The Labours of Hercules hp-26 Page 17

  Hercule Poirot being a foreigner, had no second cousins in the county, but he had acquired by now a large circle of friends and he had no difficulty in getting himself invited for a visit in that part of the world. He had, moreover, selected as hostess a dear lady whose chief delight was exercising her tongue on the subject of her neighbours – the only drawback being that Poirot had to submit to hearing a great deal about people in whom he had no interest whatever, before coming to the subject of the people he was interested in.

  "The Grants? Oh yes, there are four of them. Four girls. I don't wonder the poor General can't control them. What can a man do with four girls?" Lady Carmichael's hands flew up eloquently.

  Poirot said: "What indeed?" and the lady continued: "Used to be a great disciplinarian in his regiment, so he told me. But those girls defeat him. Not like when I was young. Old Colonel Sandys was such a martinet, I remember, that his poor daughters -"

  (Long excursion into the trials of the Sandys girls and other friends of Lady Carmichael's youth.)

  "Mind you," said Lady Carmichael, reverting to her first theme. "I don't say there's anything really wrong about those girls. Just high spirits – and getting in with an undesirable set. It's not what it used to be down here. The oddest people come here. There's not what you might call 'county' left. It's all money, money, money nowadays. And you do hear the oddest stories! Who did you say? Anthony Hawker? Oh yes, I know him. What I call a very unpleasant young man. But apparently rolling in money. He comes down here to hunt – and he gives parties – very lavish parties – and rather peculiar parties, too, if one is to believe all one is told – not that I ever do, because I do think people are so ill-natured. They always believe the worst. You know, it's become quite a fashion to say a person drinks or takes drugs. Somebody said to me the other day that young girls were natural inebriates, and I really don't think that was a nice thing to say at all. And if anyone's at all peculiar or vague in their manner, everyone says 'drugs' and that's unfair, too. They say it about Mrs Larkin and though I don't care for the woman, I do really think it's nothing more than absent-mindedness. She's a great friend of your Anthony Hawker, and that's why, if you ask me, she's so down on the Grant girls – says they're man-eaters! I dare say they do run after men a bit, but why not? It's natural, after all. And they're good-looking pieces, every one of them."

  Poirot interjected a question.

  "Mrs Larkin? My dear man, it's no good asking me who she is. Who's anybody nowadays? They say she rides well and she's obviously well off. Husband was something in the city. He's dead, not divorced. She's not been here very long, came here just after the Grants did. I've always thought she -"

  Old Lady Carmichael stopped. Her mouth opened, her eyes bulged. Leaning forward she struck Poirot a sharp blow across the knuckles with a paper-cutter she was holding. Disregarding his wince of pain she exclaimed excitedly: "Why, of course! So that's why you're down here! You nasty, deceitful creature, I insist on your telling me all about it."

  "But what is it I am to tell you all about?"

  Lady Carmichael aimed another playful blow which Poirot avoided deftly.

  "Don't be an oyster, Hercule Poirot! I can see your moustaches quivering. Of course, it's crime brings you down here – and you're just pumping me shamelessly! Now let me see, can it be murder? Who's died lately? Only old Louisa Gilmore and she was eighty-five and had dropsy too. Can't be her. Poor Leo Staverton broke his neck in the hunting-field and he's all done up in plaster – that can't be it. Perhaps it isn't murder. What a pity! I can't remember any special jewel robberies lately… Perhaps it's just a criminal you're tracking down… Is it Beryl Larkin? Did she poison her husband? Perhaps it's remorse that makes her so vague."

  "Madame, Madame," cried Hercule Poirot. "You go too fast."

  "Nonsense. You're up to something, Hercule Poirot."

  "Are you acquainted with the classics, Madame?"

  "What have the classics to do with it?"

  "They have this to do with it. I emulate my great predecessor Hercules. One of the Labours of Hercules was the taming of the wild horses of Diomedes."

  "Don't tell me you came down here to train horses – at your age – and always wearing patent-leather shoes! You don't look to me as though you'd ever been on a horse in your life!"

  "The horses, Madame, are symbolic. They were the wild horses who ate human flesh."

  "How very unpleasant of them. I always do think these ancient Greeks and Romans are very unpleasant. I can't think why clergymen are so fond of quoting from the classics – for one thing one never understands what they mean and it always seems to me that the whole subject matter of the classics is very unsuitable for clergymen. So much incest, and all those statues with nothing on – not that I mind that myself but you know what clergymen are – quite upset if girls come to church with no stockings on – let me see, where was I?"

  "I am not quite sure."

  "I suppose, you wretch, you just won't tell me if Mrs Larkin murdered her husband? Or perhaps Anthony Hawker is the Brighton trunk murderer?"

  She looked at him hopefully, but Hercule Poirot's face remained impassive.

  "It might be forgery," speculated Lady Carmichael. "I did see Mrs Larkin in the bank the other morning and she'd just cashed a fifty pound cheque to self – it seemed to me at the time a lot of money to want in cash. Oh no, that's the wrong way round – if she was a forger she would be paying it in, wouldn't she? Hercule Poirot, if you sit there looking like an owl and saying nothing, I shall throw something at you."

  "You must have a little patience," said Hercule Poirot.

  IV

  Ashley Lodge, the residence of General Grant, was not a large house. It was situated on the side of a hill, had good stables, and a straggling, rather neglected, garden.

  Inside, it was what a house agent would have described as "fully furnished". Cross-legged Buddhas leered down from convenient niches, brass Benares trays and tables encumbered the floor space. Processional elephants garnished the mantelpieces and more tortured brasswork adorned the walls.

  In the midst of this Anglo-Indian home from home, General Grant was ensconced in a large, shabby armchair with his leg, swathed in bandages, reposing on another chair.

  "Gout," he explained. "Ever had the gout, Mr – er – Poirot? Makes a feller damned bad tempered! All my father's fault. Drank port all his life – so did my grandfather. It's played the deuce with me. Have a drink? Ring that bell, will you, for that feller of mine?"

  A turbaned servant appeared. General Grant addressed him as Abdul and ordered him to bring whisky and soda. When it came he poured out such a generous portion that Poirot was moved to protest.

  "Can't join you, I'm afraid, Mr Poirot." The General eyed the tantalus sadly. "My doctor wallah says it's poison to me to touch the stuff. Don't suppose he knows for a minute. Ignorant chaps doctors. Spoil-sports. Enjoy knocking a man off his food and drink and putting him on some pap like steamed fish. Steamed fish – pah!"

  In his indignation the General incautiously moved his bad foot and uttered a yelp of agony at the twinge that ensued.

  He apologised for his language.

  "Like a bear with a sore head, that's what I am. My girls give me a wide berth when I've got an attack of gout. Don't know that I blame them. You've met one of 'em, I hear."

  "I have had that pleasure, yes. You have several daughters, have you not?"

  "Four," said the General gloomily. "Not a boy amongst 'em. Four blinking girls. Bit of a thought, these days."

  "They are all four very charming, I hear?"

  "Not too bad – not too bad. Mind you, I never know what they're up to. You can't control girls nowadays. Lax times – too much laxity everywhere. What can a man do? Can't lock 'em up, can I?"

  "They are popular in the neighbourhood, I gather."

  "Some of the old cats don't like 'em," said General Grant. "A good deal of mutton dressed as lamb round here. A man's got to be careful. One of these blue-
eyed widows nearly caught me – used to come round here purring like a kitten. 'Poor General Grant – you must have had such an interesting life.'" The General winked and placed one finger against his nose. "A little bit too obvious, Mr Poirot. Oh well, take it all round, I suppose it's not a bad part of the world. A bit go ahead and noisy for my taste. I liked the country when it was the country – not all this motoring and jazz and that blasted, eternal radio. I won't have one here and the girls know it. A man's got a right to a little peace in his own home."

  Gently Poirot led the conversation round to Anthony Hawker.

  "Hawker? Hawker? Don't know him. Yes, I do, though. Nasty looking fellow with his eyes too close together. Never trust a man who can't look you in the face."

  "He is a friend, is he not, of your daughter Sheila's?"

  "Sheila? Wasn't aware of it. Girls never tell me anything." The bushy eyebrows came down over the nose – the piercing, blue eyes looked out of the red face straight into Hercule Poirot's. "Look here, Mr Poirot, what's all this about? Mind telling me what you've come to see me about?"

  Poirot said slowly: "That would be difficult – perhaps I hardly know myself. I would say only this: your daughter Sheila – perhaps all your daughters – have made some undesirable friends."

  "Got into a bad set, have they? I was a bit afraid of that. One hears a word dropped here and there." He looked pathetically at Poirot. "But what am I to do, Mr Poirot? What am I to do?"

  Poirot shook his head perplexedly.

  General Grant went on: "What's wrong with the bunch they're running with?" he asked.

  Poirot replied by another question.

  "Have you noticed. General Grant, that any of your daughters have been moody, excited – then depressed – nervy – uncertain in their tempers?"

  "Damme, sir, you're talking like a patent medicine. No, I haven't noticed anything of the kind."

  "That is fortunate," said Poirot gravely.

  "What the devil is the meaning of all this, sir?"

  "Drugs!"

  "What!"

  The word came in a roar.

  Poirot said: "An attempt is being made to induce your daughter Sheila to become a drug addict. The cocaine habit is very quickly formed. A week or two will suffice. Once the habit is formed, an addict will pay anything, do anything, to get a further supply of the drug. You can realise what a rich haul the person who peddles that drug can make."

  He listened in silence to the spluttering, wrathful blasphemies that poured from the old man's lips. Then, as the fires died down, with a final choice description of exactly what he, the General, would do to the blinkety-blinkety son of a blank when he got hold of him, Hercule Poirot said: "We have first, as your so admirable Mrs Beeton says, to catch the hare. Once we have caught our drug pedlar, I will turn him over to you with the greatest pleasure, General."

  He got up, tripped over a heavily-carved, small table, regained his balance with a clutch at the General, murmured: "A thousand pardons, and may I beg of you, General – you understand, beg of you – to say nothing whatever about all this to your daughters."

  "What? I'll have the truth out of them, that's what I'll have!"

  "That is exactly what you will not have. All you will get is a lie."

  "But damme, sir -"

  "I assure you. General Grant, you must hold your tongue. That is vital – you understand? Vital!"

  "Oh well, have it your own way," growled the old soldier.

  He was mastered but not convinced.

  Hercule Poirot picked his way carefully through the Benares brass and went out.

  V

  Mrs Larkin's room was full of people.

  Mrs Larkin herself was mixing cocktails at a side table. She was a tall woman with pale auburn hair rolled into the back of her neck. Her eyes were greenish-grey with big, black pupils. She moved easily, with a kind of sinister grace. She looked as though she were in the early thirties. Only a close scrutiny revealed the lines at the corners of the eyes and hinted that she was ten years older than her looks.

  Hercule Poirot had been brought here by a brisk, middle-aged woman, a friend of Lady Carmichael's. He found himself given a cocktail and further directed to take one to a girl sitting in the window. The girl was small and fair – her face was pink and white and suspiciously angelic. Her eyes, Hercule Poirot noticed at once, were alert and suspicious.

  He said: "To your continued good health. Mademoiselle."

  She nodded and drank. Then she said abruptly: "You know my sister."

  "Your sister? Ah, you are then one of the Miss Grants?"

  "I'm Pam Grant."

  "And where is your sister today?"

  "She's out hunting. Ought to be back soon."

  "I met your sister in London."

  "I know."

  "She told you?"

  Pam Grant nodded. She said abruptly: "Was Sheila in a jam?"

  "So she did not tell you everything?"

  The girl shook her head. She asked: "Was Tony Hawker there?"

  Before Poirot could answer, the door opened and Hawker and Sheila Grant came in. They were in hunting kit and Sheila had a streak of mud on her cheek.

  "Hullo, people, we've come in for a drink. Tony's flask is dry."

  Poirot murmured: "Talk of the angels -"

  Pam Grant snapped: "Devils, you mean."

  Poirot said sharply: "Is it like that?"

  Beryl Larkin had come forward.

  She said: "Here you are, Tony. Tell me about the run? Did you draw Gelert's Copse?"

  She drew him away skilfully to a sofa near the fireplace. Poirot saw him turn his head and glance at Sheila before he went.

  Sheila had seen Poirot. She hesitated a minute, then came over to the two in the window.

  She said abruptly: "So it was you who came to the house yesterday?"

  "Did your father tell you?"

  She shook her head. "Abdul described you. I – guessed."

  Pam exclaimed: "You went to see Father?"

  Poirot said: "Ah – yes. We have – some mutual friends."

  Pam said sharply: "I don't believe it."

  "What do you not believe? That your father and I could have a mutual friend?"

  The girl flushed. "Don't be stupid. I meant – that wasn't really your reason -"

  She turned on her sister.

  "Why don't you say something, Sheila?"

  Sheila started. She said: "It wasn't – it wasn't anything to do with Tony Hawker?"

  "Why should it be?" asked Poirot.

  Sheila flushed and went back across the room to the others.

  Pam said with sudden vehemence but in a lowered voice: "I don't like Tony Hawker. There – there's something sinister about him – and about her – Mrs Larkin, I mean. Look at them now."

  Poirot followed hex glance.

  Hawker's head was close to that of his hostess. He appeared to be soothing her. Her voice rose for a minute.

  "- but I can't wait. I want it now!"

  Poirot said with a little smile: "Les femmes – whatever it is – they always want it now, do they not?"

  But Pam Grant did not respond. Her face was cast down. She was nervously pleating and repleating her tweed skirt.

  Poirot murmured conversationally: "You are quite a different type from your sister, Mademoiselle."

  She flung her head up, impatient of banalities.

  She said: "M. Poirot. What's the stuff Tony's been giving Sheila? What is it that's been making her – different?"

  He looked straight at her. He asked: "Have you ever taken cocaine, Miss Grant?"

  She shook her head. "Oh no! So that's it? Cocaine? But isn't that very dangerous?"

  Sheila Grant had come over to them, a fresh drink in her hand.

  She said: "What's dangerous?"

  Poirot said: "We are talking of the effects of drug-taking. Of the slow death of the mind and spirit – the destroying of all that is true and good in a human being."

  Sheila Grant caught
her breath. The drink in her hand swayed and spilled on the floor.

  Poirot went on: "Dr Stoddart has, I think, made clear to you just what that death in life entails. It is so easily done – so hard to undo. The person who deliberately profits from the degradation and misery of other people is a vampire preying on flesh and blood."

  He turned away. Behind him he heard Pam Grant's voice say: "Sheila!" and caught a whisper – a faint whisper – from Sheila Grant. It was so low he hardly heard it.

  "The flask…"

  Hercule Poirot said good-bye to Mrs Larkin and went out into the hall. On the hall table was a hunting flask lying with a crop and a hat. Poirot picked it up. There were initials on it: A. H.

  Poirot murmured to himself: "Tony's flask is empty?"

  He shook it gently. There was no sound of liquor. He unscrewed the top.

  Tony Hawker's flask was not empty. It was full – of white powder…

  VI

  Hercule Poirot stood on the terrace of Lady Carmichael's house and pleaded with a girl.

  He said: "You are very young, Mademoiselle. It is my belief that you have not known, not really known, what it is you and your sisters have been doing. You have been feeding, like the mares of Diomedes, on human flesh."

  Sheila shuddered and gave a sob. She said: "It sounds horrible, put like that. And yet it's true! I never realised it until that evening in London when Dr Stoddart talked to me. He was so grave – so sincere. I saw then what an awful thing it was I had been doing… Before that I thought it was – Oh! rather like drink after hours – something people would pay to get, but not something that really mattered very much!"

  Poirot said: "And now?"

  Sheila Grant said: "I'll do anything you say. I – I'll talk to the others," she added… "I don't suppose Dr Stoddart will ever speak to me again…"

  "On the contrary," said Poirot. "Both Dr Stoddart and I are prepared to help you in every way in our power to start afresh. You can trust us. But one thing must be done. There is one person who must be destroyed – destroyed utterly, and only you and your sisters can destroy him. It is your evidence and your evidence alone that will convict him."