The Labours of Hercules Read online

  Miss Keble murmured tearfully:

  “It all happened in a second. I looked round and the darling boy was gone—there was just the dangling lead in my hand. Perhaps you’d like to see the lead, Mr. Poirot?”

  “By no means,” said Poirot hastily. He had no wish to make a collection of cut dog leads. “I understand,” he went on, “that shortly afterwards you received a letter?”

  The story followed the same course exactly—the letter—the threats of violence to Nanki Poo’s ears and tail. Only two things were different—the sum of money demanded—£300—and the address to which it was to be sent: this time it was to Commander Blackleigh, Harrington Hotel, 76 Clonmel Gardens, Kensington.

  Mrs. Samuelson went on:

  “When Nanki Poo was safely back again, I went to the place myself, Mr. Poirot. After all, three hundred pounds is three hundred pounds.”

  “Certainly it is.”

  “The very first thing I saw was my letter enclosing the money in a kind of rack in the hall. Whilst I was waiting for the proprietress I slipped it into my bag. Unfortunately—”

  Poirot said: “Unfortunately, when you opened it it contained only blank sheets of paper.”

  “How did you know?” Mrs. Samuelson turned on him with awe.

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “Obviously, chère Madame, the thief would take care to recover the money before he returned the dog. He would then replace the notes with blank paper and return the letter to the rack in case its absence should be noticed.”

  “No such person as Commander Blackleigh had ever stayed there.”

  Poirot smiled.

  “And of course, my husband was extremely annoyed about the whole thing. In fact, he was livid—absolutely livid!”

  Poirot murmured cautiously:

  “You did not—er—consult him before dispatching the money?”

  “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Samuelson with decision.

  Poirot looked a question. The lady explained.

  “I wouldn’t have risked it for a moment. Men are so extraordinary when it’s a question of money. Jacob would have insisted on going to the police. I couldn’t risk that. My poor darling Nanki Poo. Anything might have happened to him! Of course, I had to tell my husband afterwards, because I had to explain why I was overdrawn at the Bank.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “Quite so—quite so.”

  “And I have really never seen him so angry. Men,” said Mrs. Samuelson, rearranging her handsome diamond bracelet and turning her rings on her fingers, “think of nothing but money.”

  V

  Hercule Poirot went up in the lift to Sir Joseph Hoggin’s office. He sent in his card and was told that Sir Joseph was engaged at the moment but would see him presently. A haughty blonde sailed out of Sir Joseph’s room at last with her hands full of papers. She gave the quaint little man a disdainful glance in passing.

  Sir Joseph was seated behind his immense mahogany desk. There was a trace of lipstick on his chin.

  “Well, Mr. Poirot? Sit down. Got any news for me?”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “The whole affair is of a pleasing simplicity. In each case the money was sent to one of those boarding houses or private hotels where there is no porter or hall attendant and where a large number of guests are always coming and going, including a fairly large preponderance of ex-Service men. Nothing would be easier than for any one to walk in, abstract a letter from the rack, either take it away, or else remove the money and replace it with blank paper. Therefore, in every case, the trail ends abruptly in a blank wall.”

  “You mean you’ve no idea who the fellow is?”

  “I have certain ideas, yes. It will take a few days to follow them up.”

  Sir Joseph looked at him curiously.

  “Good work. Then, when you have got anything to report—”

  “I will report to you at your house.”

  Sir Joseph said:

  “If you get to the bottom of this business, it will be a pretty good piece of work.”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “There is no question of failure. Hercule Poirot does not fail.”

  Sir Joseph Hoggin looked at the little man and grinned.

  “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” he demanded.

  “Entirely with reason.”

  “Oh well.” Sir Joseph Hoggin leaned back in his chair. “Pride goes before a fall, you know.”

  VI

  Hercule Poirot, sitting in front of his electric radiator (and feeling a quiet satisfaction in its neat geometrical pattern) was giving instructions to his valet and general factotum.

  “You understand, Georges?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “More probably a flat or maisonette. And it will definitely be within certain limits. South of the Park, east of Kensington Church, west of Knightsbridge Barracks and north of Fulham Road.”

  “I understand perfectly, sir.”

  Poirot murmured.

  “A curious little case. There is evidence here of a very definite talent for organization. And there is, of course, the surprising invisibility of the star performer—the Nemean Lion himself, if I may so style him. Yes, an interesting little case. I could wish that I felt more attracted to my client—but he bears an unfortunate resemblance to a soap manufacturer of Liège who poisoned his wife in order to marry a blonde secretary. One of my early successes.”

  Georges shook his head. He said gravely:

  “These blondes, sir, they’re responsible for a lot of trouble.”

  VII

  It was three days later when the invaluable Georges said:

  “This is the address, sir.”

  Hercule Poirot took the piece of paper handed to him.

  “Excellent, my good Georges. And what day of the week?”

  “Thursdays, sir.”

  “Thursdays. And today, most fortunately, is a Thursday. So there need be no delay.”

  Twenty minutes later Hercule Poirot was climbing the stairs of an obscure block of flats tucked away in a little street leading off a more fashionable one. No. 10 Rosholm Mansions was on the third and top floor and there was no lift. Poirot toiled upwards round and round the narrow corkscrew staircase.

  He paused to regain his breath on the top landing and from behind the door of No. 10 a new sound broke the silence—the sharp bark of a dog.

  Hercule Poirot nodded his head with a slight smile. He pressed the bell of No. 10.

  The barking redoubled—footsteps came to the door, it was opened. . . .

  Miss Amy Carnaby fell back, her hand went to her ample breast.

  “You permit that I enter?” said Hercule Poirot, and entered without waiting for the reply.

  There was a sitting room door open on the right and he walked in. Behind him Miss Carnaby followed as though in a dream.

  The room was very small and much overcrowded. Amongst the furniture a human being could be discovered, an elderly woman lying on a sofa drawn up to the gas fire. As Poirot came in, a Pekinese dog jumped off the sofa and came forward uttering a few sharp suspicious barks.

  “Aha,” said Poirot. “The chief actor! I salute you, my little friend.”

  He bent forward, extending his hand. The dog sniffed at it, his intelligent eyes fixed on the man’s face.

  Miss Carnaby muttered faintly:

  “So you know?”

  Hercule Poirot nodded.

  “Yes, I know.” He looked at the woman on the sofa. “Your sister, I think?”

  Miss Carnaby said mechanically: “Yes, Emily, this—this is Mr. Poirot.”

  Emily Carnaby gave a gasp. She said: “Oh!”

  Amy Carnaby said:

  “Augustus. . . .”

  The Pekinese looked towards her—his tail moved—then he resumed his scrutiny of Poirot’s hand. Again his tail moved faintly.

  Gently, Poirot picked the little dog up and sat down with Augustus on his knee. He said:

  “So I
have captured the Nemean Lion. My task is completed.”

  Amy Carnaby said in a hard dry voice:

  “Do you really know everything?”

  Poirot nodded.

  “I think so. You organized this business—with Augustus to help you. You took your employer’s dog out for his usual walk, brought him here and went on to the Park with Augustus. The Park Keeper saw you with a Pekinese as usual. The nurse girl, if we had ever found her, would also have agreed that you had a Pekinese with you when you spoke to her. Then, while you were talking, you cut the lead and Augustus, trained by you, slipped off at once and made a beeline back home. A few minutes later you gave the alarm that the dog had been stolen.”

  There was a pause. Then Miss Carnaby drew herself up with a certain pathetic dignity. She said:

  “Yes. It is all quite true. I—I have nothing to say.”

  The invalid woman on the sofa began to cry softly.

  Poirot said:

  “Nothing at all, Mademoiselle?”

  Miss Carnaby said:

  “Nothing. I have been a thief—and now I am found out.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “You have nothing to say—in your own defence?”

  A spot of red showed suddenly in Amy Carnaby’s white cheeks. She said:

  “I—I don’t regret what I did. I think that you are a kind man, Mr. Poirot, and that possibly you might understand. You see, I’ve been so terribly afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  “Yes, it’s difficult for a gentleman to understand, I expect. But you see, I’m not a clever woman at all, and I’ve no training and I’m getting older—and I’m so terrified for the future. I’ve not been able to save anything—how could I with Emily to be cared for?—and as I get older and more incompetent there won’t be any one who wants me. They’ll want somebody young and brisk. I’ve—I’ve known so many people like I am—nobody wants you and you live in one room and you can’t have a fire or any warmth and not very much to eat, and at last you can’t even pay the rent of your room . . . There are Institutions, of course, but it’s not very easy to get into them unless you have influential friends, and I haven’t. There are a good many others situated like I am—poor companions—untrained useless women with nothing to look forward to but a deadly fear. . . .”

  Her voice shook. She said:

  “And so—some of us—got together and—and I thought of this. It was really having Augustus that put it into my mind. You see, to most people, one Pekinese is very much like another. (Just as we think the Chinese are.) Really, of course, it’s ridiculous. No one who knew could mistake Augustus for Nanki Poo or Shan Tung or any of the other Pekes. He’s far more intelligent for one thing, and he’s much handsomer, but, as I say, to most people a Peke is just a Peke. Augustus put it into my head—that, combined with the fact that so many rich women have Pekinese dogs.”

  Poirot said with a faint smile:

  “It must have been a profitable—racket! How many are there in the—the gang? Or perhaps I had better ask how often operations have been successfully carried out?”

  Miss Carnaby said simply:

  “Shan Tung was the sixteenth.”

  Hercule Poirot raised his eyebrows.

  “I congratulate you. Your organization must have been indeed excellent.”

  Emily Carnaby said:

  “Amy was always good at organization. Our father—he was the Vicar of Kellington in Essex—always said that Amy had quite a genius for planning. She always made all the arrangements for the Socials and the Bazaars and all that.”

  Poirot said with a little bow:

  “I agree. As a criminal, Mademoiselle, you are quite in the first rank.”

  Amy Carnaby cried:

  “A criminal. Oh dear, I suppose I am. But—but it never felt like that.”

  “How did it feel?”

  “Of course, you are quite right. It was breaking the law. But you see—how can I explain it? Nearly all these women who employ us are so very rude and unpleasant. Lady Hoggin, for instance, doesn’t mind what she says to me. She said her tonic tasted unpleasant the other day and practically accused me of tampering with it. All that sort of thing.” Miss Carnaby flushed. “It’s really very unpleasant. And not being able to say anything or answer back makes it rankle more, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Hercule Poirot.

  “And then seeing money frittered away so wastefully—that is upsetting. And Sir Joseph, occasionally he used to describe a coup he had made in the City—sometimes something that seemed to me (of course, I know I’ve only got a woman’s brain and don’t understand finance) downright dishonest. Well, you know, M. Poirot, it all—it all unsettled me, and I felt that to take a little money away from these people who really wouldn’t miss it and hadn’t been too scrupulous in acquiring it—well, really it hardly seemed wrong at all.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “A modern Robin Hood! Tell me, Miss Carnaby, did you ever have to carry out the threats you used in your letters?”

  “Threats?”

  “Were you ever compelled to mutilate the animals in the way you specified?”

  Miss Carnaby regarded him in horror.

  “Of course, I would never have dreamed of doing such a thing! That was just—just an artistic touch.”

  “Very artistic. It worked.”

  “Well, of course I knew it would. I know how I should have felt about Augustus, and of course I had to make sure these women never told their husbands until afterwards. The plan worked beautifully every time. In nine cases out of ten the companion was given the letter with the money to post. We usually steamed it open, took out the notes, and replaced them with paper. Once or twice the woman posted it herself. Then, of course, the companion had to go to the hotel and take the letter out of the rack. But that was quite easy, too.”

  “And the nursemaid touch? Was it always a nursemaid?”

  “Well, you see, M. Poirot, old maids are known to be foolishly sentimental about babies. So it seemed quite natural that they should be absorbed over a baby and not notice anything.”

  Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:

  “Your psychology is excellent, your organization is first class, and you are also a very fine actress. Your performance the other day when I interviewed Lady Hoggin was irreproachable. Never think of yourself disparagingly, Miss Carnaby. You may be what is termed an untrained woman but there is nothing wrong with your brains or with your courage.”

  Miss Carnaby said with a faint smile:

  “And yet I have been found out, M. Poirot.”

  “Only by me. That was inevitable! When I had interviewed Mrs. Samuelson I realized that the kidnapping of Shan Tung was one of a series. I had already learned that you had once been left a Pekinese dog and had an invalid sister. I had only to ask my invaluable servant to look for a small flat within a certain radius occupied by an invalid lady who had a Pekinese dog and a sister who visited her once a week on her day out. It was simple.”

  Amy Carnaby drew herself up. She said:

  “You have been very kind. It emboldens me to ask you a favour. I cannot, I know, escape the penalty for what I have done. I shall be sent to prison, I suppose. But if you could, M. Poirot, avert some of the publicity. So distressing for Emily—and for those few who knew us in the old days. I could not, I suppose, go to prison under a false name? Or is that a very wrong thing to ask?”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “I think I can do more than that. But first of all I must make one thing quite clear. This ramp has got to stop. There must be no more disappearing dogs. All that is finished!”

  “Yes! Oh yes!”

  “And the money you extracted from Lady Hoggin must be returned.”

  Amy Carnaby crossed the room, opened the drawer of a bureau and returned with a packet of notes which she handed to Poirot.

  “I was going to pay it into the pool today.”

  Poirot took the notes and counted
them. He got up.

  “I think it possible, Miss Carnaby, that I may be able to persuade Sir Joseph not to prosecute.”

  “Oh, M. Poirot!”

  Amy Carnaby clasped her hands. Emily gave a cry of joy. Augustus barked and wagged his tail.

  “As for you, mon ami,” said Poirot addressing him. “There is one thing that I wish you would give me. It is your mantle of invisibility that I need. In all these cases nobody for a moment suspected that there was a second dog involved. Augustus possessed the lion’s skin of invisibility.”

  “Of course, M. Poirot, according to the legend, Pekinese were lions once. And they still have the hearts of lions!”

  “Augustus is, I suppose, the dog that was left to you by Lady Hartingfield and who is reported to have died? Were you never afraid of him coming home alone through the traffic?”

  “Oh no, M. Poirot, Augustus is very clever about traffic. I have trained him most carefully. He has even grasped the principle of One Way Streets.”

  “In that case,” said Hercule Poirot, “he is superior to most human beings!”

  VIII

  Sir Joseph received Hercule Poirot in his study. He said:

  “Well, Mr. Poirot? Made your boast good?”

  “Let me first ask you a question,” said Poirot as he seated himself. “I know who the criminal is and I think it possible that I can produce sufficient evidence to convict this person. But in that case I doubt if you will ever recover your money.”

  “Not get back my money?”

  Sir Joseph turned purple.

  Hercule Poirot went on:

  “But I am not a policeman. I am acting in this case solely in your interests. I could, I think, recover your money intact, if no proceedings were taken.”

  “Eh?” said Sir Joseph. “That needs a bit of thinking about.”

  “It is entirely for you to decide. Strictly speaking, I suppose you ought to prosecute in the public interest. Most people would say so.”

  “I dare say they would,” said Sir Joseph sharply. “It wouldn’t be their money that had gone west. If there’s one thing I hate it’s to be swindled. Nobody’s ever swindled me and got away

  with it.”

  “Well then, what do you decide?”

  Sir Joseph hit the table with his fist.

  “I’ll have the brass! Nobody’s going to say they got away with two hundred pounds of my money.”