The Labours of Hercules hp-26 Page 16

  Again Hercule Poirot repeated that one word: "No."

  "Don't you realise that if it hadn't been for the accident of her door being locked, I would have cut Diana's throat – Diana's! – with that knife?"

  "I realise nothing of the kind. You would not have killed Miss Maberly."

  "I killed the cat, didn't I?"

  "No, you did not kill the cat. You did not kill the parrot. You did not kill the sheep."

  Hugh stared at him. He demanded: "Are you mad, or am I?"

  Hercule Poirot replied: "Neither of us is mad."

  It was at that moment that Admiral Chandler and Colonel Frobisher came in. Behind them came Diana.

  Hugh Chandler said in a weak, dazed voice: "This chap says I'm not mad…"

  Hercule Poirot said: "I am happy to tell you that you are entirely and completely sane."

  Hugh laughed. It was a laugh such as a lunatic might popularly be supposed to give.

  "That's damned funny! It's sane, is it, to cut the throats of sheep and other animals? I was sane, was I, when I killed that parrot? And the cat tonight?"

  "I tell you you did not kill the sheep – or the parrot – or the cat."

  "Then who did?"

  "Someone who has had at heart the sole object of proving you insane. On each occasion you were given a heavy soporific and a blood-stained knife or razor was planted by you. It was someone else whose bloody hands were washed in your basin."

  "But why?"

  "In order that you should do what you were just about to do when I stopped you."

  Hugh stared. Poirot turned to Colonel Frobisher.

  "Colonel Frobisher, you lived for many years in India. Did you never come across cases where persons were deliberately driven mad by the administration of drugs?"

  Colonel Frobisher's face lit up.

  He said: "Never came across a case myself, but I've heard of them often enough. Datura poisoning. It ends by driving a person insane."

  "Exactly. Well, the active principle of the datura is very closely allied to, if it is not actually, the alkaloid atropine – which is also obtained from belladonna or deadly nightshade. Belladonna preparations are fairly common and atropine sulphate itself is prescribed freely for eye treatments. By duplicating a prescription and getting it made up in different places a large quantity of the poison could be obtained without arousing suspicion. The alkaloid could be extracted from it and then introduced into, say – a soothing shaving cream. Applied externally it would cause a rash, this would soon lead to abrasions in shaving and thus the drug would be continually entering the system. It would produce certain symptoms – dryness of the mouth and throat, difficulty in swallowing, hallucinations, double vision – all the symptoms, in fact, which Mr Chandler has experienced."

  He turned to the young man.

  "And to remove the last doubt from your mind, I will tell you that that is not a supposition but a fact. Your shaving cream was heavily impregnated with atropine sulphate. I took a sample and had it tested."

  White, shaking, Hugh asked: "Who did it?"

  Hercule Poirot said: "That is what I have been studying ever since I arrived here. I have been looking for a motive for murder. Diana Maberly gained financially by your death, but I did not consider her seriously -"

  Hugh Chandler flashed out: "I should hope not!"

  "I envisaged another possible motive. The eternal triangle; two men and a woman. Colonel Frobisher had been in love with your mother. Admiral Chandler married her."

  Admiral Chandler cried out: "George? George! I won't believe it."

  Hugh said in an incredulous voice: "Do you mean that hatred could go on – to a son?"

  Hercule Poirot said: "Under certain circumstances, yes."

  Frobisher cried out: "It's a damned lie! Don't believe him, Charles."

  Chandler shrank away from him. He muttered to himself: "The datura… India – yes, I see… And we'd never suspect poison – not with madness in the family already…"

  "Mais oui!" Hercule Poirot's voice rose high and shrill. "Madness in the family. A madman – bent on revenge – cunning – as madmen are, concealing his madness for years." He whirled round on Frobisher. "Mon Dieu, you must have known, you must have suspected, that Hugh was your son? Why did you never tell him so?"

  Frobisher stammered, gulped.

  "I didn't know. I couldn't be sure… You see, Caroline came to me once – she was frightened of something – in great trouble. I don't know, I never have known, what it was all about. She – I – we lost our heads. Afterwards I went away at once – it was the only thing to be done, we both knew we'd got to play the game. I – well, I wondered, but I couldn't be sure. Caroline never said anything that led me to think Hugh was my son. And then when this – this streak of madness appeared, it settled things definitely, I thought."

  Poirot said: "Yes, it settled things! You could not see the way the boy has of thrusting out his face and bringing down his brows – a trick he inherited from you. But Charles Chandler saw it. Saw it years ago – and learnt the truth from his wife. I think she was afraid of him – he'd begun to show her the mad streak – that was what drove her into your arms – you whom she had always loved. Charles Chandler planned his revenge. His wife died in a boating accident. He and she were out in the boat alone and he knows how that accident came about. Then he settled down to feed his concentrated hatred against the boy who bore his name but who was not his son. Your Indian stories put the idea of datura poisoning into his head. Hugh should be slowly driven mad. Driven to the stage where he would take his own life in despair. The blood lust was Admiral Chandler's, not Hugh's. It was Charles Chandler who was driven to cut the throats of sheep in lonely fields. But it was Hugh who was to pay the penalty!

  "Do you know when I suspected? When Admiral Chandler was so averse to his son seeing a doctor. For Hugh to object was natural enough. But the father! There might be treatment which would save his son – there were a hundred reasons why he should seek to have a doctor's opinion. But no, a doctor must not be allowed to see Hugh Chandler – in case a doctor should discover that Hugh was sane!"

  Hugh said very quietly: "Sane… I am sane?"

  He took a step towards Diana.

  Frobisher said in a gruff voice: "You're sane enough. There's no taint in our family."

  Diana said: "Hugh…"

  Admiral Chandler picked up Hugh's gun.

  He said: "All a lot of nonsense! Think I'll go and see if I can get a rabbit -"

  Frobisher started forward, but the hand of Hercule Poirot restrained him.

  Poirot said: "You said yourself – just now – that it was the best way…"

  Hugh and Diana had gone from the room.

  The two men, the Englishman and the Belgian, watched the last of the Chandlers cross the Park and go up into the woods.

  Presently, they heard a shot…

  Chapter 8

  THE HORSES OF DIOMEDES

  I

  The telephone rang.

  "Hullo, Poirot, is that you?"

  Hercule Poirot recognised the voice as that of young Dr Stoddart. He liked Michael Stoddart, liked the shy friendliness of his grin, was amused by his naïve interest in crime, and respected him as a hard-working and shrewd man in his chosen profession.

  "I don't like bothering you -" the voice went on and hesitated.

  "But something is bothering you -" suggested Hercule Poirot acutely.

  "Exactly." Michael Stoddart's voice sounded relieved. "Hit it in one!"

  "Eh bien, what can I do for you, my friend?"

  Stoddart sounded diffident. He stammered a little when he answered.

  "I suppose it would be awful c-c-cheek if I asked you to come round at this time of night… B-b-but I'm in a bit of a j-j-jam."

  "Certainly I will come. To your house?"

  "No – as a matter of fact I'm at the Mews that runs along behind. Conningby Mews. The number is 17. Could you really come? I'd be no end grateful."

  "I ar
rive immediately," replied Hercule Poirot.

  II

  Hercule Poirot walked along the dark Mews looking up at the numbers. It was past one o'clock in the morning and for the most part the Mews appeared to have gone to bed, though there were still lights in one or two windows.

  As he reached 17, its door opened and Dr Stoddart stood looking out.

  "Good man!" he said. "Come up, will you?"

  A small ladder-like stairway led to the upper floor. Here, on the right, was a fairly big room, furnished with divans, rugs, triangular silver cushions and large numbers of bottles and glasses.

  Everything was more or less in confusion, cigarette ends were everywhere and there were many broken glasses.

  "Ha!" said Hercule Poirot. "Mon cher Watson, I deduce that there has been here a party!"

  "There's been a party all right," said Stoddart grimly. "Some party, I should say!"

  "You did not, then, attend it yourself?"

  "No, I'm here strictly in my professional capacity."

  "What happened?"

  Stoddart said: "This place belongs to a woman called Patience Grace – Mrs Patience Grace."

  "It sounds," said Poirot, "a charming old-world name."

  "There's nothing charming or old-world about Mrs Grace. She's good-looking in a tough sort of way. She's got through a couple of husbands, and now she's got a boy friend whom she suspects of trying to run out on her. They started this party on drink and they finished it on dope – cocaine, to be exact. Cocaine is stuff that starts off making you feel just grand and with everything in the garden lovely. It peps you up and you feel you can do twice as much as you usually do. Take too much of it and you get violent mental excitement, delusions and delirium. Airs. Grace had a violent quarrel with her boy friend, an unpleasant person by the name of Hawker. Result, he walked out on her then and there, and she leaned out of the window and took a pot-shot at him with a brand-new revolver that someone had been fool enough to give her."

  Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose.

  "Did she hit him?"

  "Not she! Bullet went several yards wide, I should say. What she did hit was a miserable loafer who was creeping along the Mews looking in the dustbins. Got him through the fleshy part of the arm. He raised Hell, of course, and the crowd hustled him in here quick, got the wind up with all the blood that was spilling out of him and came round and got me."

  "Yes?"

  "I patched him up all right. It wasn't serious. Then one or two of the men got busy on him and in the end he consented to accept a couple of five pound notes and say no more about it. Suited him all right, poor devil. Marvellous stroke of luck."

  "And you?"

  "I had a bit more work to do. Mrs Grace herself was in raving hysterics by that time. I gave her a shot of something and packed her off to bed. There was another girl who'd more or less passed out – quite young she was, and I attended to her too. By that time everyone was slinking off as fast as they could leave."

  He paused.

  "And then," said Poirot, "you had time to think over the situation."

  "Exactly," said Stoddart. "If it was an ordinary drunken binge, well, that would be the end of it. But dope's different."

  "You are quite sure of your facts?"

  "Oh, absolutely. No mistaking it. It's cocaine all right. I found some in a lacquer box – they snuff it up, you know. Question is, where does it come from? I remembered that you'd been talking the other day about a big, new wave of drug-taking and the increase of drug addicts."

  Hercule Poirot nodded. He said: "The police will be interested in this party tonight."

  Michael Stoddart said unhappily: "That's just it."

  Poirot looked at him with suddenly awakened interest.

  He said: "But you – you are not very anxious that the police should be interested?"

  Michael Stoddart mumbled: "Innocent people get mixed up in things… hard lines on them."

  "Is it Mrs Patience Grace for whom you are solicitous?"

  "Good Lord, no. She's as hard-boiled as they make them!"

  Hercule Poirot said gently: "It is, then, the other one – the girl?"

  Dr Stoddart said: "Of course, she's hard-boiled, too, in a way. I mean, she'd describe herself as hard-boiled. But she's really just very young – a bit wild and all that – but it's just kid foolishness. She gets mixed up in a racket like this because she thinks it's smart or modern or something like that."

  A faint smile came to Poirot's lips. He said softly: "This girl, you have met her before tonight?"

  Michael Stoddart nodded. He looked very young and embarrassed.

  "Ran across her in Mertonshire. At the Hunt Ball. Her father's a retired General – blood and thunder, shoot 'em down – pukka Sahib – all that sort of thing. There are four daughters and they are all a bit wild – driven to it with a father like that, I should say. And it's a bad part of the county where they live – armaments works nearby and a lot of money – none of the old-fashioned country feeling – a rich crowd and most of them pretty vicious. The girls have got in with a bad set."

  Hercule Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes. Then he said: "I perceive now why you desired my presence. You want me to take the affair in hand?"

  "Would you? I feel I ought to do something about it – but I confess I'd like to keep Sheila Grant out of the limelight if I could."

  "That can be managed I fancy. I should like to see the young lady."

  "Come along."

  He led the way out of the room. A voice called fretfully from the door opposite.

  "Doctor – for God's sake, doctor, I'm going crazy."

  Stoddart went into the room. Poirot followed. It was a bedroom in a complete state of chaos – powder spilled on the floor – pots and jars everywhere, clothes flung about. On the bed was a woman with unnaturally blonde hair and a vacant, vicious face. She called out: "I've got insects crawling all over me… I have. I swear I have. I'm going mad… For God's sake, give me a shot of something."

  Dr Stoddart stood by the bed, his tone was soothing – professional.

  Hercule Poirot went quietly out of the room. There was another door opposite him. He opened that.

  It was a tiny room – a mere slip of a room – plainly furnished. On the bed a slim, girlish figure lay motionless.

  Hercule Poirot tip-toed to the side of the bed and looked down upon the girl.

  Dark hair, a long, pale face – and – yes, young – very young…

  A gleam of white showed between the girl's lids. Her eyes opened, startled, frightened eyes. She stared, sat up, tossing her head in an effort to throw back the thick mane of blue-black hair. She looked like a frightened filly – she shrank away a little – as a wild animal shrinks when it is suspicious of a stranger who offers it food.

  She said – and her voice was young and thin and abrupt: "Who the hell are you?"

  "Do not be afraid. Mademoiselle."

  "Where's Dr Stoddart?"

  That young man came into the room at that minute.

  The girl said with a note of relief in her voice: "Oh! there you are! Who's this?"

  "This is a friend of mine, Sheila. How are you feeling now?"

  The girl said: "Awful. Lousy… Why did I take that foul stuff?"

  Stoddart said dryly: "I shouldn't do it again, if I were you."

  "I – I shan't."

  Hercule Poirot said: "Who gave it to you?"

  Her eyes widened, her upper lip twitched a little.

  She said: "It was here – at the party. We all tried it. It – it was wonderful at first."

  Hercule Poirot said gently: "But who brought it here?"

  She shook her head.

  "I don't know… It might have been Tony – Tony Hawker. But I don't really know anything about it."

  Poirot said gently: "Is it the first time you have taken cocaine, Mademoiselle?"

  She nodded.

  "You'd better make it the last," said Stoddart brusquely.

&nbs
p; "Yes – I suppose so – but it was rather marvellous."

  "Now look here, Sheila Grant," said Stoddart. "I'm a doctor and I know what I'm talking about. Once start this drug-taking racket and you'll land yourself in unbelievable misery. I've seen some and I know. Drugs ruin people, body and soul. Drink's a gentle little picnic compared to drugs. Cut it right out from this minute. Believe me, it isn't funny! What do you think your father would say to tonight's business?"

  "Father?" Sheila Grant's voice rose. "Father?" She began to laugh. "I can just see Father's face! He mustn't know about it. He'd have seven fits!"

  "And quite right too," said Stoddart.

  "Doctor – doctor -" the long wail of Mrs Grace's voice came from the other room.

  Stoddart muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and went out of the room.

  Sheila Grant stared at Poirot again. She was puzzled.

  She said: "Who are you really? You weren't at the party."

  "No, I was not at the party. I am a friend of Dr Stoddart's."

  "You're a doctor, too? You don't look like a doctor."

  "My name," said Poirot, contriving as usual to make the simple statement sound like the curtain of the first act of a play, "my name is Hercule Poirot."

  The statement did not fail of its effect. Occasionally Poirot was distressed to find that a callous younger generation had never heard of him.

  But it was evident that Sheila Grant had heard of him. She was flabbergasted – dumbfounded. She stared and stared.

  III

  It has been said, with or without justification for the statement, that everyone has an aunt in Torquay.

  It has also been said that everyone has at least a second cousin in Mertonshire. Mertonshire is a reasonable distance from London, it has hunting, shooting and fishing, it has several very picturesque but slightly self-conscious villages, it has a good system of railways and a new arterial road facilitates motoring to and from the metropolis. Servants object to it less than they do to other, more rural, portions of the British Isles. As a result, it is practically impossible to live in Mertonshire unless you have an income that runs into four figures, and what with income-tax and one thing and another, five figures is better.