The Labours of Hercules Read online

  “You are sure he mentioned that name—X-ray News?”

  “Yes, I am sure—because, you see, I think at first it must be a medical paper. But no, it seems not so. Then he tells me there is an English film actress who wants to find a ‘stand-in,’ and that I am just the type. I do not go to the pictures much, and I do not recognize the name he says, but he tells me, yes, she is very famous, and that she has not been well and so she wants someone to appear as her in public places, and for that she will pay very much money.”

  “How much money did this gentleman offer you?”

  “Five hundred pounds in English money. I do not at first believe—I think it is some trick, but he pays me at once half the money. So then, I give in my notice where I work.”

  The tale went on. She had been taken to Paris, supplied with smart clothes, and had been provided with an “escort.” “A very nice Argentinian gentleman—very respectful, very polite.”

  It was clear that the woman had thoroughly enjoyed herself. She had flown over to London and had been taken there to certain “nightclubs” by her olive-skinned cavalier. She had been photographed in Paris with him. Some of the places to which she had gone were not, she admitted, quite nice . . . Indeed, they were not respectable! And some of the photographs taken, they too, had not been very nice. But these things, they had told her, were necessary for “advertisement”—and Señor Ramon himself had always been most respectful.

  In answer to questioning she declared that the name of Mrs. Ferrier had never been mentioned and that she had had no idea that it was that lady she was supposed to be understudying. She had meant no harm. She identified certain photographs which were shown to her as having been taken of her in Paris and on the Riviera.

  There was the hallmark of absolute honesty about Thelma Andersen. She was quite clearly a pleasant, but slightly stupid woman. Her distress at the whole thing, now that she understood it, was patent to everyone.

  The defence was unconvincing. A frenzied denial of having had any dealings with the woman Andersen. The photos in question had been brought to the London office and had been believed to be genuine. Sir Mortimer’s closing speech roused enthusiasm. He described the whole thing as a dastardly political plot, formed to discredit the Prime Minister and his wife. All sympathy would be extended to the unfortunate Mrs. Ferrier.

  The verdict, a foregone conclusion, was given amidst unparalleled scenes. Damages were assessed at an enormous figure. As Mrs. Ferrier and her husband and father left the court they were greeted by the appreciative roars of a vast crowd.

  XI

  Edward Ferrier grasped Poirot warmly by the hand.

  He said:

  “I thank you, M. Poirot, a thousand times. Well, that finishes the X-ray News. Dirty little rag. They’re wiped out completely. Serves them right for cooking up such a scurrilous plot. Against Dagmar, too, the kindliest creature in the world. Thank goodness you managed to expose the whole thing for the wicked ramp it was . . . What put you on to the idea that they might be using a double?”

  “It is not a new idea,” Poirot reminded him. “It was employed successfully in the case of Jeanne de la Motte when she impersonated Marie Antoinette.”

  “I know. I must re-read The Queen’s Necklace. But how did you actually find the woman they were employing?”

  “I looked for her in Denmark, and I found her there.”

  “But why Denmark?”

  “Because Mrs. Ferrier’s grandmother was a Dane, and she herself is a markedly Danish type. And there were other reasons.”

  “The resemblance is certainly striking. What a devilish idea! I wonder how the little rat came to think of it?”

  Poirot smiled.

  “But he did not.”

  He tapped himself on the chest.

  “I thought of it!”

  Edward Ferrier stared.

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  Poirot said:

  “We must go back to an older story than that of The Queen’s Necklace—to the cleansing of the Augean Stables. What Hercules used was a river—that is to say one of the great forces of Nature. Modernize that! What is a great force of Nature? Sex, is it not? It is the sex angle that sells stories, that makes news. Give people scandal allied to sex and it appeals far more than any mere political chicanery or fraud.

  “Eh bien, that was my task! First to put my own hands in the mud like Hercules to build up a dam that should turn the course of that river. A journalistic friend of mine aided me. He searched Denmark until he found a suitable person to attempt the impersonation. He approached her, casually mentioned the X-ray News to her, hoping she would remember it. She did.

  “And so, what happened? Mud—a great deal of mud! Cæsar’s wife is bespattered with it. Far more interesting to everybody than any political scandal. And the result—the “dénouement? Why, Reaction! Virtue vindicated! The pure woman cleared! A great tide of Romance and Sentiment sweeping through the Augean Stables.

  “If all the newspapers in the country publish the news of John Hammett’s defalcations now, no one will believe it. It will be put down as another political plot to discredit the Government.”

  Edward Ferrier took a deep breath. For a moment Hercule Poirot came nearer to being physically assaulted than at any other time in his career.

  “My wife! You dared to use her—”

  Fortunately, perhaps, Mrs. Ferrier herself entered the room at this moment.

  “Well,” she said. “That went off very well.”

  “Dagmar, did you—know all along?”

  “Of course, dear,” said Dagmar Ferrier.

  And she smiled, the gentle, maternal smile of a devoted wife.

  “And you never told me!”

  “But, Edward, you would never have let M. Poirot do it.”

  “Indeed I would not!”

  Dagmar smiled.

  “That’s what we thought.”

  “We?”

  “I and M. Poirot.”

  She smiled at Hercule Poirot and at her husband.

  She added:

  “I had a very restful time with the dear Bishop—I feel full of energy now. They want me to christen the new battleship at Liverpool next month—I think it would be a popular thing to do.”

  Six

  THE STYMPHALEAN BIRDS

  Harold Waring noticed them first walking up the path from the lake. He was sitting outside the hotel on the terrace. The day was fine, the lake was blue, and the sun shone. Harold was smoking a pipe and feeling that the world was a pretty good place.

  His political career was shaping well. An undersecretaryship at the age of thirty was something to be justly proud of. It had been reported that the Prime Minister had said to someone that “young Waring would go far.” Harold was, not unnaturally, elated. Life presented itself to him in rosy colours. He was young, sufficiently good-looking, in first-class condition, and quite unencumbered with romantic ties.

  He had decided to take a holiday in Herzoslovakia so as to get right off the beaten track and have a real rest from everyone and everything. The hotel at Lake Stempka, though small, was comfortable and not overcrowded. The few people there were mostly foreigners. So far the only other English people were an elderly woman, Mrs. Rice, and her married daughter, Mrs. Clayton. Harold liked them both. Elsie Clayton was pretty in a rather old-fashioned style. She made up very little, if at all, and was gentle and rather shy. Mrs. Rice was what is called a woman of character. She was tall, with a deep voice and a masterful manner, but she had a sense of humour and was good company. Her life was clearly bound up in that of her daughter.

  Harold had spent some pleasant hours in the company of mother and daughter, but they did not attempt to monopolize him and relations remained friendly and unexacting between

  them.

  The other people in the hotel had not aroused Harold’s notice. Usually they were hikers, or members of a motor-coach tour. They stayed a night or two and then went on. He had hardly
noticed any one else—until this afternoon.

  They came up the path from the lake very slowly and it just happened that at the moment when Harold’s attention was attracted to them, a cloud came over the sun. He shivered a little.

  Then he stared. Surely there was something odd about these two women? They had long, curved noses, like birds, and their faces, which were curiously alike, were quite immobile. Over their shoulders they wore loose cloaks that flapped in the wind like the wings of two big birds.

  Harold thought to himself.

  “They are like birds—” he added almost without volition, “birds of ill omen.”

  The women came straight up on the terrace and passed close by him. They were not young—perhaps nearer fifty than forty, and the resemblance between them was so close that they were obviously sisters. Their expression was forbidding. As they passed Harold the eyes of both of them rested on him for a minute. It was a curious, appraising glance—almost inhuman.

  Harold’s impression of evil grew stronger. He noticed the hand of one of the two sisters, a long clawlike hand . . . Although the sun had come out, he shivered once again. He thought:

  “Horrible creatures. Like birds of prey. . . .”

  He was distracted from these imaginings by the emergence of Mrs. Rice from the hotel. He jumped up and drew forward a chair. With a word of thanks she sat down and, as usual, began to knit vigorously.

  Harold asked:

  “Did you see those two women who just went into the hotel?”

  “With cloaks on? Yes, I passed them.”

  “Extraordinary creatures, didn’t you think?”

  “Well—yes, perhaps they are rather odd. They only arrived yesterday, I think. Very alike—they must be twins.”

  Harold said:

  “I may be fanciful, but I distinctly felt there was something evil about them.”

  “How curious. I must look at them more closely and see if I agree with you.”

  She added: “We’ll find out from the concierge who they are. Not English, I imagine?”

  “Oh no.”

  Mrs. Rice glanced at her watch. She said:

  “Teatime. I wonder if you’d mind going in and ringing the bell, Mr. Waring?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Rice.”

  He did so and then as he returned to his seat he asked:

  “Where’s your daughter this afternoon?”

  “Elsie? We went for a walk together. Part of the way round the lake and then back through the pinewoods. It really was lovely.”

  A waiter came out and received orders for tea. Mrs. Rice went on, her needles flying vigorously:

  “Elsie had a letter from her husband. She mayn’t come down to tea.”

  “Her husband?” Harold was surprised. “Do you know, I always thought she was a widow.”

  Mrs. Rice shot him a sharp glance. She said drily:

  “Oh no, Elsie isn’t a widow.” She added with emphasis: “Unfortunately!”

  Harold was startled.

  Mrs. Rice, nodding her head grimly, said:

  “Drink is responsible for a lot of unhappiness, Mr. Waring.”

  “Does he drink?”

  “Yes. And a good many other things as well. He’s insanely jealous and has a singularly violent temper.” She sighed. “It’s a difficult world, Mr. Waring. I’m devoted to Elsie, she’s my only child—and to see her unhappy isn’t an easy thing to bear.”

  Harold said with real emotion:

  “She’s such a gentle creature.”

  “A little too gentle, perhaps.”

  “You mean—”

  Mrs. Rice said slowly:

  “A happy creature is more arrogant. Elsie’s gentleness comes, I think, from a sense of defeat. Life has been too much for her.”

  Harold said with some slight hesitation:

  “How—did she come to marry this husband of hers?”

  Mrs. Rice answered:

  “Philip Clayton was a very attractive person. He had (still has) great charm, he had a certain amount of money—and there was no one to advise us of his real character. I had been a widow for many years. Two women, living alone, are not the best judges of a man’s character.”

  Harold said thoughtfully:

  “No, that’s true.”

  He felt a wave of indignation and pity sweep over him. Elsie Clayton could not be more than twenty-five at the most. He recalled the clear friendliness of her blue eyes, the soft droop of her mouth. He realized, suddenly, that his interest in her went a little beyond friendship.

  And she was tied to a brute. . . .

  II

  That evening, Harold joined mother and daughter after dinner. Elsie Clayton was wearing a soft dull pink dress. Her eyelids, he noticed, were red. She had been crying.

  Mrs. Rice said briskly:

  “I’ve found out who your two harpies are, Mr. Waring. Polish ladies—of very good family, so the concierge says.”

  Harold looked across the room to where the Polish ladies were sitting. Elsie said with interest:

  “Those two women over there? With the henna-dyed hair? They look rather horrible somehow—I don’t know why.”

  Harold said triumphantly:

  “That’s just what I thought.”

  Mrs. Rice said with a laugh:

  “I think you are both being absurd. You can’t possibly tell what people are like just by looking at them.”

  Elsie laughed.

  She said:

  “I suppose one can’t. All the same I think they’re vultures!”

  “Picking out dead men’s eyes!” said Harold.

  “Oh, don’t,” cried Elsie.

  Harold said quickly:

  “Sorry.”

  Mrs. Rice said with a smile:

  “Anyway they’re not likely to cross our path.”

  Elsie said:

  “We haven’t got any guilty secrets!”

  “Perhaps Mr. Waring has,” said Mrs. Rice with a twinkle.

  Harold laughed, throwing his head back.

  He said:

  “Not a secret in the world. My life’s an open book.”

  And it flashed across his mind:

  “What fools people are who leave the straight path. A clear conscience—that’s all one needs in life. With that you can face the world and tell everyone who interferes with you to go to the devil!”

  He felt suddenly very much alive—very strong—very much master of his fate!

  III

  Harold Waring, like many other Englishmen, was a bad linguist. His French was halting and decidedly British in intonation. Of German and Italian he knew nothing.

  Up to now, these linguistic disabilities had not worried him. In most hotels on the Continent, he had always found, everyone spoke English, so why worry?

  But in this out-of-the-way spot, where the native language was a form of Slovak and even the concierge only spoke German it was sometimes galling to Harold when one of his two women friends acted as interpreter for him. Mrs. Rice, who was fond of languages, could even speak a little Slovak.

  Harold determined that he would set about learning German. He decided to buy some textbooks and spend a couple of hours each morning in mastering the language.

  The morning was fine and after writing some letters, Harold looked at his watch and saw that there was still time for an hour’s stroll before lunch. He went down towards the lake and then turned aside into the pine woods. He had walked there for perhaps five minutes when he heard an unmistakable sound. Somewhere not far away a woman was sobbing her heart out.

  Harold paused a minute, then he went in the direction of the sound. The woman was Elsie Clayton and she was sitting on a fallen tree with her face buried in her hands and her shoulders quivering with the violence of her grief.

  Harold hesitated a minute, then he came up to her. He said gently:

  “Mrs. Clayton—Elsie?”

  She started violently and looked up at him. Harold sat down beside her.

  He s
aid with real sympathy:

  “Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”

  She shook her head.

  “No—no—you’re very kind. But there’s nothing that anyone can do for me.”

  Harold said rather diffidently:

  “Is it to do with—your husband?”

  She nodded. Then she wiped her eyes and took out her powder compact, struggling to regain command of herself. She said in a quavering voice:

  “I didn’t want Mother to worry. She’s so upset when she sees me unhappy. So I came out here to have a good cry. It’s silly, I know. Crying doesn’t help. But—sometimes—one just feels that life is quite unbearable.”

  Harold said:

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  She threw him a grateful glance. Then she said hurriedly:

  “It’s my own fault, of course. I married Philip of my own free will. It—it’s turned out badly, I’ve only myself to blame.”

  Harold said:

  “It’s very plucky of you to put it like that.”

  Elsie shook her head.

  “No, I’m not plucky. I’m not brave at all. I’m an awful coward. That’s partly the trouble with Philip. I’m terrified of him—absolutely terrified—when he gets in one of his rages.”

  Harold said with feeling:

  “You ought to leave him!”

  “I daren’t. He—he wouldn’t let me.”

  “Nonsense! What about a divorce?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “I’ve no grounds.” She straightened her shoulders. “No, I’ve got to carry on. I spend a fair amount of time with Mother, you know. Philip doesn’t mind that. Especially when we go somewhere off the beaten track like this.” She added, the colour rising in her cheeks, “You see, part of the trouble is that he’s insanely jealous. If—if I so much as speak to another man he makes the most frightful scenes.”

  Harold’s indignation rose. He had heard many women complain of the jealousy of a husband, and whilst professing sympathy, had been secretly of the opinion that the husband was amply justified. But Elsie Clayton was not one of those women. She had never thrown him so much as a flirtatious glance.

  Elsie drew away from him with a slight shiver. She glanced up at the sky.