Ni. 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."
.,l dare say they would," said Sir Joseph dryly. "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 brassl Nobod s going to say they got away
y
with two hundred pounds of my money."
Hercule Poirot rose, crossed to the writing-table, wrote out a check for
two hundred pounds, and handed it to the other man.
Sir Joseph said in a weak voice, "Well, I'm damnedl Who the devil is
this fellow?"
Poirot shook his head. "If you accept the money, there must be no
questions asked."
Mir Joseph folded up the check and put it in his pocket.
Tfiat's-a pity. But the money's the -thing. And what do
I owe you, M. Poirot?"
"My fees will not be high. This was, as I said, a very unimportant
matter." He paused-and added, "Nowadays nearly all my cases are murder
cases."
Sir Joseph started slightly. "Must be interesting?" he said.
"Sometimes. Curiously enough, you recall to me one of
my early cases in Belgium, many years ago-the chief protagonist was very
like you in appearance. He was a wealthy soap manufacturer. He
poisoned his wife in order to be free to marry his secretary. Yes-the
resemblance is very remarkable."
A faint sound came from Sir Joseph's lips-they had gone a queer blue
color. All the ruddy hue had faded from his cheeks. His eyes, starting
out of his head, stared at Poirot. He slipped down a little in his
chair.
Then, with a shaking hand, he fumbled in his pocket.
He drew out the check and tore it into pieces.
"That's washed out-see? Consider it as your fee."
"Oh, but, Sir Joseph, my fee would not have been as large as that."
"That's all right. You keep it."
"I shall send it to a deserving charity."
"Send it anywhere you damn well like."
Poirot leaned forward. He said, "Ithink I need hardly point out, Sir
Joseph, that in your position, you would do well to be exceedingly
careful."
Sir Joseph said, his voice almost inaudible, "You needn't worry. I
shall be careful all right."
Hercule Poirot left the house. As he went down the steps he said to
himself: So-I was right.
Lady Hoggin said to her husband, "Funny, this tonic tastes quite
different. It hasn't got that bitter taste any more. I wonder why?"
Sir Joseph growled, "Chemist. Careless fellows. Make things ul)
differently different times."
Lady Hoggin said doubtfully, "I suppose that must be it."
"Of course it is. What else could it be?"
"Has the man found out anything about Shan Tung?"
"Yes. He got me my money back all right."
"Who was it?"
"He didn't say. Very close fellow, Hercule Poirot. But you needn't
worry."
"He's a funny little man, isn't he?"
Sir Joseph gave a slight shiver and threw a sideways glance upward as
though he felt the invisible presence of Hercule Poirot behind his right
shoulder. He had an idea that he would always feel it there.
He said, "He's a damned clever little devill"
And he thought to himself, Greta can go hang! Fm not going to risk my
neck for any damned platinum blonde!
"Oh!"
Anly Carnaby gazed down incredulously at the check for two hundred
pounds. She cried, "Emilyl Emily! Listen to this:
"Dear Miss Carnaby,
Allow me to enclose a contribution to your very deserving fund before it
is finally wound up.
Yours very truly,
Hercule Poirot."
"Amy," said Emily Carnaby, "you've been incredibly lucky. Think where
you might be now."
"Wormwood Scrubbs-or is it Holloway?" murmured Amy Carnaby. "But that's
all over now-isn't it, Augustus?
No more walks to the park with mother or mother's friends and a little
pair of scissors."
A faraway wistfulness came into her eyes. She sighed.
"Dear Augustusl It seems a pity. He's so clever. One can teach him
anything."
HERCULE POIROT LOOKED ENCOURAGINGLY at the man seated opposite him.
Dr. Charles Oldfield was a man of perhaps forty. He had fair hair
slightly gray at the temples and blue eyes that held a worried
expression. He stooped a little and his manner was a trifle hesitant.
Moreover, he seemed to find difficulty in coming to the point.
He said, stammering slightly, "I've come to you, M. Poirot, with rather
an odd request. And now that I'm here, I'm inclined to funk the whole
thing. Because, as I see very well now, it's the sort of thing that no
one can possibly do anything about."
Hercule Poirot murmured, "As to that, you must let me judge."
Oldfield muttered, "I don't know why I thought that perhaps-"
He broke off.
Hercule Poirot finished the sentence.
"That perhaps I could help you? Eh bien, perhaps I can.
Tell me jour jroblem."
Oldfiefd straightened himself. Poirot noted anew how haggard the man
looked.
Oldfield said, and his voice had a note of hopelessness in it, "You see,
it isn't any good going to the police. They can't do anything. And
yet-every day it's getting worse and worse. H don't know what to do."
::What is getting worse?"
The rumors. Oh, it's quite simple, M. Poirot. just a little over a
year ago, my wife died. She had been an invalid for some years. They
are saying, everyone is saying, that I killed her-that I poisoned herl"
"Aha," said Poirot. "And did you poison her?"
"M. Poirotl" Dr. Oldfield sprang to his feet.
"Calm yourself," said Hercule Poirot. "And sit down again. We will
take it, then, that you did not poison your wife. But your practice, I
imagine, is situated in a country district-"
"Yes. Market Loughborough-in Berkshire. I have always realized that it
was the kind of place where people gossiped a good deal, but I never
imagined that it could reach the lengths it has done." He drew his chair
a little forward. "M. Poirot, you have-no idea of what I have gone
through. At first I had no inkling of what was going on. I did notice
that people seemed less friendly, that there was a tendency to avoid
me-but I put it down to-to the fact of my recent bereavement. Then it
became more marked. In the street, even, people will cross the road to
avoid speaking to me. My practice is falling off. Wherever I go I am
conscious of lowered voices, of unfriendly eyes that watch me while
malicious tongues whisper their deadly poison.
I have had one or two letters-vile things."
He paused-and then went on:
"And-and I don't know what to do about it. I don't know how to fight
this-this vile network of lies and suspicion. How can you refute what
is never said openly to your face? I am powerless-trapped-and slowly
mercilessly being destroyed."
Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully.
He said, "Yes. Rumor is indeed the nine-headed Hydra of Lernea which
cannot be exterminated because as fast as one head is cropped off two
grow in its place."
Dr. Oldfield said, "That's just it. There's nothing I can do-nothingl
I came to you as a last resort-but I don't suppose for a minute that
there is anything you can do either."
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said, "I am not
so sure. Your problem interests me, Dr. Oldfield. -I should like to
try my hand at destroying the many-headed monster. First of all, tell
me a little more about the circumstances which gave rise to this
malicious gossip. Your wife died, you say, just over a year ago. What
was the cause of death?"
'Gastric ulcer."
'Was there an autopsy?"
"No. She had been suffering from gastric trouble over a considerable
period."
Poirot nodded. "And the symptoms of L'astric inflammation and of
arsenical poisonini are clo;ely alike-a fact which everybody knows
nowadays. Within the last ten years there have been at least four
sensational murder cases in each of which the victim has been buried
without suspicion with a certificate of gastric disorder. Was your wife
older or younger than yourself?"
::She was five years older."
How long had you been married?"
:'Fifteen years."
'Did she leave any property?"
"Yes. She was a fairly well-to-do woman. She left, roughly, about
thirty thousand pounds."
"A very useful sum. It was left to you?"
'Yes."
"Were you and your wife on good terms?"
:'Certainly."
,:No quarrels? No scenes?"
Well-" Charles Oldfield hesitated. "My wife was wl;at might be termed a
difficult woman. She was an invalid and very concerned over her health
and inclined, therefore, to be fretful and difficult to please. There
were days when nothing I could do was right."
Poirot nodded. He said, "Ah, yes, I know the type. She would complain,
possibly, that she was neglected, unappreciated-that her husband was
tired of her and would be glad when she was dead."
Oldfield's face registered the truth of Poirot's surmise.
He said with a wry smile, "You've got it exactlyl"
Poirot went on: "Did she have a hospital nurse to attend on her? Or a
companion? Or a devoted maid?"
"A nurse companion. A very sensible and competent woman. I really
don't think she would talk."
"Ikven the sensible and the competent have been given
tongues by le bon Diets-and they do not always employ their tongues
wisely. I have no doubt that the nurse companion talked, that the
servants talked, that everyone talkedl You have all the materials there
for the starting of a very enjoyable village scandal. Now I will ask
you one thing more. Who is the lady?"
"I don't understand." Dr. Oldfield flushed angrily.
Poirot said gently, "I think you do. I am asking you who the lady is
with whom your name has been coupled."
Dr. Oldfield rose to his feet. His face was stiff and cold.
He said, "There is no 'lady in the case." I'm sorry, M.
Poirot, to have taken up so much of your time."
He went toward the door.
Hercule Poirot said, "I regret it also. Your case interests me. I
would like to have helped you. But I cannot do anything unless I am
told the whole truth."
"I have told you the truth."
"No."
Dr. Oldfield stopped. He wheeled round.
"Why do you insist that there is a woman concerned in this?"
"Mon cher docteurl Do you not think I know the female mentality? The
village gossip, it is based always, always on the relations of the
sexes. If a man poisons his wife in order to travel to the North Pole
or to enjoy the peace of a bachelor existence-it would not interest his
fellow villagers for a minutel It is because they are convinced that the
murder has been committed in order that the man may marry another woman
that the talk grows and spreads.
That is elemental psychology."
Oldfield said irritably, "I'm not responsible for what a pack of damned
gossiping busybodies thinkl"
"Of course you are not." Poirot went on: "So you might as well come back
and sit down and give me the answer to the question I asked you just
now."
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Oldfield came back and resumed his seat.
He said, coloring up to his eyebrows, "I suppose it's possible that
they've been saying things about Miss Moncricffe. jean Moncrieffe is my
dispenser, a very fine girl indeed."
"How long has she worked for you?"
"For three years."
"Did your wife like her?"
"Er-well, no, not exactly."
"She was jealous?"
"It was absurdl"
Poirot smiled. He said, "The jealousy of wives is proverbial. But I
will tell you something. In my experience jealousy, however farfetched
and extravagant it may seem, is nearly always based on reality. There
is a saying, is there not, that the customer is always right? Well, the
same is true of the jealous husband or wife. However little concrete
evidence there may be, fundamentally they are always right."
Dr. Oldfield said robustly, "Nonsense. I've never said anything to
jean Moncrieffe that my wife couldn't have overheard."
"That, perhaps. But it does not alter the truth of what I said."
Hercule Poirot leaned forward. His voice was urgent, compelling. "Dr.
Oldfield, I am going to do my utmost in this case. But I must have from
you the most absolute frankness without regard to conventional
appearances or to your own feelings. It is true, i's it not, that you
had ceased to care for your wife for some time before she died?"
Oldfield was silent for a minute or two. Then he said, "This business
is killing me. I must have hope. Somehow or other I feel that you will
be able to do something for me. I will be honest with you, M. Poirot.
I did not care deeply for my wife. I made her, I think, a good husband,
but I was never really in love with her."
"And this girl, jean?"
The perspiration came out in a fine dew on the doctor's forehead.
He said, "I- I should have asked her to marry me before now if it
weren't for all this scandal and talk."
Poirot sat back in
his chair.
He said, "Now at last we have come to the true factsl Eh bien, Dr.
Oldfield, I will take up your case. But rememher this-it is the truth
that I shall seek out."
Oldfield said bitterly, "It isn't the truth that's going to hurt mel"
He hesitated and said, "You know, I've contemplated the possibility of
an -action for slanderl If I could pin anyone down to a definite
accusation-surely then I should be vindicated? At least, sometimes I
think so. At other times I think it would only make things worse-give
bigger publicity to the whole thing and have people saying: 'It may't
have been proved but there's no smoke without fire."'
He looked at Poirot.
"Tell me honestly, is there any way out of this nightmare?"
"There is always a way," said Hercule Poirot.
"We are going into the country, Georges," said Hercule Poirot to his
valet.
"Indeed, sir?" said the impertu' rhable George.
"And the purpose of our journey is to destroy a monster with nine
heads."
"Really, sir? Something after the style of the Loch Ness Monster?"
"Less tangible than that. I did not refer to a flesh and blood animal,
Georges."
"I misunderstood you, sir."
"It would be easier if it were one. There is nothing so intangible, so
difficult to pin down, as the source of a rumor."
"Oh, yes, indeed, sir. It's difficult to know how a thing starts
sometimes."
"Exactly."
Hercule Poirot did not put up at Dr. Oldfield's house.
He went instead to the local inn. The morning after his arrival, he had
his first interview with jean Moncrieffe.
She was a tall girl with copper-colored hair and steady blue eyes. She
had about her a watchful look, as of one who is upon her guard.
She said, "So Dr. Oldfield did 90 to you. I knew he was thinking about
it."
There was a lack of enthusiasm in her tone.
Poirot said, "And you did not approve?"
Her eyes met his. She said coldly, "What can you do?"
Poirot said quietly, "There might be a way of tackling the situation."
"What way?" She threw the words at him scornfully.
"Do you mean to go round to all the whispering ofd women and say:
'Really, please, you must stop talking like this. It's so bad for poor
Dr. Oldfield. And they'd answer you and say: 'Of course, I have never
believed the storyl' That's the worst of the whole thing-they don't say:
'My dear, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps Mrs. Oldfield's death
wasn't quite what it seemed?" No, they say: 'My dear, of course I don't
believe that story about Dr. Oldfield and his wife. I'm sure he
wouldn't do such a thing, though it's true that he did neglect her ust a
little perhaps, and I don't think, really, it's quite wise to have such
a young girl as his dispenser-of course, I'm not saying for a minute
that there was anything wrong between them. Oh, no, I'm sure it was
quite all right. . She stopped. Her face was flushed and her breath
came rather fast.
Hercule Poirot said, "You seem to know very well just what is being
said."
Her mouth closed sharply. She said bitterly, "I know all rightl"
"And what is your solution?"
jean Moncrieffe said, "The best thing for him to do is to sell his
practice and start again somewhere else."
"Don't you think the story might follow him?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"He must risk that."
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 4