The Labours of Hercules Read online

  “Eh bien, then, sit down—what is your name?”

  “Williamson, sir, Ted Williamson.”

  “Sit down, Ted. And tell me all about it.”

  “Thank you sir.” He drew forward the chair and sat down carefully on the edge of it. His eyes had still that appealing doglike look.

  Hercule Poirot said gently:

  “Tell me.”

  Ted Williamson drew a deep breath.

  “Well, you see, sir, it was like this. I never saw her but the once. And I don’t know her right name nor anything. But it’s queer like, the whole thing, and my letter coming back and everything.”

  “Start,” said Hercule Poirot, “at the beginning. Do not hurry yourself. Just tell me everything that occurred.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, perhaps you know Grasslawn, sir, that big house down by the river past the bridge?”

  “I know nothing at all.”

  “Belongs to Sir George Sanderfield, it does. He uses it in the summertime for weekends and parties—rather a gay lot he has down as a rule. Actresses and that. Well, it was last June—and the wireless was out of order and they sent me up to see to it.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “So I went along. The gentleman was out on the river with his guests and the cook was out and his manservant had gone along to serve the drinks and all that on the launch. There was only this girl in the house—she was the lady’s maid to one of the guests. She let me in and showed me where the set was, and stayed there while I was working on it. And so we got to talking and all that . . . Nita her name was, so she told me, and she was lady’s maid to a Russian dancer who was staying there.”

  “What nationality was she, English?”

  “No, sir, she’d be French, I think. She’d a funny sort of accent. But she spoke English all right. She—she was friendly and after a bit I asked her if she could come out that night and go to the pictures, but she said her lady would be needing her. But then she said as how she could get off early in the afternoon because as how they wasn’t going to be back off the river till late. So the long and the short of it was that I took the afternoon off without asking (and nearly got the sack for it too) and we went for a walk along by the river.”

  He paused. A little smile hovered on his lips. His eyes were dreamy. Poirot said gently:

  “And she was pretty, yes?”

  “She was just the loveliest thing you ever saw. Her hair was like gold—it went up each side like wings—and she had a gay kind of way of tripping along. I—I—well, I fell for her right away, sir. I’m not pretending anything else.”

  Poirot nodded. The young man went on:

  “She said as how her lady would be coming down again in a fortnight and we fixed up to meet again then.” He paused. “But she never came. I waited for her at the spot she’d said, but not a sign of her, and at last I made bold to go up to the house and ask for her. The Russian lady was staying there all right and her maid too, they said. Sent for her, they did, but when she came, why, it wasn’t Nita at all! Just a dark catty-looking girl—a bold lot if there ever was one. Marie, they called her. “You want to see me?” she says, simpering all over. She must have seen I was took aback. I said was she the Russian lady’s maid and something about her not being the one I’d seen before, and then she laughed and said that the last maid had been sent away sudden. “Sent away?” I said. “What for?” She sort of shrugged her shoulders and stretched out her hands. “How should I know?” she said. “I was not

  there.”

  “Well, sir, it took me aback. At the moment I couldn’t think of anything to say. But afterwards I plucked up the courage and I got to see this Marie again and asked her to get me Nita’s address. I didn’t let on to her that I didn’t even know Nita’s last name. I promised her a present if she did what I asked—she was the kind as wouldn’t do anything for you for nothing. Well, she got it all right for me—an address in North London, it was, and I wrote to Nita there—but the letter came back after a bit—sent back through the post office with no longer at this address scrawled on it.”

  Ted Williamson stopped. His eyes, those deep blue steady eyes, looked across at Poirot. He said:

  “You see how it is, sir? It’s not a case for the police. But I want to find her. And I don’t know how to set about it. If—if you could find her for me.” His colour deepened. “I’ve—I’ve a bit put by. I could manage five pounds—or even ten.”

  Poirot said gently:

  “We need not discuss the financial side for the moment. First reflect on this point—this girl, this Nita—she knew your name and where you worked?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “She could have communicated with you if she had wanted to?”

  Ted said more slowly:

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then do you not think—perhaps—”

  Ted Williamson interrupted him.

  “What you’re meaning, sir, is that I fell for her but she didn’t fall for me? Maybe that’s true in a way . . . But she liked me—she did like me—it wasn’t just a bit of fun to her . . . And I’ve been thinking, sir, as there might be a reason for all this. You see, sir, it was a funny crowd she was mixed up in. She might be in a bit of trouble, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean she might have been going to have a child? Your child?”

  “Not mine, sir.” Ted flushed. “There wasn’t nothing wrong between us.”

  Poirot looked at him thoughtfully. He murmured:

  “And if what you suggest is true—you still want to find her?”

  The colour surged up in Ted Williamson’s face. He said:

  “Yes, I do, and that’s flat! I want to marry her if she’ll have me. And that’s no matter what kind of a jam she’s in! If you’ll only try and find her for me, sir?”

  Hercule Poirot smiled. He said, murmuring to himself:

  “ ‘Hair like wings of gold.’ Yes, I think this is the third Labor of Hercules . . . If I remember rightly, that happened in Arcady. . . .”

  II

  Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the sheet of paper on which Ted Williamson had laboriously inscribed a name and address.

  Miss Valetta, 17 Upper Renfrew Lane, N15.

  He wondered if he would learn anything at that address. Somehow he fancied not. But it was the only help Ted could give him.

  No. 17 Upper Renfrew Lane was a dingy but respectable street. A stout woman with bleary eyes opened the door to Poirot’s knock.

  “Miss Valetta?”

  “Gone away a long time ago, she has.”

  Poirot advanced a step into the doorway just as the door was about to close.

  “You can give me, perhaps, her address?”

  “Couldn’t say, I’m sure. She didn’t leave one.”

  “When did she go away?”

  “Last summer it was.”

  “Can you tell me exactly when?”

  A gentle clicking noise came from Poirot’s right hand where two half crowns jostled each other in friendly fashion.

  The bleary-eyed woman softened in an almost magical manner. She became graciousness itself.

  “Well, I’m sure I’d like to help you, sir. Let me see now. August, no, before that—July—yes, July it must have been. About the first week in July. Went off in a hurry, she did. Back to Italy, I

  believe.”

  “She was an Italian, then?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “And she was at one time lady’s maid to a Russian dancer, was she not?”

  “That’s right. Madame Semoulina or some such name. Danced at the Thespian in this Bally everyone’s so wild about. One of the stars, she was.”

  Poirot said:

  “Do you know why Miss Valetta left her post?”

  The woman hesitated a moment before saying:

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure.”

  “She was dismissed, was she not?”

  “Well—I believe there was a bit of a dustup! But mind you, Miss Val
etta didn’t let on much about it. She wasn’t one to give things away. But she looked wild about it. Wicked temper she had—real Eyetalian—her black eyes all snapping and looking as if she’d like to put a knife into you. I wouldn’t have crossed her when she was in one of her moods!”

  “And you are quite sure you do not know Miss Valetta’s present address?”

  The half crowns clinked again encouragingly.

  The answer rang true enough.

  “I wish I did, sir. I’d be only too glad to tell you. But there—she went off in a hurry and there it is!”

  Poirot said to himself thoughtfully:

  “Yes, there it is. . . .”

  III

  Ambrose Vandel, diverted from his enthusiastic account of the décor he was designing for a forthcoming ballet, supplied information easily enough.

  “Sanderfield? George Sanderfield? Nasty fellow. Rolling in money but they say he’s a crook. Dark horse! Affair with a dancer? But of course, my dear—he had an affair with Katrina. Katrina Samoushenka. You must have seen her? Oh, my dear—too delicious. Lovely technique. The Swan of Tuolela—you must have seen that? My décor! And that other thing of Debussy or is it Mannine ‘La Biche au Bois?’ She danced it with Michael Novgin. He’s so marvellous, isn’t he?”

  “And she was a friend of Sir George Sanderfield?”

  “Yes, she used to weekend with him at his house on the river. Marvellous parties I believe he gives.”

  “Would it be possible, mon cher, for you to introduce me to Mademoiselle Samoushenka?”

  “But, my dear, she isn’t here any longer. She went to Paris or somewhere quite suddenly. You know, they do say that she was a Bolshevik spy or something—not that I believed it myself—you know people love saying things like that. Katrina always pretended that she was a White Russian—her father was a Prince or a Grand Duke—the usual thing! It goes down so much better.” Vandel paused and returned to the absorbing subject of himself. “Now as I was saying, if you want to get the spirit of Bathsheba you’ve got to steep yourself in the Semitic tradition. I express

  it by—”

  He continued happily.

  IV

  The interview that Hercule Poirot managed to arrange with Sir George Sanderfield did not start too auspiciously.

  The “dark horse,” as Ambrose Vandel had called him, was slightly ill at ease. Sir George was a short square man with dark coarse hair and a roll of fat in his neck.

  He said:

  “Well, M. Poirot, what can I do for you? Er—we haven’t met before, I think?”

  “No, we have not met.”

  “Well, what is it? I confess, I’m quite curious.”

  “Oh, it is very simple—a mere matter of information.”

  The other gave an uneasy laugh.

  “Want me to give you some inside dope, eh? Didn’t know you were interested in finance.”

  “It is not a matter of les affaires. It is a question of a certain lady.”

  “Oh, a woman.” Sir George Sanderfield leant back in his armchair. He seemed to relax. His voice held an easier note.

  Poirot said:

  “You were acquainted, I think, with Mademoiselle Katrina Samoushenka?”

  Sanderfield laughed.

  “Yes. An enchanting creature. Pity she’s left London.”

  “Why did she leave London?”

  “My dear fellow, I don’t know. Row with the management, I believe. She was temperamental, you know—very Russian in her moods. I’m sorry that I can’t help you but I haven’t the least idea where she is now. I haven’t kept up with her at all.”

  There was a note of dismissal in his voice as he rose to his feet.

  Poirot said:

  “But is not Mademoiselle Samoushenka that I am anxious to trace.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it is a question of her maid.”

  “Her maid?” Sanderfield stared at him.

  Poirot said:

  “Do you—perhaps—remember her maid?”

  All Sanderfield’s uneasiness had returned. He said awkwardly:

  “Good Lord, no, how should I? I remember she had one, of course . . . Bit of a bad lot, too, I should say. Sneaking, prying sort of girl. If I were you I shouldn’t put any faith in a word that girl says. She’s the kind of girl who’s a born liar.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “So actually, you remember quite a lot about her?”

  Sanderfield said hastily:

  “Just an impression, that’s all . . . Don’t even remember her name. Let me see, Marie something or other—no, I’m afraid I can’t help you to get hold of her. Sorry.”

  Poirot said gently:

  “I have already got the name of Marie Hellin from the Thespian Theatre—and her address. But I am speaking, Sir George, of the maid who was with Mademoiselle Samoushenka before Marie Hellin. I am speaking of Nita Valetta.”

  Sanderfield stared. He said:

  “Don’t remember her at all. Marie’s the only one I remember. Little dark girl with a nasty look in her eye.”

  Poirot said:

  “The girl I mean was at your house Grasslawn last June.”

  Sanderfield said sulkily:

  “Well, all I can say is I don’t remember her. Don’t believe she had a maid with her. I think you’re making a mistake.”

  Hercule Poirot shook his head. He did not think he was making a mistake.

  V

  Marie Hellin looked swiftly at Poirot out of small intelligent eyes and as swiftly looked away again. She said in smooth, even tones:

  “But I remember perfectly, Monsieur. I was engaged by Madame Samoushenka the last week in June. Her former maid had departed in a hurry.”

  “Did you ever hear why that maid left?”

  “She went—suddenly—that is all I know! It may have been illness—something of that kind. Madame did not say.”

  Poirot said:

  “Did you find your mistress easy to get on with?”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  “She had great moods. She wept and laughed in turns. Sometimes she was so despondent she would not speak or eat. Sometimes she was wildly gay. They are like that, these dancers. It is temperament.”

  “And Sir George?”

  The girl looked up alertly. An unpleasant gleam came into her eyes.

  “Ah, Sir George Sanderfield? You would like to know about him? Perhaps it is that that you really want to know? The other was only an excuse, eh? Ah, Sir George, I could tell you some curious things about him, I could tell you—”

  Poirot interrupted:

  “It is not necessary.”

  She stared at him, her mouth open. Angry disappointment showed in her eyes.

  VI

  “I always say you know everything, Alexis Pavlovitch.”

  Hercule Poirot murmured the words with his most flattering intonation.

  He was reflecting to himself that his third Labor of Hercules had necessitated more travelling and more interviews than could have been imagined possible. This little matter of a missing lady’s maid was proving one of the longest and most difficult problems he had ever tackled. Every clue, when examined, led exactly nowhere.

  It had brought him this evening to the Samovar Restaurant in Paris whose proprietor, Count Alexis Pavlovitch, prided himself on knowing everything that went on in the artistic world.

  He nodded now complacently:

  “Yes, yes, my friend, I know—I always know. You ask me where she is gone—the little Samoushenka, the exquisite dancer? Ah! she was the real thing, that little one.” He kissed his fingertips. “What fire—what abandon! She would have gone far—she would have been the Première Ballerina of her day—and then suddenly it all ends—she creeps away—to the end of the world—and soon, ah! so soon, they forget her.”

  “Where is she then?” demanded Poirot.

  “In Switzerland. At Vagray les Alpes. It is there that they go, those who have the little dry cough and
who grow thinner and thinner. She will die, yes, she will die! She has a fatalistic nature. She will surely die.”

  Poirot coughed to break the tragic spell. He wanted information.

  “You do not, by chance, remember a maid she had? A maid called Nita Valetta?”

  “Valetta? Valetta? I remember seeing a maid once—at the station when I was seeing Katrina off to London. She was an Italian from Pisa, was she not? Yes, I am sure she was an Italian who came from Pisa.”

  Hercule Poirot groaned.

  “In that case,” he said, “I must now journey to Pisa.”

  VII

  Hercule Poirot stood in the Campo Santo at Pisa and looked down on a grave.

  So it was here that his quest had come to an end—here by this humble mound of earth. Underneath it lay the joyous creature who had stirred the heart and imagination of a simple English mechanic.

  Was this perhaps the best end to that sudden strange romance? Now the girl would live always in the young man’s memory as he had seen her for those few enchanted hours of a June afternoon. The clash of opposing nationalities, of different standards, the pain of disillusionment, all that was ruled out for ever.

  Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. His mind went back to his conversation with the Valetta family. The mother, with her broad peasant face, the upright grief-stricken father, the dark hard-lipped sister.

  “It was sudden, Signor, it was very sudden. Though for many years she had had pains on and off . . . The doctor gave us no choice—he said there must be an operation immediately for the appendicitis. He took her off to the hospital then and there . . . Si, si, it was under the anæsthetic she died. She never recovered consciousness.”

  The mother sniffed, murmuring:

  “Bianca was always such a clever girl. It is terrible that she should have died so young. . . .”

  Hercule Poirot repeated to himself:

  “She died young. . . .”

  That was the message he must take back to the young man who had asked his help so confidingly.

  “She is not for you, my friend. She died young.”

  His quest had ended—here where the leaning Tower was silhouetted against the sky and the first spring flowers were showing pale and creamy with their promise of life and joy to come.

  Was it the stirring of spring that made him feel so rebelliously disinclined to accept this final verdict? Or was it something else? Something stirring at the back of his brain—words—a phrase—a name? Did not the whole thing finish too neatly—dovetail too obviously?