The Labours of Hercules hp-26 Read online

  Mr Cole smacked his lips. Miss Carnaby blushed.

  "Then came the ravens, the ravens of Odin, flying from the North. They met the ravens of Elijah – together they circled in the sky – they swooped, they plucked out the eyes of the victims – there was wailing and gnashing of teeth – and the Voice cried: 'Behold a Sacrifice – for on this day shall Jehovah and Odin sign blood brotherhood!' Then the Priests fell upon their victims, they raised their knives – they mutilated their victims -"

  Desperately Miss Carnaby broke away from her tormentor who was now slavering at the mouth in a kind of sadistic fervour: "Excuse me one moment."

  She hastily accosted Lipscomb, the man who occupied the Lodge which gave admission to Green Hills and who providentially happened to be passing.

  "I wonder," she said, "if you have found a brooch of mine. I must have dropped it somewhere about the grounds."

  Lipscomb, who was a man immune from the general sweetness and light of Green Hills, merely growled that he hadn't seen any brooch. It wasn't his work to go about looking for things. He tried to shake off Miss Carnaby but she accompanied him, babbling about her brooch, till she had put a safe distance between herself and the fervour of Mr Cole.

  At that moment, the Master himself came out of the Great Fold and, emboldened by his benignant smile, Miss Carnaby ventured to speak her mind to him.

  Did he think that Mr Cole was quite – was quite -

  The Master laid a hand on her shoulder.

  "You must cast out Fear," he said. "Perfect Love casteth out Fear…"

  "But I think Mr Cole is mad. Those Visions he has -"

  "As yet," said the Master, "he sees Imperfectly… through the Glass of his own Carnal Nature. But the day will come when he shall see Spiritually – Face to Face."

  Miss Carnaby was abashed. Of course, put like that – She rallied to make a smaller protest.

  "And really," she said, "need Lipscomb be so abominably rude?"

  Again the Master gave his Heavenly smile.

  "Lipscomb," he said, "is a faithful watch-dog. He is a crude – a primitive soul – but faithful – utterly faithful."

  He strode on. Miss Carnaby saw him meet Mr Cole, pause, put a hand on Mr Cole's shoulder. She hoped that the Master's influence might alter the scope of future visions.

  In any case, it was only a week now to the Autumn Festival.

  VI

  On the afternoon preceding the Festival, Miss Carnaby met Hercule Poirot in a small teashop in the sleepy little town of Newton Woodbury. Miss Carnaby was flushed and even more breathless than usual. She sat sipping tea and crumbling a rock bun between her fingers.

  Poirot asked several questions to which she replied monosyllabically.

  Then he said: "How many will there be at the Festival?"

  "I think a hundred and twenty. Emmeline is there, of course, and Mr Cole – really he has been very odd lately. He has visions. He described some of them to me – really most peculiar – I hope, I do hope, he is not insane. Then there will be quite a lot of new members – nearly twenty."

  "Good. You know what you have to do?"

  There was a moment's pause before Miss Carnaby said in a rather odd voice: "I know what you told me, M, Poirot…"

  "Très bien!"

  Then Amy Carnaby said clearly and distinctly: "But I am not going to do it!"

  Hercule Poirot stared at her. Miss Carnaby rose to her feet. Her voice came fast and hysterical.

  "You sent me here to spy on Dr Andersen. You suspected him of all sorts of things. But he is a wonderful man – a great Teacher. I believe in him heart and soul! And I am not going to do your spying work any more, M. Poirot! I am one of the Sheep of the Shepherd. The Master has a new message for the World and from now on, I belong to him body and soul. And I'll pay for my own tea, please."

  With which slight anticlimax Miss Carnaby planked down one and threepence and rushed out of the teashop.

  "Nom d'un nom d'un nom," said Hercule Poirot.

  The waitress had to ask him twice before he realised that she was presenting the bill. He met the interested stare of a surly looking man at the next table, flushed, paid the check and got up and went out.

  He was thinking furiously.

  VII

  Once again the Sheep were assembled in the Great Fold. The Ritual Questions and Answers had been chanted.

  "Are you prepared for the Sacrament?"

  "We are."

  "Bind your eyes and hold out your right arm."

  The Great Shepherd, magnificent in his green robe, moved along the waiting lines. Mr Cole, next to Miss Carnaby, gave a gulp of painful ecstasy as the needle pierced his flesh.

  The Great Shepherd stood by Miss Carnaby. His hands touched her arm – "No you don't. None of that…"

  Words incredible – unprecedented. A scuffle, a roar of anger. Green veils were torn from eyes – to see an unbelievable sight – the Great Shepherd struggling in the grasp of the sheepskinned Mr Cole aided by another devotee.

  In rapid professional tones, the erstwhile Mr Cole was saying: "- and I have here a warrant for your arrest. I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence at your trial."

  There were other figures now at the door of the Sheep Fold – blue-uniformed figures.

  Someone cried: "It's the police. They're taking the Master…"

  Everyone was shocked – horrified. To them the Great Shepherd was a martyr, suffering, as all great teachers suffer, from the ignorance and persecution of the outside world.

  Meanwhile Detective Inspector Cole was carefully packing up the hypodermic syringe that had fallen from the Great Shepherd's hand.

  VIII

  "My brave colleague!"

  Poirot shook Miss Carnaby warmly by the hand and introduced her to Chief Inspector Japp.

  "First-class work, Miss Carnaby," said Chief Inspector Japp. "We couldn't have done it without you and that's a fact."

  "Oh dear!" Miss Carnaby was fluttered. "It's so kind of you to say so, And I'm afraid, you know, that I've really enjoyed it all. The excitement, you know, and playing my part. I got quite carried away sometimes. I really felt I was one of those foolish women."

  "That's where your success lay," said Japp. "You were the genuine article. Nothing less would have taken that gentleman in! He's a pretty astute scoundrel!"

  Miss Carnaby turned to Poirot.

  "That was a terrible moment in the teashop. I didn't know what to do. I just had to act on the spur of the moment."

  "You were magnificent," said Poirot warmly. "For a moment I thought that either you or I had taken leave of our senses. I thought for one little minute that you meant it."

  "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 teashop 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 bou
nd 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 colicommunis, 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… no crime…"

  "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'!"

  Chapter 11

  THE APPLES OF THE HESPERIDES

  I

  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."

  "Is it, 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 demand 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 recognised 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 enquiry agents, have been on the look out 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."

  Poirot asked: "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."