The Labours of Hercules Read online

  The Labors

  of Hercules

  A Hercule Poirot Collection

  Dedication

  To Edmund Cork

  of whose labours on behalf of

  Hercule Poirot I am deeply appreciative

  this book is affectionately dedicated

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  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

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Copyright

  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 Labors of Hercules,” he said. “Yours are labors 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 Labors 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 Labors of Hercules. . . .”

  Ah, but there he was wrong, the old fossil. There should be, once again, the Labors 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 Labors 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 Labors and the Labors only.

  The first Labor, 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 Labors.

  One

  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 businesslike 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 Labor 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 remind
ed 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 ‘Labors 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.”