m sure.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘There is no one in the office.’
‘Well, I don’t know where she’d be, I’m sure.’
‘Perhaps,’ Hercule Poirot said, patient and persistent, ‘you could find out?’
The girl sighed. Dreary as her day’s round was, it had now been made additionally so by this new burden laid upon her. She said sadly:
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’
Poirot thanked her and removed himself once more to the hall, not daring to face the malevolent glare of the occupants of the lounge. He was staring up at the baize-covered letter rack when a rustle and a strong smell of Devonshire violets proclaimed the arrival of the Manageress.
Mrs Harte was full of graciousness. She exclaimed:
‘So sorry I was not in my office. You were requiring rooms?’
Hercule Poirot murmured:
‘Not precisely. I was wondering if a friend of mine had been staying here lately. A Captain Curtis.’
‘Curtis,’ exclaimed Mrs Harte. ‘Captain Curtis? Now where have I heard that name?’
Poirot did not help her. She shook her head vexedly.
He said:
‘You have not, then, had a Captain Curtis staying here?’
‘Well, not lately, certainly. And yet, you know, the name is certainly familiar to me. Can you describe your friend at all?’
‘That,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘would be difficult.’ He went on: ‘I suppose it sometimes happens that letters arrive for people when in actual fact no one of that name is staying here?’
‘That does happen, of course.’
‘What do you do with such letters?’
‘Well, we keep them for a time. You see, it probably means that the person in question will arrive shortly. Of course, if letters or parcels are a long time here unclaimed, they are returned to the post office.’
Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
He said:
‘I comprehend.’ He added: ‘It is like this, you see. I wrote a letter to my friend here.’
Mrs Harte’s face cleared.
‘That explains it. I must have noticed the name on an envelope. But really we have so many ex-Army gentlemen staying here or passing through–Let me see now.’
She peered up at the board.
Hercule Poirot said:
‘It is not there now.’
‘It must have been returned to the postman, I suppose. I am so sorry. Nothing important, I hope?’
‘No, no, it was of no importance.’
As he moved towards the door, Mrs Harte, enveloped in her pungent odour of violets, pursued him.
‘If your friend should come–’
‘It is most unlikely. I must have made a mistake…’
‘Our terms,’ said Mrs Harte, ‘are very moderate. Coffee after dinner is included. I would like you to see one or two of our bed-sitting-rooms…’
With difficulty Hercule Poirot escaped.
IV
The drawing-room of Mrs Samuelson was larger, more lavishly furnished, and enjoyed an even more stifling amount of central heating than that of Lady Hoggin. Hercule Poirot picked his way giddily amongst gilded console tables and large groups of statuary.
Mrs Samuelson was taller than Lady Hoggin and her hair was dyed with peroxide. Her Pekinese was called Nanki Poo. His bulging eyes surveyed Hercule Poirot with arrogance. Miss Keble, Mrs Samuelson’s companion, was thin and scraggy where Miss Carnaby had been plump, but she also was voluble and slightly breathless. She, too, had been blamed for Nanki Poo’s disappearance.
‘But really, Mr Poirot, it was the most amazing thing. It all happened in a second. Outside Harrods it was. A nurse there asked me the time–’
Poirot interrupted her.
‘A nurse? A hospital nurse?’
‘No, no–a children’s nurse. Such a sweet baby it was, too! A dear little mite. Such lovely rosy cheeks. They say children don’t look healthy in London, but I’m sure–’
‘Ellen,’ said Mrs Samuelson.
Miss Keble blushed, stammered, and subsided into silence.
Mrs Samuelson said acidly:
‘And while Miss Keble was bending over a perambulator that had nothing to do with her, this audacious villain cut Nanki Poo’s lead and made off with him.’
Miss Keble murmured tearfully:
‘It all happened in a second. I looked round and the darling boy was gone–there was just the dangling lead in my hand. Perhaps you’d like to see the lead, Mr Poirot?’
‘By no means,’ said Poirot hastily. He had no wish to make a collection of cut dog leads. ‘I understand,’ he went on, ‘that shortly afterwards you received a letter?’
The story followed the same course exactly–the letter–the threats of violence to Nanki Poo’s ears and tail. Only two things were different–the sum of money demanded–£300 –and the address to which it was to be sent: this time it was to Commander Blackleigh, Harrington Hotel, 76 Clonmel Gardens, Kensington.
Mrs Samuelson went on:
‘When Nanki Poo was safely back again, I went to the place myself, Mr Poirot. After all, three hundred pounds is three hundred pounds.’
‘Certainly it is.’
‘The very first thing I saw was my letter enclosing the money in a kind of rack in the hall. Whilst I was waiting for the proprietress I slipped it into my bag. Unfortunately–’
Poirot said: ‘Unfortunately, when you opened it it contained only blank sheets of paper.’
‘How did you know?’ Mrs Samuelson turned on him with awe.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘Obviously, che`re Madame, the thief would take care to recover the money before he returned the dog. He would then replace the notes with blank paper and return the letter to the rack in case its absence should be noticed.’
‘No such person as Commander Blackleigh had ever stayed there.’
Poirot smiled.
‘And of course, my husband was extremely annoyed about the whole thing. In fact, he was livid–absolutely livid!’
Poirot murmured cautiously:
‘You did not–er–consult him before dispatching the money?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs Samuelson with decision.
Poirot looked a question. The lady explained.
‘I wouldn’t have risked it for a moment. Men are so extraordinary when it’s a question of money. Jacob would have insisted on going to the police. I couldn’t risk that. My poor darling Nanki Poo. Anything might have happened to him! Of course, I had to tell my husband afterwards, because I had to explain why I was overdrawn at the Bank.’
Poirot murmured:
‘Quite so–quite so.’
‘And I have really never seen him so angry. Men,’ said Mrs Samuelson, rearranging her handsome diamond bracelet and turning her rings on her fingers, ‘think of nothing but money.’
V
Hercule Poirot went up in the lift to Sir Joseph Hoggin’s office. He sent in his card and was told that Sir Joseph was engaged at the moment but would see him presently. A haughty blonde sailed out of Sir Joseph’s room at last with her hands full of papers. She gave the quaint little man a disdainful glance in passing.
Sir Joseph was seated behind his immense mahogany desk. There was a trace of lipstick on his chin.
‘Well, Mr Poirot? Sit down. Got any news for me?’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘The whole affair is of a pleasing simplicity. In each case the money was sent to one of those boarding houses or private hotels where there is no porter or hall attendant and where a large number of guests are always coming and going, including a fairly large preponderance of ex-Service men. Nothing would be easier than for any one to walk in, abstract a letter from the rack, either take it away, or else remove the money and replace it with blank paper. Therefore, in every case, the trail ends abruptly in a blank wall.’
‘You mean you’ve no idea who the fellow is?’
‘I have certain ideas, yes. It will take a few days to follow them up.’
Sir Joseph looked at him curiously.
‘Good work. Then, when you have got anything to report–’
‘I will report to you at your house.’
Sir Joseph said:
‘If you get to the bottom of this business, it will be a pretty good piece of work.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘There is no question of failure. Hercule Poirot does not fail.’
Sir Joseph Hoggin looked at the little man and grinned.
‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ he demanded.
‘Entirely with reason.’
‘Oh well.’ Sir Joseph Hoggin leaned back in his chair. ‘Pride goes before a fall, you know.’
VI
Hercule Poirot, sitting in front of his electric radiator (and feeling a quiet satisfaction in its neat geometrical pattern) was giving instructions to his valet and general factotum.
‘You understand, Georges?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘More probably a flat or maisonette. And it will definitely be within certain limits. South of the Park, east of Kensington Church, west of Knightsbridge Barracks and north of Fulham Road.’
‘I understand perfectly, sir.’
Poirot murmured.
‘A curious little case. There is evidence here of a very definite talent for organization. And there is, of course, the surprising invisibility of the star performer–the Nemean Lion himself, if I may so style him. Yes, an interesting little case. I could wish that I felt more attracted to my client–but he bears an unfortunate resemblance to a soap manufacturer of Lie`ge who poisoned his wife in order to marry a blonde secretary. One of my early successes.’
Georges shook his head. He said gravely:
‘These blondes, sir, they’re responsible for a lot of trouble.’
VII
It was three days later when the invaluable Georges said:
‘This is the address, sir.’
Hercule Poirot took the piece of paper handed to him.
‘Excellent, my good Georges. And what day of the week?’
‘Thursdays, sir.’
‘Thursdays. And today, most fortunately, is a Thursday. So there need be no delay.’
Twenty minutes later Hercule Poirot was climbing the stairs of an obscure block of flats tucked away in a little street leading off a more fashionable one. No. 10 Rosholm Mansions was on the third and top floor and there was no lift. Poirot toiled upwards round and round the narrow corkscrew staircase.
He paused to regain his breath on the top landing and from behind the door of No. 10 a new sound broke the silence–the sharp bark of a dog.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head with a slight smile. He pressed the bell of No. 10.
The barking redoubled–footsteps came to the door, it was opened…
Miss Amy Carnaby fell back, her hand went to her ample breast.
‘You permit that I enter?’ said Hercule Poirot, and entered without waiting for the reply.
There was a sitting-room door open on the right and he walked in. Behind him Miss Carnaby followed as though in a dream.
The room was very small and much overcrowded. Amongst the furniture a human being could be discovered, an elderly woman lying on a sofa drawn up to the gas fire. As Poirot came in, a Pekinese dog jumped off the sofa and came forward uttering a few sharp suspicious barks.
‘Aha,’ said Poirot. ‘The chief actor! I salute you, my little friend.’
He bent forward, extending his hand. The dog sniffed at it, his intelligent eyes fixed on the man’s face.
Miss Carnaby muttered faintly:
‘So you know?’
Hercule Poirot nodded.
‘Yes, I know.’ He looked at the woman on the sofa. ‘Your sister, I think?’
Miss Carnaby said mechanically: ‘Yes, Emily, this–this is Mr Poirot.’
Emily Carnaby gave a gasp. She said: ‘Oh!’
Amy Carnaby said:
‘Augustus…’
The Pekinese looked towards her–his tail moved–then he resumed his scrutiny of Poirot’s hand. Again his tail moved faintly.
Gently, Poirot picked the little dog up and sat down with Augustus on his knee. He said:
‘So I have captured the Nemean Lion. My task is completed.’
Amy Carnaby said in a hard dry voice:
‘Do you really know everything?’
Poirot nodded.
‘I think so. You organized this business–with Augustus to help you. You took your employer’s dog out for his usual walk, brought him here and went on to the Park with Augustus. The Park Keeper saw you with a Pekinese as usual. The nurse girl, if we had ever found her, would also have agreed that you had a Pekinese with you when you spoke to her. Then, while you were talking, you cut the lead and Augustus, trained by you, slipped off at once and made a bee-line back home. A few minutes later you gave the alarm that the dog had been stolen.’
There was a pause. Then Miss Carnaby drew herself up with a certain pathetic dignity. She said:
‘Yes. It is all quite true. I –I have nothing to say.’
The invalid woman on the sofa began to cry softly.
Poirot said:
‘Nothing at all, Mademoiselle?’
Miss Carnaby said:
‘Nothing. I have been a thief–and now I am found out.’
Poirot murmured:
‘You have nothing to say–in your own defence?’
A spot of red showed suddenly in Amy Carnaby’s white cheeks. She said:
‘I –I don’t regret what I did. I think that you are a kind man, Mr Poirot, and that possibly you might understand. You see, I’ve been so terribly afraid.’
‘Afraid?’
‘Yes, it’s difficult for a gentleman to understand, I expect. But you see, I’m not a clever woman at all, and I’ve no training and I’m getting older–and I’m so terrified for the future. I’ve not been able to save anything–how could I with Emily to be cared for? –and as I get older and more incompetent there won’t be any one who wants me. They’ll want somebody young and brisk. I’ve–I’ve known so many people like I am –nobody wants you and you live in one room and you can’t have a fire or any warmth and not very much to eat, and at last you can’t even pay the rent of your room…There are Institutions, of course, but it’s not very easy to get into them unless you have influential friends, and I haven’t. There are a good many others situated like I am–poor companions–untrained useless women with nothing to look forward to but a deadly fear…’
Her voice shook. She said:
‘And so–some of us–got together and–and I thought of this. It was really having Augustus that put it into my mind. You see, to most people, one Pekinese is very much like another. (Just as we think the Chinese are.) Really, of course, it’s ridiculous. No one who knew could mistake Augustus for Nanki Poo or Shan Tung or any of the other Pekes. He’s far more intelligent for one thing, and he’s much handsomer, but, as I say, to most people a Peke is just a Peke. Augustus put it into my head–that, combined with the fact that so many rich women have Pekinese dogs.’
Poirot said with a faint smile:
‘It must have been a profitable–racket! How many are there in the–the gang? Or perhaps I had better ask how often operations have been successfully carried out?’
Miss Carnaby said simply:
‘Shan Tung was the sixteenth.’
Hercule Poirot raised his eyebrows.
‘I congratulate you. Your organization must have been indeed excellent.’
Emily Carnaby said:
‘Amy was always good at organization. Our father–he was the Vicar of Kellington in Essex–always said that Amy had quite a genius for planning. She always made all the arrangements for the Socials and the Bazaars and all that.’
Poirot said with a little bow:
‘I agree. As a criminal, Mademoiselle, you are quite in the first rank.’
Amy Carnaby cried:
‘A criminal. Oh dear, I suppose I am. But–but it never felt like that.’
‘How did it feel?’
‘Of course, you are quite right. It was breaking the law. But you see–how can I explain it? Nearly all these women who employ us are so very rude and unpleasant. Lady Hoggin, for instance, doesn’t mind what she says to me. She said her tonic tasted unpleasant the other day and practically accused me of tampering with it. All that sort of thing.’ Miss Carnaby flushed. ‘It’s really very unpleasant. And not being able to say anything or answer back makes it rankle more, if you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘And then seeing money frittered away so wastefully–that is upsetting. And Sir Joseph, occasionally he used to describe a coup he had made in the City–sometimes something that seemed to me (of course, I know I’ve only got a woman’s brain and don’t understand finance) downright dishonest. Well, you know, M. Poirot, it all–it all unsettled me, and I felt that to take a little money away from these people who really wouldn’t miss it and hadn’t been too scrupulous in acquiring it–well, really it hardly seemed wrong at all.’
Poirot murmured:
‘A modern Robin Hood! Tell me, Miss Carnaby, did you ever have to carry out the threats you used in your letters?’
‘Threats?’
‘Were you ever compelled to mutilate the animals in the way you specified?’
Miss Carnaby regarded him in horror.
‘Of course, I would never have dreamed of doing such a thing! That was just–just an artistic touch.’
‘Very artistic. It worked.’
‘Well, of course I knew it would. I know how I should have felt about Augustus, and of course I had to make sure these women never told their husbands until afterwards. The plan worked beautifully every time. In nine cases out of ten the companion was given the letter with the money to post. We usually steamed it open, took out the notes, and replaced them with paper. Once or twice the woman posted it herself. Then, of course, the companion had to go to the hotel and take the letter out of the rack. But that was quite easy, too.’
‘And the nursemaid touch? Was it always a nursemaid?’
‘Well, you see, M. Poirot, old maids are known to be foolishly sentimental about babies. So it seemed quite natural that they should be absorbed over a baby and not notice anything.’
Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:
‘Your psychology is excellent, your organization is first class, and you are also a very fine actress. Your performance the other day when I interviewed Lady Hoggin was irreproachable. Never think of yourself disparagingly, Miss Carnaby. You may be what is termed an untrained woman but there is nothing wrong with your brains or with your courage.’
Miss Carnaby said with a faint smile:
‘And yet I have been found out, M. Poirot.’
‘Only by me. That was inevitable! When I had interviewed Mrs Samuelson I realized that the kidnapping of Shan Tung was one of a series. I had already learned that you had once been left a Pekinese dog and had an invalid sister. I had only to ask my invaluable servant to look for a small flat within a certain radius occupied by an invalid lady who had a Pekinese dog and a sister who visited her once a week on her day out. It was simple.’
Amy Carnaby drew herself up. She said:
‘You have been very kind. It emboldens me to ask you a favour. I cannot, I know, escape the penalty for what I have done. I shall be sent to prison, I suppose. But if you could, M. Poirot, avert some of the publicity. So distressing for Emily–and for those few who knew us in the old days. I could not, I suppose, go to prison under a false name? Or is that a very wrong thing to ask?’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘I think I can do more than that. But first of all I must make one thing quite clear. This ramp has got to stop. There must be no more disappearing dogs. All that is finished!’
‘Yes! Oh yes!’
‘And the money you extracted from Lady Hoggin must be returned.’
Amy Carnaby crossed the room, opened the drawer of a bureau and returned with a packet of notes which she handed to Poirot.
‘I was going to pay it into the pool today.’
Poirot took the notes and counted them. He got up.
‘I think it possible, Miss Carnaby, that I may be able to persuade Sir Joseph not to prosecute.’
‘Oh, M. Poirot!’
Amy Carnaby clasped her hands. Emily gave a cry of joy. Augustus barked and wagged his tail.
‘As for you, mon ami,’ said Poirot addressing him. ‘There is one thing that I wish you would give me. It is your mantle of invisibility that I need. In all these cases nobody for a moment suspected that there was a second dog involved. Augustus possessed the lion’s skin of invisibility.’
‘Of course, M. Poirot, according to the legend, Pekinese were lions once. And they still have the hearts of lions!’
‘Augustus is, I suppose, the dog that was left to you by Lady Hartingfield and who is reported to have died? Were you never afraid of him coming home alone through the traffic?’
‘Oh no, M. Poirot, Augustus is very clever about traffic. I have trained him most carefully. He has even grasped the principle of One Way Streets.’
‘In that case,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘he is superior to most human beings!’
VIII
Sir Joseph received Hercule Poirot in his study. He said:
‘Well, Mr Poirot? Made your boast good?’
‘Let me first ask you a question,’ said Poirot as he seated himself. ‘I know who the criminal is and I think it possible that I can produce sufficient evidence to convict this person. But in that case I doubt if you will ever recover your money.’
‘Not get back my money?’
Sir Joseph turned purple.
Hercule Poirot went on:
‘But I am not a policeman. I am acting in this case solely in your interests. I could, I think, recover your money intact, if no proceedings were taken.’
‘Eh?’ said Sir Joseph. ‘That needs a bit of thinking about.’
‘It is entirely for you to decide. Strictly speaking, I suppose you ought to prosecute in the public interest. Most people would say so.’
‘I dare say they would,’ said Sir Joseph sharply. ‘It wouldn’t be their money that had gone west. If there’s one thing I hate it’s to be swindled. Nobody’s ever swindled me and got away with it.’
‘Well then, what do you decide?’
Sir Joseph hit the table with his fist.
‘I’ll have the brass! Nobody’s going to say they got away with two hundred pounds of my money.’
Hercule Poirot rose, crossed to the writing-table, wrote out a cheque for two hundred pounds and handed it to the other man.
Sir Joseph said in a weak voice:
‘Well, I’m damned! Who the devil is this fellow?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘If you accept the money, there must be no questions asked.’
Sir Joseph folded up the cheque and put it in his pocket.
‘That’s a pity. But the money’s the thing. And what do I owe you, Mr Poirot?’
‘My fees will not be high. This was, as I said, a very unimportant matter.’ He paused–and added, ‘Nowadays nearly all my cases are murder cases…’
Sir Joseph started slightly.
‘Must be interesting?’ he said.
‘Sometimes. Curiously enough, you recall to me one of my earlier cases in Belgium, many years ago–the chief protagonist was very like you in appearance. He was a wealthy soap manufacturer. He poisoned his wife in order to be free to marry his secretary…Yes–the resemblance is very remarkable…’
A faint sound came from Sir Joseph’s lips–they had gone a queer blue colour. All the ruddy hue had faded from his cheeks. His eyes, starting out of his head, stared at Poirot. He slipped down a little in his chair.
Then, with a shaking hand, he fumbled in his pocket. He drew out the cheque and tore it into pieces.
‘That’s washed out–see? Consider it as your fee.’
‘Oh but, Sir Joseph, my fee would not have been as large as that.’
‘That’s all right. You keep it.’
‘I shall send it to a deserving charity.’
‘Send it anywhere you damn well like.’
Poirot leaned forward. He said:
‘I think I need hardly point out, Sir Joseph, that in your position, you would do well to be exceedingly careful.’
Sir Joseph said, his voice almost inaudible:
‘You needn’t worry. I shall be careful all right.’
Hercule Poirot left the house. As he went down the steps he said to himself:
‘So–I was right.’
IX
Lady Hoggin said to her husband:
‘Funny, this tonic tastes quite different. It hasn’t got that bitter taste any more. I wonder why?’
Sir Joseph growled:
‘Chemist. Careless fellows. Make things up differently different times.’
Lady Hoggin said doubtfully:
‘I suppose that must be it.’
‘Of course it is. What else could it be?’
‘Has the man found out anything about Shan Tung?’
‘Yes. He got me my money back all right.’
‘Who was it?’
‘He didn’t say. Very close fellow, Hercule Poirot. But you needn’t worry.’
‘He’s a funny little man, isn’t he?’
Sir Joseph gave a slight shiver and threw a sideways glance upwards as though he felt the invisible presence of Hercule Poirot behind his right shoulder. He had an idea that he would always feel it there.
He said:
‘He’s a damned clever little devil!’
And he thought to himself:
‘Greta can go hang! I’m not going to risk my neck for any damned platinum blonde!’
X
‘Oh!’
Amy Carnaby gazed down incredulously at the cheque for two hundred pounds. She cried: ‘Emily! .
Emily! Listen to this
“Dear Miss Carnaby,
Allow me to enclose a contribution to your very deserving Fund before it is finally wound up.
Yours very truly,
Hercule Poirot.”’
‘Amy,’ said Emily Carnaby, ‘you’ve been incredibly lucky. Think where you might be now.’
‘Wormwood Scrubbs–or is it Holloway?’ murmured Amy Carnaby. ‘But that’s all over now–isn’t it, Augustus? No more walks to the Park with mother or mother’s friends and a little pair of scissors.’
A far away wistfulness came into her eyes. She sighed.
‘Dear Augustus! It seems a pity. He’s so clever…One can teach him anything…’
Chapter 2
The Lernean Hydra
Hercule Poirot looked encouragingly at the man seated opposite him.
Dr Charles Oldfield was a man of perhaps forty. He had fair hair slightly grey at the temples and blue eyes that held a worried expression. He stooped a little and his manner was a trifle hesitant. Moreover, he seemed to find difficulty in coming to the point.
He said, stammering slightly:
‘I’ve come to you, M. Poirot, with rather an odd request. And now that I’m here, I’m inclined to funk the whole thing. Because, as I see very well now, it’s the sort of thing that no one can possibly do anything about.’
Hercule Poirot murmured:
‘As to that, you must let me judge.’
Oldfield muttered:
‘I don’t know why I thought that perhaps–’
He broke off.
Hercule Poirot finished the sentence.
‘That perhaps I could help you? Eh bien, perhaps I can. Tell me your problem.’
Oldfield straightened himself. Poirot noted anew how haggard the man looked.
Oldfield said, and his voice had a note of hopelessness in it:
‘You see, it isn’t any good going to the police…They can’t do anything. And yet–every day it’s getting worse and worse. I –I don’t know what to do…’
‘What is getting worse?’
‘The rumours…Oh, it’s quite simple, M. Poirot. Just a little over a year ago, my wife died. She had been an invalid for some years. They are saying, everyone is saying, that I killed her–that I poisoned her!’
‘Aha,’ said Poirot. ‘And did you poison her?’
‘M. Poirot!’ Dr Oldfield sprang to his feet.
‘Calm yourself,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘And sit down again. We will take it, then, that you did not poison your wife. But your practice, I imagine, is situated in a country district–’
‘Yes. Market Loughborough–in Berkshire. I have always realized that it was the kind of place where people gossiped a good deal, but I never imagined that it could reach the lengths it has done.’ He drew his chair a little forward. ‘M. Poirot, you have no idea of what I have gone through. At first I had no inkling of what was going on. I did notice that people seemed less friendly, that there was a tendency to avoid me–but I put it down to–to the fact of my recent bereavement. Then it became more marked. In the street, even, people will cross the road to avoid speaking to me. My practice is falling off. Wherever I go I am conscious of lowered voices, of unfriendly eyes that watch me whilst malicious tongues whisper their deadly poison. I have had one or two letters–vile things.’
He paused–and then went on:
‘And–and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to fight this–this vile network of lies and suspicion. How can one refute what is never said openly to your face? I am powerless–trapped–and slowly and mercilessly being destroyed.’
Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully. He said:
‘Yes. Rumour is indeed the nine-headed Hydra of Lernea which cannot be exterminated because as fast as one head is cropped off two grow in its place.’
Dr Oldfield said: ‘That’s just it. There’s nothing I can do–nothing! I came to you as a last resort–but I don’t suppose for a minute that there is anything you can do either.’
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
‘I am not so sure. Your problem interests me, Doctor Oldfield. I should like to try my hand at destroying the many-headed monster. First of all, tell me a little more about the circumstances which gave rise to this malicious gossip. Your wife died, you say, just over a year ago. What was the cause of death?’
‘Gastric ulcer.’
‘Was there an autopsy?’
‘No. She had been suffering from gastric trouble over a considerable period.’
Poirot nodded.
‘And the symptoms of gastric inflammation and of arsenical poisoning are closely alike–a fact which everybody knows nowadays. Within the last ten years there have been at least four sensational murder cases in each of which the victim has been buried without suspicion with a certificate of gastric disorder. Was your wife older or younger than yourself ?’
‘She was five years older.’
‘How long had you been married?’
‘Fifteen years.’
‘Did she leave any property?’
‘Yes. She was a fairly well-to-do woman. She left, roughly, about thirty thousand pounds.’
‘A very useful sum. It was left to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you and your wife on good terms?’
‘Certainly.’
‘No quarrels? No scenes?’
‘Well–’ Charles Oldfield hesitated. ‘My wife was what might be termed a difficult woman. She was an invalid and very concerned over her health and inclined, therefore, to be fretful and difficult to please. There were days when nothing I could do was right.’
Poirot nodded. He said:
‘Ah yes, I know the type. She would complain, possibly, that she was neglected, unappreciated–that her husband was tired of her and would be glad when she was dead.’
Oldfield’s face registered the truth of Poirot’s surmise. He said with a wry smile:
‘You’ve got it exactly!’
Poirot went on:
‘Did she have a hospital nurse to attend on her? Or a companion? Or a devoted maid?’
‘A nurse-companion. A very sensible and competent woman. I really don’t think she would talk.’
‘Even the sensible and the competent have been given tongues by le bon Dieu–and they do not always employ their tongues wisely. I have no doubt that the nurse-companion talked, that the servants talked, that everyone talked! You have all the materials there for the starting of a very enjoyable village scandal. Now I will ask you one more thing. Who is the lady?’
‘I don’t understand.’ Dr Oldfield flushed angrily.
Poirot said gently:
‘I think you do. I am asking you who the lady is with whom your name has been coupled.’
Dr Oldfield rose to his feet. His face was stiff and cold. He said:
‘There is no “lady in the case”. I’m sorry, M. Poirot, to have taken up so much of your time.’
He went towards the door.
Hercule Poirot said:
‘I regret it also. Your case interests me. I would like to have helped you. But I cannot do anything unless I am told the whole truth.’
‘I have told you the truth.’
‘No…’
Dr Oldfield stopped. He wheeled round.
‘Why do you insist that there is a woman concerned in this?’
‘Mon cher docteur! Do you not think I know the female mentality? The village gossip, it is based always, always on the relations of the sexes. If a man poisons his wife in order to travel to the North Pole or to enjoy the peace of a bachelor existence–it would not interest his fellow-villagers for a minute! It is because they are convinced that the murder has been committed in order that the man may marry another woman that the talk grows and spreads. That is elemental psychology.’
Oldfield said irritably:
‘I’m not responsible for what a pack of damned gossiping busybodies think!’
‘Of course you are not.’
Poirot went on:
‘So you might as well come back and sit down and give me the answer to the question I asked you just now.’
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Oldfield came back and resumed his seat.
He said, colouring up to his eyebrows:
‘I suppose it’s possible that they’ve been saying things about Miss Moncrieffe. Jean Moncrieffe is my dispenser, a very fine girl indeed.’
‘How long has she worked for you?’
‘For three years.’
‘Did your wife like her?’
‘Er–well, no, not exactly.’
‘She was jealous?’
‘It was absurd!’
Poirot smiled.
He said:
‘The jealousy of wives is proverbial. But I will tell you something. In my experience jealousy, however far-fetched and extravagant it may seem, is nearly always based on reality. There is a saying, is there not, that the customer is always right? Well, the same is true of the jealous husband or wife. However little concrete evidence there may be, fundamentally they are always right.’
Dr Oldfield said robustly:
‘Nonsense. I’ve never said anything to Jean Moncrieffe that my wife couldn’t have overheard.’
‘That, perhaps. But it does not alter the truth of what I said.’ Hercule Poirot leaned forward. His voice was urgent, compelling. ‘Doctor Oldfield, I am going to do my utmost in this case. But I must have from you the most absolute frankness without regard to conventional appearances or to your own feelings. It is true, is it not, that you had ceased to care for your wife for some time before she died?’
Oldfield was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
‘This business is killing me. I must have hope. Somehow or other I feel that you will be able to do something for me. I will be honest with you, M. Poirot. I did not care deeply for my wife. I made her, I think, a good husband, but I was never really in love with her.’
‘And this girl, Jean?’
The perspiration came out in a fine dew on the doctor’s forehead. He said:
‘I –I should have asked her to marry me before now if it weren’t for all this scandal and talk.’
Poirot sat back in his chair. He said:
‘Now at last we have come to the true facts! Eh bien, Doctor Oldfield, I will take up your case. But remember this–it is the truth that I shall seek out.’
Oldfield said bitterly:
‘It isn’t the truth that’s going to hurt me!’
He hesitated and said:
‘You know, I’ve contemplated the possibility of an action for slander! If I could pin any one down to a definite accusation–surely then I should be vindicated? At least, sometimes I think so…At other times I think it would only make things worse–give bigger publicity to the whole thing and have people saying: “It mayn’t have been proved but there’s no smoke without fire.”’
He looked at Poirot.
‘Tell me, honestly, is there any way out of this nightmare?’
‘There is always a way,’ said Hercule Poirot.
II
‘We are going into the country, Georges,’ said Hercule Poirot to his valet.
‘Indeed, sir?’ said the imperturbable George.
‘And the purpose of our journey is to destroy a monster with nine heads.’
‘Really, sir? Something after the style of the Loch Ness Monster?’
‘Less tangible than that. I did not refer to a flesh and blood animal, Georges.’
‘I misunderstood you, sir.’
‘It would be easier if it were one. There is nothing so intangible, so difficult to pin down, as the source of a rumour.’
‘Oh yes, indeed, sir. It’s difficult to know how a thing starts sometimes.’
‘Exactly.’
Hercule Poirot did not put up at Dr Oldfield’s house. He went instead to the local inn. The morning after his arrival, he had his first interview with Jean Moncrieffe.
She was a tall girl with copper-coloured hair and steady blue eyes. She had about her a watchful look, as of one who is upon her guard.
She said:
‘So Doctor Oldfield did go to you…I knew he was thinking about it.’
There was a lack of enthusiasm in her tone.
Poirot said:
‘And you did not approve?’
Her eyes met his. She said coldly:
‘What can you do?’
Poirot said quietly:
‘There might be a way of tackling the situation.’
‘What way?’ She threw the words at him scornfully. ‘Do you mean go round to all the whispering old women and say “Really, please, you must stop talking like this. It’s so bad for poor Doctor Oldfield.” And they’d answer you and say: “Of course, I have never believed the story!” That’s the worst of the whole thing–they don’t say: “My dear, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps Mrs Oldfield’s death wasn’t quite what it seemed?” No, they say: “My dear, of course I don’t believe that story about Doctor Oldfield and his wife. I’m sure he wouldn’t do such a thing, though it’s true that he did neglect her just a little perhaps, and I don’t think, really, it’s quite wise to have quite a young girl as his dispenser–of course, I’m not saying for a minute that there was anything wrong between them. Oh no, I’m sure it was quite all right…”’ She stopped. Her face was flushed and her breath came rather fast.
Hercule Poirot said:
‘You seem to know very well just what is being said.’
Her mouth closed sharply. She said bitterly:
‘I know all right!’
‘And what is your own solution?’
Jean Moncrieffe said:
‘The best thing for him to do is to sell his practice and start again somewhere else.’
‘Don’t you think the story might follow him?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘He must risk that.’
Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
‘Are you going to marry Doctor Oldfield, Miss Moncrieffe?’
She displayed no surprise at the question. She said shortly:
‘He hasn’t asked me to marry him.’
‘Why not?’
Her blue eyes met his and flickered for a second. Then she said:
‘Because I’ve choked him off.’
‘Ah, what a blessing to find someone who can be frank!’
‘I will be as frank as you please. When I realized that people were saying that Charles had got rid of his wife in order to marry me, it seemed to me that if we did marry it would just put the lid on things. I hoped that if there appeared to be no question of marriage between us, the silly scandal might die down.’
‘But it hasn’t?’
‘No it hasn’t.’
‘Surely,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘that is a little odd?’
Jean said bitterly:
‘They haven’t got much to amuse them down here.’
Poirot asked:
‘Do you want to marry Charles Oldfield?’
The girl answered coolly enough.
‘Yes, I do. I wanted to almost as soon as I met him.’
‘Then his wife’s death was very convenient for you?’
Jean Moncrieffe said:
‘Mrs Oldfield was a singularly unpleasant woman. Frankly, I was delighted when she died.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘You are certainly frank!’
She gave the same scornful smile.
Poirot said:
‘I have a suggestion to make.’
‘Yes?’
‘Drastic means are required here. I suggest that somebody–possibly yourself–might write to the Home Office.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean that the best way of disposing of this story once and for all is to get the body exhumed and an autopsy performed.’
She took a step back from him. Her lips opened, then shut again. Poirot watched her.
‘Well, Mademoiselle?’ he said at last.
Jean Moncrieffe said quietly:
‘I don’t agree with you.’
‘But why not? Surely a verdict of death from natural causes would silence all tongues?’
‘If you got that verdict, yes.’
‘Do you know what you are suggesting, Mademoiselle?’
Jean Moncrieffe said impatiently:
‘I know what I’m talking about. You’re thinking of arsenic poisoning–you could prove that she was not poisoned by arsenic. But there are other poisons–the vegetable alkaloids. After a year, I doubt if you’d find any traces of them even if they had been used. And I know what these official analyst people are like. They might return a non-committal verdict saying that there was nothing to show what caused death–and then the tongues would wag faster than ever!’
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
‘Who in your opinion is the most inveterate talker in the village?’
The girl considered. She said at last:
‘I really think old Miss Leatheran is the worst cat of the lot.’
‘Ah! Would it be possible for you to introduce me to Miss Leatheran–in a casual manner if possible?’
‘Nothing could be easier. All the old tabbies are prowling about doing their shopping at this time of the morning. We’ve only got to walk down the main street.’
As Jean had said, there was no difficulty about the procedure. Outside the post office, Jean stopped and spoke to a tall, thin middle-aged woman with a long nose and sharp inquisitive eyes.
‘Good morning, Miss Leatheran.’
‘Good morning, Jean. Such a lovely day, is it not?’
The sharp eyes ranged inquisitively over Jean Moncrieffe’s companion. Jean said:
‘Let me introduce M. Poirot, who is staying down here for a few days.’
III
Nibbling delicately at a scone and balancing a cup of tea on his knee, Hercule Poirot allowed himself to become confidential with his hostess. Miss Leatheran had been kind enough to ask him to tea and had thereupon made it her business to find out exactly what this exotic little foreigner was doing in their midst.
For some time he parried her thrusts with dexterity–thereby whetting her appetite. Then, when he judged the moment ripe, he leant forward:
‘Ah, Miss Leatheran,’ he said. ‘I can see that you are too clever for me! You have guessed my secret. I am down here at the request of the Home Office. But please,’ he lowered his voice, ‘keep this information to yourself.’
‘Of course–of course–’ Miss Leatheran was flustered–thrilled to the core. ‘The Home Office–you don’t mean–not poor Mrs Oldfield?’
Poirot nodded his head slowly several times.
‘We-ell!’ Miss Leatheran breathed into that one word a whole gamut of pleasurable emotion.
Poirot said:
‘It is a delicate matter, you understand. I have been ordered to report whether there is or is not a sufficient case for exhumation.’
Miss Leatheran exclaimed:
‘You are going to dig the poor thing up. How terrible!’
If she had said ‘how splendid’ instead of ‘how terrible’ the words would have suited her tone of voice better.
‘What is your own opinion, Miss Leatheran?’
‘Well, of course, M. Poirot, there has been a lot of talk. But I never listen to talk. There is always so much unreliable gossip going about. There is no doubt that Doctor Oldfield has been very odd in his manner ever since it happened, but as I have said repeatedly we surely need not put that down to a guilty conscience. It might be just grief. Not, of course, that he and his wife were on really affectionate terms. That I do know–on first hand authority. Nurse Harrison, who was with Mrs Oldfield for three or four years up to the time of her death, has admitted that much. And I have always felt, you know, that Nurse Harrison had her suspicions–not that she ever said anything, but one can tell, can’t one, from a person’s manner?’
Poirot said sadly:
‘One has so little to go upon.’
‘Yes, I know, but of course, M. Poirot, if the body is exhumed then you will know.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘then we will know.’
‘There have been cases like it before, of course,’ said Miss Leatheran, her nose twitching with pleasurable excitement. ‘Armstrong, for instance, and that other man–I can’t remember his name–and then Crippen, of course. I’ve always wondered if Ethel Le Neve was in it with him or not. Of course, Jean Moncrieffe is a very nice girl, I’m sure…I wouldn’t like to say she led him on exactly–but men do get rather silly about girls, don’t they? And, of course, they were thrown very much together!’
Poirot did not speak. He looked at her with an innocent expression of inquiry calculated to produce a further spate of conversation. Inwardly he amused himself by counting the number of times the words ‘of course’ occurred.
‘And, of course, with a post-mortem and all that, so much would be bound to come out, wouldn’t it? Servants and all that. Servants always know so much, don’t they? And, of course, it’s quite impossible to keep them from gossiping, isn’t it? The Oldfields’ Beatrice was dismissed almost immediately after the funeral–and I’ve always thought that was odd–especially with the difficulty of getting maids nowadays. It looks as though Dr Oldfield was afraid she might know something.’
‘It certainly seems as though there were grounds for an inquiry,’ said Poirot solemnly.
Miss Leatheran gave a little shiver of reluctance.
‘One does so shrink from the idea,’ she said. ‘Our dear quiet little village–dragged into the newspapers–all the publicity!’
‘It appals you?’ asked Poirot.
‘It does a little. I’m old-fashioned, you know.’
‘And, as you say, it is probably nothing but gossip!’
‘Well–I wouldn’t like conscientiously to say that. You know, I do think it’s so true–the saying that there’s no smoke without fire.’
‘I myself was thinking exactly the same thing,’ said Poirot.
He rose.
‘I can trust your discretion, Mademoiselle?’
‘Oh, of course! I shall not say a word to anybody.’
Poirot smiled and took his leave.
On the doorstep he said to the little maid who handed him his hat and coat:
‘I am down here to inquire into the circumstances of Mrs Oldfield’s death, but I shall be obliged if you will keep that strictly to yourself.’
Miss Leatheran’s Gladys nearly fell backward into the umbrella stand. She breathed excitedly:
‘Oh, sir, then the doctor did do her in?’
‘You’ve thought so for some time, haven’t you?’
‘Well, sir, it wasn’t me. It was Beatrice. She was up there when Mrs Oldfield died.’
‘And she thought there had been’ –Poirot selected the melodramatic words deliberately–‘“foul play”?’
Gladys nodded excitedly.
‘Yes, she did. And she said so did Nurse that was up there, Nurse Harrison. Ever so fond of Mrs Oldfield Nurse was, and ever so distressed when she died, and Beatrice always said as how Nurse Harrison knew something about it because she turned right round against the doctor afterwards and she wouldn’t of done that unless there was something wrong, would she?’
‘Where is Nurse Harrison now?’
‘She looks after old Miss Bristow–down at the end of the village. You can’t miss it. It’s got pillars and a porch.’
IV
It was a very short time afterwards that Hercule Poirot found himself sitting opposite to the woman who certainly must know more about the circumstances that had given rise to the rumours than anyone else.
Nurse Harrison was still a handsome woman nearing forty. She had the calm serene features of a Madonna with big sympathetic dark eyes. She listened to him patiently and attentively. Then she said slowly:
‘Yes, I know that there are these unpleasant stories going about. I have done what I could to stop them, but it’s hopeless. People like the excitement, you know.’
Poirot said:
‘But there must have been something to give rise to these rumours?’
He noted that her expression of distress deepened. But she merely shook her head perplexedly.
‘Perhaps,’ Poirot suggested, ‘Doctor Oldfield and his wife did not get on well together and it was that that started the rumour?’
Nurse Harrison shook her head decidedly.
‘Oh no, Doctor Oldfield was always extremely kind and patient with his wife.’
‘He was really very fond of her?’
She hesitated.
‘No–I would not quite say that. Mrs Oldfield was a very difficult woman, not easy to please and making constant demands for sympathy and attention which were not always justified.’
‘You mean,’ said Poirot, ‘that she exaggerated her condition?’
The nurse nodded.
‘Yes–her bad health was largely a matter of her own imagination.’
‘And yet,’ said Poirot gravely, ‘she died…’
‘Oh, I know–I know…’
He watched her for a minute or two; her troubled perplexity–her palpable uncertainty.
He said: ‘I think–I am sure–that you do know what first gave rise to all these stories.’
Nurse Harrison flushed.
She said:
‘Well–I could, perhaps, make a guess. I believe it was the maid, Beatrice, who started all these rumours and I think I know what put it into her head.’
‘Yes?’
Nurse Harrison said rather incoherently:
‘You see, it was something I happened to overhear–a scrap of conversation between Doctor Oldfield and Miss Moncrieffe–and I’m pretty certain Beatrice overheard it too, only I don’t suppose she’d ever admit it.’
‘What was this conversation?’
Nurse Harrison paused for a minute as though to test the accuracy of her own memory, then she said:
‘It was about three weeks before the last attack that killed Mrs Oldfield. They were in the dining-room. I was coming down the stairs when I heard Jean Moncrieffe say:
‘“How much longer will it be? I can’t bear to wait much longer.”
‘And the doctor answered her:
‘“Not much longer now, darling, I swear it.” And she said again:
‘“I can’t bear this waiting. You do think it will be all right, don’t you?” And he said: “Of course. Nothing can go wrong. This time next year we’ll be married.”’
She paused.
‘That was the very first inkling I’d had, M. Poirot, that there was anything between the doctor and Miss Moncrieffe. Of course I knew he admired her and that they were very good friends, but nothing more. I went back up the stairs again–it had given me quite a shock–but I did notice that the kitchen door was open and I’ve thought since that Beatrice must have been listening. And you can see, can’t you, that the way they were talking could be taken two ways? It might just mean that the doctor knew his wife was very ill and couldn’t live much longer–and I’ve no doubt that that was the way he meant it–but to any one like Beatrice it might sound differently–it might look as though the doctor and Jean Moncrieffe were–well–were definitely planning to do away with Mrs Oldfield.’
‘But you don’t think so, yourself ?’
‘No–no, of course not…’
Poirot looked at her searchingly. He said:
‘Nurse Harrison, is there something more that you know? Something that you haven’t told me?’
She flushed and said violently:
‘No. No. Certainly not. What could there be?’
‘I do not know. But I thought that there might be–something?’
She shook her head. The old troubled look had come back.
Hercule Poirot said: ‘It is possible that the Home Office may order an exhumation of Mrs Oldfield’s body!’
‘Oh no!’ Nurse Harrison was horrified. ‘What a horrible thing!’
‘You think it would be a pity?’
‘I think it would be dreadful! Think of the talk it would create! It would be terrible–quite terrible for poor Doctor Oldfield.’
‘You don’t think that it might really be a good thing for him?’
‘How do you mean?’
Poirot said: ‘If he is innocent–his innocence will be proved.’
He broke off. He watched the thought take root in Nurse Harrison’s mind, saw her frown perplexedly, and then saw her brow clear.
She took a deep breath and looked at him.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said simply. ‘Of course, it is the only thing to be done.’
There were a series of thumps on the floor overhead. Nurse Harrison jumped up.
‘It’s my old lady, Miss Bristow. She’s woken up from her rest. I must go and get her comfortable before her tea is brought to her and I go out for my walk. Yes, M. Poirot, I think you are quite right. An autopsy will settle the business once and for all. It will scotch the whole thing and all these dreadful rumours against poor Doctor Oldfield will die down.’
She shook hands and hurried out of the room.
V
Hercule Poirot walked along to the post office and put through a call to London.
The voice at the other end was petulant.
‘Must you go nosing out these things, my dear Poirot? Are you sure it’s a case for us? You know what these country town rumours usually amount to–just nothing at all.’
‘This,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘is a special case.’
‘Oh well–if you say so. You have such a tiresome habit of being right. But if it’s all a mare’s nest we shan’t be pleased with you, you know.’
Hercule Poirot smiled to himself. He murmured:
‘No, I shall be the one who is pleased.’
‘What’s that you say? Can’t hear.’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
He rang off.
Emerging into the post office he leaned across the counter. He said in his most engaging tones:
‘Can you by any chance tell me, Madame, where the maid who was formerly with Dr Oldfield–Beatrice her Christian name was–now resides?’
‘Beatrice King? She’s had two places since then. She’s with Mrs Marley over the Bank now.’
Poirot thanked her, bought two postcards, a book of stamps and a piece of local pottery. During the purchase, he contrived to bring the death of the late Mrs Oldfield into the conversation. He was quick to note the peculiar furtive expression that stole across the post-mistress’s face. She said:
‘Very sudden, wasn’t it? It’s made a lot of talk as you may have heard.’
A gleam of interest came into her eyes as she asked:
‘Maybe that’s what you’d be wanting to see Beatrice King for? We all thought it odd the way she was got out of there all of a sudden. Somebody thought she knew something–and maybe she did. She’s dropped some pretty broad hints.’
Beatrice King was a short rather sly-looking girl with adenoids. She presented an appearance of stolid stupidity but her eyes were more intelligent than her manner would have led one to expect. It seemed, however, that there was nothing to be got out of Beatrice King. She repeated:
‘I don’t know nothing about anything…It’s not for me to say what went on up there…I don’t know what you mean by overhearing a conversation betwen the Doctor and Miss Moncrieffe. I’m not one to go listening to doors, and you’ve no right to say I did. I don’t know nothing.’
Poirot said:
‘Have you ever heard of poisoning by arsenic?’
A flicker of quick furtive interest came into the girl’s sullen face.
She said:
‘So that’s what it was in the medicine bottle?’
‘What medicine bottle?’
Beatrice said:
‘One of the bottles of medicine what that Miss Moncrieffe made up for the Missus. Nurse was all upset–I could see that. Tasted it, she did, and smelt it, and then poured it away down the sink and filled up the bottle with plain water from the tap. It was white medicine like water, anyway. And once, when Miss Moncrieffe took up a pot of tea to the Missus, Nurse brought it down again and made it fresh–said it hadn’t been made with boiling water but that was just my eye, that was! I thought it was just the sort of fussing way nurses have at the time–but I dunno–it may have been more than that.’
Poirot nodded. He said:
‘Did you like Miss Moncrieffe, Beatrice?’
‘I didn’t mind her…A bit standoffish. Of course, I always knew as she was sweet on the doctor. You’d only to see the way she looked at him.’
Again Poirot nodded his head. He went back to the inn.
There he gave certain instructions to George.
VI
Dr Alan Garcia, the Home Office Analyst, rubbed his hands and twinkled at Hercule Poirot. He said:
‘Well, this suits you, M. Poirot, I suppose? The man who’s always right.’
Poirot said:
‘You are too kind.’
‘What put you on to it? Gossip?’
‘As you say–Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues.’
The following day Poirot once more took a train to Market Loughborough.
Market Loughborough was buzzing like a beehive. It had buzzed mildly ever since the exhumation proceedings.
Now that the findings of the autopsy had leaked out, excitement had reached fever heat.
Poirot had been at the inn for about an hour and had just finished a hearty lunch of steak and kidney pudding washed down by beer when word was brought to him that a lady was waiting to see him.
It was Nurse Harrison. Her face was white and haggard.
She came straight to Poirot.
‘Is this true? Is this really true, M. Poirot?’
He put her gently into a chair.
‘Yes. More than sufficient arsenic to cause death has been found.’
Nurse Harrison cried:
‘I never thought–I never for one moment thought–’ and burst into tears.
Poirot said gently:
‘The truth had to come out, you know.’
She sobbed.
‘Will they hang him?’
Poirot said:
‘A lot has to be proved still. Opportunity–access to poison–the vehicle in which it was administered.’
‘But supposing, M. Poirot, that he had nothing to do with it–nothing at all.’
‘In that case,’ Poirot shrugged his shoulders, ‘he will be acquitted.’
Nurse Harrison said slowly:
‘There is something–something that, I suppose, I ought to have told you before–but I didn’t think that there was really anything in it. It was just queer.’
‘I knew there was something,’ said Poirot. ‘You had better tell it to me now.’
‘It isn’t much. It’s just that one day when I went down to the dispensary for something, Jean Moncrieffe was doing something rather–odd.’ ‘Yes?’
‘It sounds so silly. It’s only that she was filling up her powder compact–a pink enamel one–’
‘Yes?’
‘But she wasn’t filling it up with powder–with face powder, I mean. She was tipping something into it from one of the bottles out of the poison cupboard. When she saw me she started and shut up the compact and whipped it into her bag–and put back the bottle quickly into the cupboard so that I couldn’t see what it was. I daresay it doesn’t mean anything–but now that I know that Mrs Oldfield really was poisoned–’ She broke off.
Poirot said: ‘You will excuse me?’
He went out and telephoned to Detective Sergeant Grey of the Berkshire Police.
Hercule Poirot came back and he and Nurse Harrison sat in silence.
Poirot was seeing the face of a girl with red hair and hearing a clear hard voice say: ‘I don’t agree.’ Jean Moncrieffe had not wanted an autopsy. She had given a plausible enough excuse, but the fact remained. A competent girl–efficient–resolute. In love with a man who was tied to a complaining invalid wife, who might easily live for years since, according to Nurse Harrison, she had very little the matter with her.
Hercule Poirot sighed.
Nurse Harrison said:
‘What are you thinking of ?’
Poirot answered:
‘The pity of things…’
Nurse Harrison said:
‘I don’t believe for a minute he knew anything about it.’
Poirot said:
‘No. I am sure he did not.’
The door opened and Detective Sergeant Grey came in. He had something in his hand, wrapped in a silk handkerchief. He unwrapped it and set it carefully down. It was a bright rose pink enamel compact.
Nurse Harrison said:
‘That’s the one I saw.’
Grey said:
‘Found it pushed right to the back of Miss Moncrieffe’s bureau drawer. Inside a handkerchief sachet. As far as I can see there are no fingerprints on it, but I’ll be careful.’
With the handkerchief over his hand he pressed the spring. The case flew open. Grey said:
‘This stuff isn’t face powder.’
He dipped a finger and tasted it gingerly on the tip of his tongue.
‘No particular taste.’
Poirot said:
‘White arsenic does not taste.’
Grey said:
‘It will be analysed at once.’ He looked at Nurse Harrison. ‘You can swear to this being the same case?’
‘Yes. I’m positive. That’s the case I saw Miss Moncrieffe with in the dispensary about a week before Mrs Oldfield’s death.’
Sergeant Grey sighed. He looked at Poirot and nodded. The latter rang the bell.
‘Send my servant here, please.’
George, the perfect valet, discreet, unobtrusive, entered and looked inquiringly at his master.
Hercule Poirot said:
‘You have identified this powder compact, Miss Harrison, as one you saw in the possession of Miss Moncrieffe over a year ago. Would you be surprised to learn that this particular case was sold by Messrs Woolworth only a few weeks ago and that, moreover, it is of a pattern and colour that has only been manufactured for the last three months?’
Nurse Harrison gasped. She stared at Poirot, her eyes round and dark. Poirot said:
‘Have you seen this compact before, Georges?’
George stepped forward:
‘Yes, sir. I observed this person, Nurse Harrison, purchase it at Woolworth’s on Friday the 18th. Pursuant to your instructions I followed this lady whenever she went out. She took a bus over to Darnington on the day I have mentioned and purchased this compact. She took it home with her. Later, the same day, she came to the house in which Miss Moncrieffe lodges. Acting as by your instructions, I was already in the house. I observed her go into Miss Moncrieffe’s bedroom and hide this in the back of the bureau drawer. I had a good view through the crack of the door. She then left the house believing herself unobserved. I may say that no one locks their front doors down here and it was dusk.’
Poirot said to Nurse Harrison, and his voice was hard and venomous:
‘Can you explain these facts, Nurse Harrison? I think not. There was no arsenic in that box when it left Messrs Woolworth, but there was when it left Miss Bristow’s house.’ He added softly, ‘It was unwise of you to keep a supply of arsenic in your possession.’
Nurse Harrison buried her face in her hands. She said in a low dull voice:
‘It’s true–it’s all true…I killed her. And all for nothing–nothing…I was mad.’
VII
Jean Moncrieffe said:
‘I must ask you to forgive me, M. Poirot. I have been so angry with you–so terribly angry with you. It seemed to me that you were making everything so much worse.’
Poirot said with a smile:
‘So I was to begin with. It is like in the old legend of the Lernean Hydra. Every time a head was cut off, two heads grew in its place. So, to begin with, the rumours grew and multiplied. But you see my task, like that of my namesake Hercules, was to reach the first–the original head. Who had started this rumour? It did not take me long to discover that the originator of the story was Nurse Harrison. I went to see her. She appeared to be a very nice woman–intelligent and sympathetic. But almost at once she made a bad mistake–she repeated to me a conversation which she had overheard taking place between you and the doctor, and that conversation, you see, was all wrong. It was psychologically most unlikely. If you and the doctor had planned together to kill Mrs Oldfield, you are both of you far too intelligent and level-headed to hold such a conversation in a room with an open door, easily overheard by someone on the stairs or someone in the kitchen. Moreover, the words attributed to you did not fit in at all with your mental make-up. They were the words of a much older woman and of one of a quite different type. They were words such as would be imagined by Nurse Harrison as being used by herself in like circumstances.
‘I had, up to then, regarded the whole matter as fairly simple. Nurse Harrison, I realized, was a fairly young and still handsome woman–she had been thrown closely with Doctor Oldfield for nearly three years–the doctor had been very fond of her and grateful to her for her tact and sympathy. She had formed the impression that if Mrs Oldfield died, the doctor would probably ask her to marry him. Instead of that, after Mrs Oldfield’s death, she learns that Doctor Oldfield is in love with you. Straightaway, driven by anger and jealousy, she starts spreading the rumour that Doctor Oldfield has poisoned his wife.
‘That, as I say, was how I had visualized the position at first. It was a case of a jealous woman and a lying rumour. But the old trite phrase “no smoke without fire” recurred to me significantly. I wondered if Nurse Harrison had done more than spread a rumour. Certain things she said rang strangely. She told me that Mrs Oldfield’s illness was largely imaginary–that she did not really suffer much pain. But the doctor himself had been in no doubt about the reality of his wife’s suffering. He had not been surprised by her death. He had called in another doctor shortly before her death and the other doctor had realized the gravity of her condition. Tentatively I brought forward the suggestion of exhumation…Nurse Harrison was at first frightened out of her wits by the idea. Then, almost at once, her jealousy and hatred took command of her. Let them find arsenic–no suspicion would attach to her. It would be the doctor and Jean Moncrieffe who would suffer.
‘There was only one hope. To make Nurse Harrison over-reach herself. If there were a chance that Jean Moncrieffe would escape, I fancied that Nurse Harrison would strain every nerve to involve her in the crime. I gave instructions to my faithful Georges–the most unobtrusive of men whom she did not know by sight. He was to follow her closely. And so–all ended well.’
Jean Moncrieffe said:
‘You’ve been wonderful.’
Dr Oldfield chimed in. He said:
‘Yes, indeed. I can never thank you enough. What a blind fool I was!’
Poirot asked curiously:
‘Were you as blind, Mademoiselle?’
Jean Moncrieffe said slowly:
‘I have been terribly worried. You see, the arsenic in the poison cupboard didn’t tally…’
Oldfield cried:
‘Jean–you didn’t think–?’
‘No, no–not you. What I did think was that Mrs Oldfield had somehow or other got hold of it–and that she was taking it so as to make herself ill and get sympathy and that she had inadvertently taken too much. But I was afraid that if there was an autopsy and arsenic was found, they would never consider that theory and would leap to the conclusion that you’d done it. That’s why I never said anything about the missing arsenic. I even cooked the poison book! But the last person I would ever have suspected was Nurse Harrison.’
Oldfield said:
‘I too. She was such a gentle womanly creature. Like a Madonna.’
Poirot said sadly:
‘Yes, she would have made, probably, a good wife and mother…Her emotions were just a little too strong for her.’ He sighed and murmured once more under his breath:
‘The pity of it.’
Then he smiled at the happy-looking middle-aged man and the eager-faced girl opposite him. He said to himself:
‘These two have come out of its shadow into the sun…and I –I have performed the second Labour of Hercules.’
Chapter 3
The Arcadian Deer
Hercule Poirot stamped his feet, seeking to warm them. He blew upon his fingers. Flakes of snow melted and dripped from the corners of his moustache.
There was a knock at the door and a chambermaid appeared. She was a slow-breathing thickset country girl and she stared with a good deal of curiosity at Hercule Poirot. It was possible that she had not seen anything quite like him before.
She asked: ‘Did you ring?’
‘I did. Will you be so good as to light a fire?’
She went out and came back again immediately with paper and sticks. She knelt down in front of the big Victorian grate and began to lay a fire.
Hercule Poirot continued to stamp his feet, swing his arms and blow on his fingers.
He was annoyed. His car–an expensive Messarro Gratz–had not behaved with that mechanical perfection which he expected of a car. His chauffeur, a young man who enjoyed a handsome salary, had not succeeded in putting things right. The car had staged a final refusal in a secondary road a mile and a half from anywhere with a fall of snow beginning. Hercule Poirot, wearing his usual smart patent leather shoes, had been forced to walk that mile and a half to reach the riverside village of Hartly Dene–a village which, though showing every sign of animation in summer-time, was completely moribund in winter. The Black Swan had registered something like dismay at the arrival of a guest. The landlord had been almost eloquent as he pointed out that the local garage could supply a car in which the gentleman could continue his journey.
Hercule Poirot repudiated the suggestion. His Latin thrift was offended. Hire a car? He already had a car–a large car–an expensive car. In that car and no other he proposed to continue his journey back to town. And in any case, even if repairs to it could be quickly effected, he was not going on in this snow until next morning. He demanded a room, a fire and a meal. Sighing, the landlord showed him to the room, sent the maid to supply the fire and then retired to discuss with his wife the problem of the meal.
An hour later, his feet stretched out towards the comforting blaze, Hercule Poirot reflected leniently on the dinner he had just eaten. True, the steak had been both tough and full of gristle, the brussels-sprouts had been large, pale, and definitely watery, the potatoes had had hearts of stone. Nor was there much to be said for the portion of stewed apple and custard which had followed. The cheese had been hard, and the biscuits soft. Nevertheless, thought Hercule Poirot, looking graciously at the leaping flames, and sipping delicately at a cup of liquid mud euphemistically called coffee, it was better to be full than empty, and after tramping snowbound lanes in patent leather shoes, to sit in front of a fire was Paradise!
There was a knock on the door and the chambermaid appeared.
‘Please, sir, the man from the garage is here and would like to see you.’
Hercule Poirot replied amiably:
‘Let him mount.’
The girl giggled and retired. Poirot reflected kindly that her account of him to her friends would provide entertainment for many winter days to come.
There was another knock–a different knock–and Poirot called:
‘Come in.’
He looked up with approval at the young man who entered and stood there looking ill at ease, twisting his cap in his hands.
Here, he thought, was one of the handsomest specimens of humanity he had ever seen, a simple young man with the outward semblance of a Greek god.
The young man said in a low husky voice:
‘About the car, sir, we’ve brought it in. And we’ve got at the trouble. It’s a matter of an hour’s work or so.’
Poirot said:
‘What is wrong with it?’
The young man plunged eagerly into technical details. Poirot nodded his head gently, but he was not listening. Perfect physique was a thing he admired greatly. There were, he considered, too many rats in spectacles about. He said to himself approvingly: ‘Yes, a Greek god–a young shepherd in Arcady.’
The young man stopped abruptly. It was then that Hercule Poirot’s brows knitted themselves for a second. His first reaction had been æsthetic, his second mental. His eyes narrowed themselves curiously, as he looked up.
He said:
‘I comprehend. Yes, I comprehend.’ He paused and then added: ‘My chauffeur, he has already told me that which you have just said.’
He saw the flush that came to the other’s cheek, saw the fingers grip the cap nervously.
The young man stammered:
‘Yes–er–yes, sir. I know.’
Hercule Poirot went on smoothly:
‘But you thought that you would also come and tell me yourself ?’
‘Er–yes, sir, I thought I’d better.’
‘That,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘was very conscientious of you. Thank you.’
There was a faint but unmistakable note of dismissal in the last words but he did not expect the other to go and he was right. The young man did not move.
His fingers moved convulsively, crushing the tweed cap, and he said in a still lower embarrassed voice:
‘Er–excuse me, sir–but it’s true, isn’t it, that you’re the detective gentleman–you’re Mr Hercules Pwarrit?’ He said the name very carefully.
Poirot said: ‘That is so.’
Red crept up the young man’s face. He said:
‘I read a piece about you in the paper.’
‘Yes?’
The boy was now scarlet. There was distress in his eyes–distress and appeal. Hercule Poirot came to his aid. He said gently:
‘Yes? What is it you want to ask me?’
The words came with a rush now.
‘I’m afraid you may think it’s awful cheek of me, sir. But your coming here by chance like this–well, it’s too good to be missed. Having read about you and the clever things you’ve done. Anyway, I said as after all I might as well ask you. There’s no harm in asking, is there?’
Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:
‘You want my help in some way?’
The other nodded. He said, his voice husky and embarrassed:
‘It’s–it’s about a young lady. If–if you could find her for me.’
‘Find her? Has she disappeared, then?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
Hercule Poirot sat up in his chair. He said sharply:
‘I could help you, perhaps, yes. But the proper people for you to go to are the police. It is their job and they have far more resources at their disposal than I have.’
The boy shuffled his feet. He said awkwardly:
‘I couldn’t do that, sir. It’s not like that at all. It’s all rather peculiar, so to speak.’
Hercule Poirot stared at him. Then he indicated a chair.
‘Eh bien, then, sit down–what is your name?’
‘Williamson, sir, Ted Williamson.’
‘Sit down, Ted. And tell me all about it.’
‘Thank you sir.’ He drew forward the chair and sat down carefully on the edge of it. His eyes had still that appealing doglike look.
Hercule Poirot said gently:
‘Tell me.’
Ted Williamson drew a deep breath.
‘Well, you see, sir, it was like this. I never saw her but the once. And I don’t know her right name nor anything. But it’s queer like, the whole thing, and my letter coming back and everything.’
‘Start,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘at the beginning. Do not hurry yourself. Just tell me everything that occurred.’
‘Yes, sir. Well, perhaps you know Grasslawn, sir, that big house down by the river past the bridge?’
‘I know nothing at all.’
‘Belongs to Sir George Sanderfield, it does. He uses it in the summer-time for week-ends and parties–rather a gay lot he has down as a rule. Actresses and that. Well, it was last June–and the wireless was out of order and they sent me up to see to it.’
Poirot nodded.
‘So I went along. The gentleman was out on the river with his guests and the cook was out and his manservant had gone along to serve the drinks and all that on the launch. There was only this girl in the house–she was the lady’s-maid to one of the guests. She let me in and showed me where the set was, and stayed there while I was working on it. And so we got to talking and all that…Nita her name was, so she told me, and she was lady’s-maid to a Russian dancer who was staying there.’
‘What nationality was she, English?’
‘No, sir, she’d be French, I think. She’d a funny sort of accent. But she spoke English all right. She–she was friendly and after a bit I asked her if she could come out that night and go to the pictures, but she said her lady would be needing her. But then she said as how she could get off early in the afternoon because as how they wasn’t going to be back off the river till late. So the long and the short of it was that I took the afternoon off without asking(and nearly got the sack for it too) and we went for a walk along by the river.’
He paused. A little smile hovered on his lips. His eyes were dreamy. Poirot said gently:
‘And she was pretty, yes?’
‘She was just the loveliest thing you ever saw. Her hair was like gold–it went up each side like wings–and she had a gay kind of way of tripping along. I –I –well, I fell for her right away, sir. I’m not pretending anything else.’
Poirot nodded. The young man went on:
‘She said as how her lady would be coming down again in a fortnight and we fixed up to meet again then.’ He paused. ‘But she never came. I waited for her at the spot she’d said, but not a sign of her, and at last I made bold to go up to the house and ask for her. The Russianlady was staying there all right and her maid too, they said. Sent for her, they did, but when she came, why, it wasn’t Nita at all! Just a dark catty-looking girl–a bold lot if there ever was one. Marie, they called her. ‘You want to see me?’ she says, simpering all over. She must have seen I was took aback. I said was she the Russian lady’s maid and something about her not being the one I’d seen before, and then she laughed and said that the last maid had been sent away sudden. ‘Sent away?’ I said. ‘What for?’ She sort of shrugged her shoulders and stretched out her hands. ‘How should I know?’ she said. ‘I was not there.’
‘Well, sir, it took me aback. At the moment I couldn’t think of anything to say. But afterwards I plucked up the courage and I got to see this Marie again and asked her to get me Nita’s address. I didn’t let on to her that I didn’t even know Nita’s last name. I promised her a present if she did what I asked–she was the kind as wouldn’t do anything for you for nothing. Well, she got it all right for me–an address in North London, it was, and I wrote to Nita there–but the letter came back after a bit–sent back through the post office with no longer at this address scrawled on it.’
Ted Williamson stopped. His eyes, those deep blue steady eyes, looked across at Poirot. He said:
‘You see how it is, sir? It’s not a case for the police. But I want to find her. And I don’t know how to set about it. If–if you could find her for me.’ His colour deepened. ‘I’ve–I’ve a bit put by. I could manage five pounds–or even ten.’
Poirot said gently:
‘We need not discuss the financial side for the moment. First reflect on this point–this girl, this Nita–she knew your name and where you worked?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘She could have communicated with you if she had wanted to?’
Ted said more slowly:
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then do you not think–perhaps–’
Ted Williamson interrupted him.
‘What you’re meaning, sir, is that I fell for her but she didn’t fall for me? Maybe that’s true in a way…But she liked me–she did like me–it wasn’t just a bit of fun to her…And I’ve been thinking, sir, as there might be a reason for all this. You see, sir, it was a funny crowd she was mixed up in. She might be in a bit of trouble, if you know what I mean.’
‘You mean she might have been going to have a child? Your child?’
‘Not mine, sir.’ Ted flushed. ‘There wasn’t nothing wrong between us.’
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully. He murmured:
‘And if what you suggest is true–you still want to find her?’
The colour surged up in Ted Williamson’s face. He said:
‘Yes, I do, and that’s flat! I want to marry her if she’ll have me. And that’s no matter what kind of a jam she’s in! If you’ll only try and find her for me, sir?’
Hercule Poirot smiled. He said, murmuring to himself:
‘“Hair like wings of gold.” Yes, I think this is the third Labour of Hercules…If I remember rightly, that happened in Arcady…’
II
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the sheet of paper on which Ted Williamson had laboriously inscribed a name and address.
Miss Valetta, 17 Upper Renfrew Lane, N15.
He wondered if he would learn anything at that address. Somehow he fancied not. But it was the only help Ted could give him.
No. 17 Upper Renfrew Lane was a dingy but respectable street. A stout woman with bleary eyes opened the door to Poirot’s knock.
‘Miss Valetta?’
‘Gone away a long time ago, she has.’
Poirot advanced a step into the doorway just as the door was about to close.
‘You can give me, perhaps, her address?’
‘Couldn’t say, I’m sure. She didn’t leave one.’
‘When did she go away?’
‘Last summer it was.’
‘Can you tell me exactly when?’
A gentle clicking noise came from Poirot’s right hand where two half-crowns jostled each other in friendly fashion.
The bleary-eyed woman softened in an almost magical manner. She became graciousness itself.
‘Well, I’m sure I’d like to help you, sir. Let me see now. August, no, before that–July–yes, July it must have been. About the first week in July. Went off in a hurry, she did. Back to Italy, I believe.’
‘She was an Italian, then?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘And she was at one time lady’s maid to a Russian dancer, was she not?’
‘That’s right. Madame Semoulina or some such name. Danced at the Thespian in this Bally everyone’s so wild about. One of the stars, she was.’
Poirot said:
‘Do you know why Miss Valetta left her post?’
The woman hesitated a moment before saying:
‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure.’
‘She was dismissed, was she not?’
‘Well–I believe there was a bit of a dust up! But mind you, Miss Valetta didn’t let on much about it. She wasn’t one to give things away. But she looked wild about it. Wicked temper she had–real Eyetalian–her black eyes all snapping and looking as if she’d like to put a knife into you. I wouldn’t have crossed her when she was in one of her moods!’
‘And you are quite sure you do not know Miss Valetta’s present address?’
The half-crowns clinked again encouragingly.
The answer rang true enough.
‘I wish I did, sir. I’d be only too glad to tell you. But there–she went off in a hurry and there it is!’
Poirot said to himself thoughtfully:
‘Yes, there it is…’
III
Ambrose Vandel, diverted from his enthusiastic account of the décor he was designing for a forthcoming ballet, supplied information easily enough.
‘Sanderfield? George Sanderfield? Nasty fellow. Rolling in money but they say he’s a crook. Dark horse! Affair with a dancer? But of course, my dear–he had an affair with Katrina. Katrina Samoushenka. You must have seen her? Oh, my dear–too delicious. Lovely technique. The Swan of Tuolela–you must have seen that? My décor! And that other thing of Debussy or is it Mannine “La Biche au Bois”? She danced it with Michael Novgin. He’s so marvellous, isn’t he?’
‘And she was a friend of Sir George Sanderfield?’
‘Yes, she used to week-end with him at his house on the river. Marvellous parties I believe he gives.’
‘Would it be possible, mon cher, for you to introduce me to Mademoiselle Samoushenka?’
‘But, my dear, she isn’t here any longer. She went to Paris or somewhere quite suddenly. You know, they do say that she was a Bolshevik spy or something–not that I believed it myself–you know people love saying things like that. Katrina always pretended that she was a White Russian–her father was a Prince or a Grand Duke–the usual thing! It goes down so much better.’ Vandel paused and returned to the absorbing subject of himself. ‘Now as I was saying, if you want to get the spirit of Bathsheba you’ve got to steep yourself in the Semitic tradition. I express it by–’
He continued happily.
IV
The interview that Hercule Poirot managed to arrange with Sir George Sanderfield did not start too auspiciously.
The ‘dark horse’, as Ambrose Vandel had called him, was slightly ill at ease. Sir George was a short square man with dark coarse hair and a roll of fat in his neck.
He said:
‘Well, M. Poirot, what can I do for you? Er–we haven’t met before, I think?’
‘No, we have not met.’
‘Well, what is it? I confess, I’m quite curious.’
‘Oh, it is very simple–a mere matter of information.’
The other gave an uneasy laugh.
‘Want me to give you some inside dope, eh? Didn’t know you were interested in finance.’
‘It is not a matter of les affaires. It is a question of a certain lady.’
‘Oh, a woman.’ Sir George Sanderfield leant back in his armchair. He seemed to relax. His voice held an easier note.
Poirot said:
‘You were acquainted, I think, with Mademoiselle Katrina Samoushenka?’
Sanderfield laughed.
‘Yes. An enchanting creature. Pity she’s left London.’
‘Why did she leave London?’
‘My dear fellow, I don’t know. Row with the management, I believe. She was temperamental, you know–very Russian in her moods. I’m sorry that I can’t help you but I haven’t the least idea where she is now. I haven’t kept up with her at all.’
There was a note of dismissal in his voice as he rose to his feet.
Poirot said:
‘But is not Mademoiselle Samoushenka that I am anxious to trace.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, it is a question of her maid.’
‘Her maid?’ Sanderfield stared at him.
Poirot said:
‘Do you–perhaps–remember her maid?’
All Sanderfield’s uneasiness had returned. He said awkwardly:
‘Good Lord, no, how should I? I remember she had one, of course…Bit of a bad lot, too, I should say. Sneaking, prying sort of girl. If I were you I shouldn’t put any faith in a word that girl says. She’s the kind of girl who’s a born liar.’
Poirot murmured:
‘So actually, you remember quite a lot about her?’
Sanderfield said hastily:
‘Just an impression, that’s all…Don’t even remember her name. Let me see, Marie something or other–no, I’m afraid I can’t help you to get hold of her. Sorry.’
Poirot said gently:
‘I have already got the name of Marie Hellin from the Thespian Theatre–and her address. But I am speaking, Sir George, of the maid who was with Mademoiselle Samoushenka before Marie Hellin. I am speaking of Nita Valetta.’
Sanderfield stared. He said:
‘Don’t remember her at all. Marie’s the only one I remember. Little dark girl with a nasty look in her eye.’
Poirot said:
‘The girl I mean was at your house Grasslawn last June.’
Sanderfield said sulkily:
‘Well, all I can say is I don’t remember her. Don’t believe she had a maid with her. I think you’re making a mistake.’
Hercule Poirot shook his head. He did not think he was making a mistake.
V
Marie Hellin looked swiftly at Poirot out of small intelligent eyes and as swiftly looked away again. She said in smooth, even tones:
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