The Labours of Hercules hp-26 Read online

  "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 by 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 dryly: "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 recognise 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 plaster 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 floor-boards – something of that kind."

  "Had Casey a house of his own?"

  "Yes – in Liverpool." He grinned. "It wasn't under the floor-boards 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?"

  "Ricovetti 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."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Chap called Yougouian was suspected of being in with them. He's a dealer. Headquarters in Stamboul but he has a shop in Paris. Nothing proved against him – but he's a slippery customer."

  Poirot sighed. He looked at his little notebook. In it was written: America, Australia, Italy, France, Turkey…

  He murmured: "I'll put a girdle round the earth -"

  "Pardon?" said Inspector Wagstaffe.

  "I was observing," said Hercule Poirot, "that a world tour seems indicated."

  III

  It was the habit of Hercule Poirot to discuss his cases with his capable valet, George. That is to say, Hercule Poirot would let drop certain observations to which George would reply with the worldly wisdom which he had acquired in the course of his career as a gentleman's gentleman.

  "If you were faced, Georges," said Poirot, "with the necessity of conducting investigations in five different parts of the globe, how would you set about it?"

  "Well, sir, air travel is very quick, though some say as it upsets the stomach. I couldn't say myself."

  "One asks oneself," said Hercule Poirot, "what would Hercules have done?"

  "You mean the bicycle chap, sir?"

  "Or," pursued Hercule Poirot, "one simply asks, what did he do? And the answer, Georges, is that he travelled energetically. But he was forced in the end to obtain information – as some say – from Prometheus – others from Nereus."

  "Indeed, sir?" said George. "I never heard of either of those gentlemen. Are they travel agencies, sir?"

  Hercule Poirot, enjoying the sound of his own voice, went on: "My client, Emery Power, understands only one thing – action! But it is useless to dispense energy by unnecessary action. There is a golden rule in life, Georges, never do anything yourself that others can do for you.

  "Especially," added Hercule Poirot, rising and going to the bookshelf, "when expense is no object!"

  He took from the shelf a file labelled with the letter D and opened it at the words "
Detective Agencies – Reliable".

  "The modern Prometheus," he murmured. "Be so obliging, Georges, as to copy out for me certain names and addresses. Messrs. Hankerton, New York. Messrs. Laden and Bosher, Sydney. Signor Giovanni Mezzi, Rome. M. Nahum, Stamboul. Messrs. Roget et Franconard, Paris."

  He paused while George finished this. Then he said: "And now be so kind as to look up the trains for Liverpool."

  "Yes, sir, you are going to Liverpool, sir?"

  "I am afraid so. It is possible, Georges, that I may have to go even further. But not just yet."

  IV

  It was three months later that Hercule Poirot stood on a rocky point and surveyed the Atlantic Ocean. Gulls rose and swooped down again with long melancholy cries. The air was soft and damp.

  Hercule Poirot had the feeling, not uncommon in those who come to Inishgowlan for the first time, that he had reached the end of the world. He had never in his life imagined anything so remote, so desolate, so abandoned. It had beauty, a melancholy, haunted beauty, the beauty of a remote and incredible past. Here, in the west of Ireland, the Romans had never marched, tramp, tramp, tramp; had never fortified a camp; had never built a well-ordered, sensible, useful road. It was a land where common sense and an orderly way of life were unknown.

  Hercule Poirot looked down at the tips of his patent-leather shoes and sighed. He felt forlorn and very much alone. The standards by which he lived were here not appreciated.

  His eyes swept slowly up and down the desolate coast line, then once more out to sea. Somewhere out there, so tradition had it, were the Isles of the Blest, the Land of Youth…

  He murmured to himself: "The Apple Tree, the Singing and the Gold…"

  And suddenly, Hercule Poirot was himself again – the spell was broken, he was once more in harmony with his patent-leather shoes and natty, dark grey gent's suiting.

  Not very far away he had heard the toll of a bell. He understood that bell. It was a sound he had been familiar with from early youth.

  He set off briskly along the cliff. In about ten minutes he came in sight of the building on the cliff. A high wall surrounded it and a great wooden door studded with nails was set in the wall. Hercule Poirot came to this door and knocked. There was a vast iron knocker. Then he cautiously pulled at a rusty chain and a shrill little bell tinkled briskly inside the door.

  A small panel in the door was pushed aside and showed a face. It was a suspicious face, framed in starched white. There was a distinct moustache on the upper lip, but the voice was the voice of a woman, it was the voice of what Hercule Poirot called a femme formidable.

  It demanded his business.

  "Is this the Convent of St Mary and All Angels?"

  The formidable woman said with asperity: "And what else would it be?"

  Hercule Poirot did not attempt to answer that. He said to the dragon: "I would like to see the Mother Superior."

  The dragon was unwilling, but in the end she yielded. Bars were drawn back, the door opened and Hercule Poirot was conducted to a small bare room where visitors to the Convent were received.

  Presently a nun glided in, her rosary swinging at her waist.

  Hercule Poirot was a Catholic by birth. He understood the atmosphere in which he found himself.

  "I apologise for troubling you, ma mère," he said, "but you have here, I think, a religieuse who was, in the world, Kate Casey."

  The Mother Superior bowed her head.

  She said: "That is so. Sister Mary Ursula in religion."

  Hercule Poirot said: "There is a certain wrong that needs righting. I believe that Sister Mary Ursula could help me. She has information that might be invaluable."

  The Mother Superior shook her head. Her face was placid, her voice calm and remote. She said: "Sister Mary Ursula cannot help you."

  "But I assure you -"

  He broke off. The Mother Superior said: "Sister Mary Ursula died two months ago."

  V

  In the saloon bar of Jimmy Donovan's Hotel, Hercule Poirot sat uncomfortably against the wall. The hotel did not come up to his ideas of what a hotel should be. His bed was broken – so were two of the window panes in his room – thereby admitting that night air which Hercule Poirot distrusted so much. The hot water brought him had been tepid and the meal he had eaten was producing curious and painful sensations in his inside.

  There were five men in the bar and they were all talking politics. For the most part Hercule Poirot could not understand what they said. In any case, he did not much care.

  Presently he found one of the men sitting beside him. This was a man of slightly different class to the others. He had the stamp of the seedy townsman upon him.

  He said with immense dignity: "I tell you, sir. I tell you – Pegeen's Pride hasn't got a chance, not a chance… bound to finish right down the course – right down the course. You take my tip… everybody ought to take my tip. Know who I am, sir, do you know, I shay? Atlas, thatsh who I am – Atlas of the Dublin Sun… been tipping winnersh all the season… Didn't I give Larry's Girl? Twenty-five to one – twenty-five to one. Follow Atlas and you can't go wrong."

  Hercule Poirot regarded him with a strange reverence. He said, and his voice trembled: "Mon Dieu, it is an omen!"

  VI

  It was some hours later. The moon showed from time to time, peeping out coquettishly from behind the clouds. Poirot and his new friend had walked some miles. The former was limping. The idea crossed his mind that there were, after all, other shoes – more suitable to country walking than patent-leather. Actually George had respectfully conveyed as much. "A nice pair of brogues," was what George had said.

  Hercule Poirot had not cared for the idea. He liked his feet to look neat and well-shod. But now, tramping along this stony path, he realised that there were other shoes…

  His companion said suddenly: "Is it the way the Priest would be after me for this? I'll not have a mortal sin upon my conscience."

  Hercule Poirot said: "You are only restoring to Caesar the things which are Caesar's."

  They had come to the wall of the Convent. Atlas prepared to do his part.

  A groan burst from him and he exclaimed in low, poignant tones that he was destroyed entirely!

  Hercule Poirot spoke with authority.

  "Be quiet. It is not the weight of the world that you have to support – only the weight of Hercule Poirot."

  VII

  Atlas was turning over two new five pound notes.

  He said hopefully: "Maybe I'll not remember in the morning the way I earned this. I'm after worrying that Father O'Reilly will be after me."

  "Forget everything, my friend. Tomorrow the world is yours."

  Atlas murmured: "And what'll I put it on? There's Working Lad, he's a grand horse, a lovely horse he is! And there's Sheila Boyne.7 to 1 I'd get on her."

  He paused.

  "Was it my fancy now or did I hear you mention the name of a heathen god? Hercules, you said, and glory be to God, there's a Hercules running in the three-thirty tomorrow."

  "My friend," said Hercule Poirot, "put your money on that horse. I tell you this, Hercules cannot fail."

  And it is certainly true that on the following day Mr Rosslyn's Hercules very unexpectedly won the Boynan Stakes, starting price 60 to 1.

  VIII

  Deftly Hercule Poirot unwrapped the neatly done-up parcel. First the brown paper, then the wadding, lastly the tissue paper.

  On the desk in front of Emery Power he placed a gleaming golden cup. Chased on it was a tree bearing apples of green emeralds.

  The financier drew a deep breath. He said: "I congratulate you, M. Poirot."

  Hercule Poirot bowed.

  Emery Power stretched out a hand. He touched the rim of the goblet, drawing his finger round it.

  He said in a deep voice: "Mine!"

  Hercule Poirot agreed. "Yours!"

  The other gave a sigh. He leaned back in his chair.

  He said in a businesslike voice: "Where did you find
it?"

  Hercule Poirot said: "I found it on an altar."

  Emery Power stared.

  Poirot went on: "Casey's daughter was a nun. She was about to take her final vows at the time of her father's death. She was an ignorant but a devout girl. The cup was hidden in her father's house in Liverpool. She took it to the Convent wanting, I think, to atone for her father's sins. She gave it to be used to the glory of God. I do not think that the nuns themselves ever realised its value. They took it, probably, for a family heirloom. In their eyes it was a chalice and they used it as such."

  Emery Power said: "An extraordinary story!" He added: "What made you think of going there?"

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  "Perhaps – a process of elimination. And then there was the extraordinary fact that no one had ever tried to dispose of the cup. That looked, you see, as though it were in a place where ordinary material values did not apply. I remembered that Patrick Casey's daughter was a nun."

  Power said heartily: "Well, as I said before, I congratulate you. Let me know your fee and I'll write you a cheque."

  Hercule Poirot said: "There is no fee."

  The other stared at him. "What do you mean?"

  "Did you ever read fairy stories when you were a child? The King in them would say: 'Ask of me what you will'?"

  "So you are asking something?"

  "Yes, but not money. Merely a simple request."

  "Well, what is it? D'you want a tip for the markets?"

  "That would be only money in another form. My request is much simpler than that."

  "What is it?"

  Hercule Poirot laid his hands on the cup.

  "Send this back to the Convent."

  There was a pause. Then Emery Power said: "Are you quite mad?"

  Hercule Poirot shook his head.

  "No, I am not mad. See, I will show you something."

  He picked up the goblet. With his finger-nail, he pressed hard into the open jaws of the snake that was coiled round the tree. Inside the cup a tiny portion of the gold chased interior slid aside leaving an aperture into the hollow handle.