Hercule Poirot- the Complete Short Stories Read online

  “It was such a shock,” said Miss Carnaby. “Just when we had been talking confidentially. I saw in the glass that Lipscomb, who keeps the Lodge of the Sanctuary, was sitting at the table behind me. I don’t know now if it was an accident or if he had actually followed me. As I say, I had to do the best I could on the spur of the minute and trust that you would understand.”

  Poirot smiled.

  “I did understand. There was only one person sitting near enough to overhear anything we said and as soon as I left the tea shop I arranged to have him followed when he came out. When he went straight back to the Sanctuary I understood that I could rely on you and that you would not let me down—but I was afraid because it increased the danger for you.”

  “Was—was there really danger? What was there in the syringe?”

  Japp said:

  “Will you explain, or shall I?”

  Poirot said gravely:

  “Mademoiselle, this Dr. Andersen had perfected a scheme of exploitation and murder—scientific murder. Most of his life has been spent in bacteriological research. Under a different name he has a chemical laboratory in Sheffield. There he makes cultures of various bacilli. It was his practice, at the Festivals, to inject into his followers a small but sufficient dose of Cannabis Indica—which is also known by the names of Hashish or Bhang. This gives delusions of grandeur and pleasurable enjoyment. It bound his devotees to him. These were the Spiritual Joys that he promised them.”

  “Most remarkable,” said Miss Carnaby. “Really a most remarkable sensation.”

  Hercule Poirot nodded.

  “That was his general stock in trade—a dominating personality, the power of creating mass hysteria and the reactions produced by this drug. But he had a second aim in view.

  “Lonely women, in their gratitude and fervour, made wills leaving their money to the Cult. One by one, these women died. They died in their own homes and apparently of natural causes. Without being too technical I will try to explain. It is possible to make intensified cultures of certain bacteria. The bacillus Coli Communis, for instance, the cause of ulcerative colitis. Typhoid bacilli can be introduced into the system. So can the Pneumococcus. There is also what is termed Old Tuberculin which is harmless to a healthy person but which stimulates any old tubercular lesion into activity. You perceive the cleverness of the man? These deaths would occur in different parts of the country, with different doctors attending them and without any risk of arousing suspicion. He had also, I gather, cultivated a substance which had the power of delaying but intensifying the action of the chosen bacillus.”

  “He’s a devil, if there ever was one!” said Chief Inspector Japp.

  Poirot went on:

  “By my orders, you told him that you were a tuberculous subject. There was Old Tuberculin in the syringe when Cole arrested him. Since you were a healthy person it would not have harmed you, which is why I made you lay stress on your tubercular trouble. I was terrified that even now he might choose some other germ, but I respected your courage and I had to let you take the risk.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Miss Carnaby brightly. “I don’t mind taking risks. I’m only frightened of bulls in fields and things like that. But have you enough evidence to convict this dreadful person?”

  Japp grinned.

  “Plenty of evidence,” he said. “We’ve got his laboratory and his cultures and the whole layout!”

  Poirot said:

  “It is possible, I think, that he has committed a long line of murders. I may say that it was not because his mother was a Jewess that he was dismissed from that German University. That merely made a convenient tale to account for his arrival here and to gain sympathy for him. Actually, I fancy, he is of pure Aryan blood.”

  Miss Carnaby sighed.

  “Qu’est ce qu’il y a?” asked Poirot.

  “I was thinking,” said Miss Carnaby, “of a marvellous dream I had at the First Festival—hashish, I suppose. I arranged the whole world so beautifully! No wars, no poverty, no ill health, no ugliness. . . .”

  “It must have been a fine dream,” said Japp enviously.

  Miss Carnaby jumped up. She said:

  “I must get home. Emily has been so anxious. And dear Augustus has been missing me terribly, I hear.”

  Hercule Poirot said with a smile:

  “He was afraid, perhaps, that like him, you were going to die for Hercule Poirot!”

  Forty-nine

  THE APPLES OF THE HESPERIDES

  “The Apples of the Hesperides” was first published in The Strand, September 1940.

  Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully into the face of the man behind the big mahogany desk. He noted the generous brow, the mean mouth, the rapacious line of the jaw and the piercing, visionary eyes. He understood from looking at the man why Emery Power had become the great financial force that he was.

  And his eyes falling to the long delicate hands, exquisitely shaped, that lay on the desk, he understood, too, why Emery Power had attained renown as a great collector. He was known on both sides of the Atlantic as a connoisseur of works of art. His passion for the artistic went hand in hand with an equal passion for the historic. It was not enough for him that a thing should be beautiful—he demanded also that it should have a tradition behind it.

  Emery Power was speaking. His voice was quiet—a small, distinct voice that was more effective than any mere volume of sound could have been.

  “You do not, I know, take many cases nowadays. But I think you will take this one.”

  “It is, then, an affair of great moment?”

  Emery Power said:

  “It is of moment to me.”

  Poirot remained in an enquiring attitude, his head slightly on one side. He looked like a meditative robin.

  The other went on:

  “It concerns the recovery of a work of art. To be exact, a gold chased goblet, dating from the Renaissance. It is said to be the goblet used by Pope Alexander VI—Roderigo Borgia. He sometimes presented it to a favoured guest to drink from. That guest, M. Poirot, usually died.”

  “A pretty history,” Poirot murmured.

  “Its career has always been associated with violence. It has been stolen more than once. Murder has been done to gain possession of it. A trail of bloodshed has followed it through the ages.”

  “On account of its intrinsic value or for other reasons?”

  “Its intrinsic value is certainly considerable. The workmanship is exquisite (it is said to have been made by Benvenuto Cellini). The design represents a tree round which a jewelled serpent is coiled and the apples on the tree are formed of very beautiful emeralds.”

  Poirot murmured with an apparent quickening of interest:

  “Apples?”

  “The emeralds are particularly fine, so are the rubies in the serpent, but of course the real value of the cup is its historical associations. It was put up for sale by the Marchese di San Veratrino in 1929. Collectors bid against each other and I secured it finally for a sum equalling (at the then rate of exchange) thirty thousand pounds.”

  Poirot raised his eyebrows. He murmured:

  “Indeed a princely sum! The Marchese di San Veratrino was fortunate.”

  Emery Power said:

  “When I really want a thing, I am willing to pay for it, M. Poirot.”

  Hercule Poirot said softly:

  “You have no doubt heard the Spanish proverb: ‘Take what you want—and pay for it, says God.’ ”

  For a moment the financier frowned—a swift light of anger showed in his eyes. He said coldly:

  “You are by way of being a philosopher, M. Poirot.”

  “I have arrived at the age of reflection, Monsieur.”

  “Doubtless. But it is not reflection that will restore my goblet to me.”

  “You think not?”

  “I fancy action will be necessary.”

  Hercule Poirot nodded placidly.

  “A lot of people make the same mistake. But I deman
d your pardon, Mr. Power, we have digressed from the matter in hand. You were saying that you had bought the cup from the Marchese di San Veratrino?”

  “Exactly. What I have now to tell you is that it was stolen before it actually came into my possession.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “The Marchese’s Palace was broken into on the night of the sale and eight or ten pieces of considerable value were stolen, including the goblet.”

  “What was done in the matter?”

  Power shrugged his shoulders.

  “The police, of course, took the matter in hand. The robbery was recognized to be the work of a well-known international gang of thieves. Two of their number, a Frenchman called Dublay and an Italian called Riccovetti, were caught and tried—some of the stolen goods were found in their possession.”

  “But not the Borgia goblet?”

  “But not the Borgia goblet. There were, as far as the police could ascertain, three men actually engaged in the robbery—the two I have just mentioned and a third, an Irishman named Patrick Casey. This last was an expert cat burglar. It was he who is said to have actually stolen the things. Dublay was the brains of the group and planned their coups; Riccovetti drove the car and waited below for the goods to be lowered down to him.”

  “And the stolen goods? Were they split up into three parts?”

  “Possibly. On the other hand, the articles that were recovered were those of least value. It seems possible that the more noteworthy and spectacular pieces had been hastily smuggled out of the country.”

  “What about the third man, Casey? Was he never brought to justice?”

  “Not in the sense you mean. He was not a very young man. His muscles were stiffer than formerly. Two weeks later he fell from the fifth floor of a building and was killed instantly.”

  “Where was this?”

  “In Paris. He was attempting to rob the house of the millionaire banker, Duvauglier.”

  “And the goblet has never been seen since?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It has never been offered for sale?”

  “I am quite sure it has not. I may say that not only the police, but also private inquiry agents, have been on the lookout for it.”

  “What about the money you had paid over?”

  “The Marchese, a very punctilious person, offered to refund it to me as the cup had been stolen from his house.”

  “But you did not accept?”

  “No.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Shall we say because I preferred to keep the matter in my own hands?”

  “You mean that if you had accepted the Marchese’s offer, the goblet, if recovered, would be his property, whereas now it is legally yours?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What was there behind that attitude of yours?”

  Emery Power said with a smile:

  “You appreciate that point, I see. Well, M. Poirot, it is quite simple. I thought I knew who was actually in possession of the goblet.”

  “Very interesting. And who was it?”

  “Sir Reuben Rosenthal. He was not only a fellow collector but he was at the time a personal enemy. We had been rivals in several business deals—and on the whole I had come out the better. Our animosity culminated in this rivalry over the Borgia Goblet. Each of us was determined to possess it. It was more or less a point of honour. Our appointed representatives bid against each other at the sale.”

  “And your representative’s final bid secured the treasure?”

  “Not precisely. I took the precaution of having a second agent—ostensibly the representative of a Paris dealer. Neither of us, you understand, would have been willing to yield to the other, but to allow a third party to acquire the cup, with the possibility of approaching that third party quietly afterwards—that was a very different matter.”

  “In fact, une petite déception.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which was successful—and immediately afterwards Sir Reuben discovered how he had been tricked?”

  Power smiled.

  It was a revealing smile.

  Poirot said: “I see the position now. You believed that Sir Reuben, determined not to be beaten, deliberately commissioned the theft?”

  Emery Power raised a hand.

  “Oh no, no! It would not be so crude as that. It amounted to this—shortly afterwards Sir Reuben would have purchased a Renaissance goblet, provenance unspecified.”

  “The description of which would have been circulated by the police?”

  “The goblet would not have been placed openly on view.”

  “You think it would have been sufficient for Sir Reuben to know that he possessed it?”

  “Yes. Moreover, if I had accepted the Marchese’s offer—it would have been possible for Sir Reuben to conclude a private arrangement with him later, thus allowing the goblet to pass legally into his possession.”

  He paused a minute and then said:

  “But my retaining the legal ownership, there were still possibilities left open to me of recovering my property.”

  “You mean,” said Poirot bluntly, “that you could arrange for it to be stolen from Sir Reuben.”

  “Not stolen, M. Poirot. I should have been merely recovering my own property.”

  “But I gather that you were not successful?”

  “For a very good reason. Rosenthal has never had the goblet in his possession!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Recently there has been a merger of oil interests. Rosenthal’s interests and mine now coincide. We are allies and not enemies. I spoke to him frankly on the subject and he at once assured me that the cup had never been in his possession.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Yes.”

  Poirot said thoughtfully:

  “Then for nearly ten years you have been, as they say in this country, barking up the mistaken tree?”

  The financier said bitterly:

  “Yes, that is exactly what I have been doing!”

  “And now—it is all to start again from the beginning?”

  The other nodded.

  “And that is where I come in? I am the dog that you set upon the cold scent—a very cold scent.”

  Emery Power said drily:

  “If the affair were easy it would not have been necessary for me to send for you. Of course, if you think it impossible—”

  He had found the right word. Hercule Poirot drew himself up. He said coldly:

  “I do not recognize the word impossible, Monsieur! I ask myself only—is this affair sufficiently interesting for me to undertake?”

  Emery Power smiled again. He said:

  “It has this interest—you may name your own fee.”

  The small man looked at the big man. He said softly:

  “Do you then desire this work of art so much? Surely not!”

  Emery Power said:

  “Put it that I, like yourself, do not accept defeat.”

  Hercule Poirot bowed his head. He said:

  “Yes—put that way—I understand. . . .”

  II

  Inspector Wagstaffe was interested.

  “The Veratrino cup? Yes, I remember all about it. I was in charge of the business this end. I speak a bit of Italiano, you know, and I went over and had a powwow with the Macaronis. It’s never turned up from that day to this. Funny thing, that.”

  “What is your explanation? A private sale?”

  Wagstaffe shook his head.

  “I doubt it. Of course it’s remotely possible . . . No, my explanation is a good deal simpler. The stuff was cached—and the only man who knew where it was is dead.”

  “You mean Casey?”

  “Yes. He may have cached it somewhere in Italy, or he may have succeeded in smuggling it out of the country. But he hid it and wherever he hid it, there it still is.”

  Hercule Poirot sighed.

  “It is a romantic theory. Pearls stuffed into plaste
r casts—what is the story—the Bust of Napoleon, is it not? But in this case it is not jewels—it is a large, solid gold cup. Not so easy to hide that, one would think.”

  Wagstaffe said vaguely:

  “Oh, I don’t know. It could be done, I suppose. Under the floorboards—something of that kind.”

  “Has Casey a house of his own?”

  “Yes—in Liverpool.” He grinned. “It wasn’t under the floorboards there. We made sure of that.”

  “What about his family?”

  “Wife was a decent sort of woman—tubercular. Worried to death by her husband’s way of life. She was religious—a devout Catholic—but couldn’t make up her mind to leave him. She died a couple of years ago. Daughter took after her—she became a nun. The son was different—a chip off the old block. Last I heard of him he was doing time in America.”

  Hercule Poirot wrote in his little notebook. America. He said: “It is possible that Casey’s son may have known the hiding place?”

  “Don’t believe he did. It would have come into the fences’ hands by now.”

  “The cup might have been melted down.”

  “It might. Quite possible, I should say. But I don’t know—its supreme value is to collectors—and there’s a lot of funny business goes on with collectors—you’d be surprised! Sometimes,” said Wagstaffe virtuously, “I think collectors haven’t any morals at all.”

  “Ah! Would you be surprised if Sir Reuben Rosenthal, for instance, were engaged in what you describe as ‘funny business?’ ”

  Wagstaffe grinned.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s not supposed to be very scrupulous where works of art are concerned.”

  “What about the other members of the gang?”

  “Riccovetti and Dublay both got stiff sentences. I should imagine they’ll be coming out about now.”

  “Dublay is a Frenchman, is he not?”

  “Yes, he was the brains of the gang.”

  “Were there other members of it?”

  “There was a girl—Red Kate she used to be called. Took a job as lady’s maid and found out all about a crib—where stuff was kept and so on. She went to Australia, I believe, after the gang broke up.”