appeal. Hercule Poirot came to his aid.
He said gently, "Yes? What is it you want to ask me?"
The words came with a rush now.
"I'm afraid you may think it's awful cheek of me, sir.
.But your coming here by chance like this-well, it's too good to be
missed. Having read about you and the clever things you've done.
Anyway, I said as after all I might as well ask you. There's no harm in
asking, is there?"
Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said, "You want my help in some way?"
The other nodded. He said, his voice husky and embarrassed, "It's-it's
about a young lady. If-if you could find her for me."
"Find her? Has she disappeared, then?"
"That's right, sir."
Hercule Poirot sat up in his chair.
He said sharply, "I could help you, perhaps, yes. But the proper people
for you to go to are the police. It is their job and they have far more
resources at their disposal than I have."
The boy shuffled his feet.
He said awkwardly, "Icouldn't do that, sir. It's not like that at all.
It's all rather peculiar, so to speak."
Hercule Poirot stared at him. Then he indicated a chair.
"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 dotlike 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 Ceorge Sanderfield, it does. He uses it in the
summertime for week-ends and parties-rather a gay lot he has down as a
rule. Actresses and that. Well, it was in last Junc-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 alll 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 afterward I plucked up courage and I got to see
this Marie again and asked her to L'et me Nita's address. I didn't let
on to her that I didn't e7en 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 color 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."
Po,ot looked at him thoughtfully.
He murmui,e(l, "And if what you suggest is true-you still want to find
lier?"
The color surged up in Ted Williamsoil's face.
He said, "Yes, I (lo, and that's flatl I want to marry her if she'll
have me. And that's no matter what kind of a jam she's inl If you'll
only try and find her for me, sir?"
Hercule Poirot smiled. He said to himself, "Hair like wings of gold."
Yes, I think this i
s the third Labor of Hercules. If I reme-enber
rightly, that happened in Arcady.
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, N.15.
He wondered if he would learn anything at that address. Somehow he
fancied not. But it was the only help Ted could give him.
Seventeen 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 c;tn give me, perhaps, her address?"
"('oulctn't say, ll stire. She didn't leave one."
"Wlien did she go away?"
"Last summer it was."
"Can you tell me exactly when?"
A clinking 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 third 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 ri lit. Madame Semoulina or some such name.
Danced at tge 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 dust upl But mind you, Miss Valetta
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 moodsl"
"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 isl" Poirot
said to himself thoughtfully, Yes, there it is.
Ambrose Vandel, diverted from his enthusiastic account of the ddcor he
was designing for a forthcoming ballet, supplied information easily
enoll"il.
"Satiderfield? George Sa(terfield? Nasty fellow. Rolling in money but
they say he's a crook. Dark horsel 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 ddcorl And that other thing
of Debussy, or is it Mannine, 'La Biche all Bois'? She danced it with
Michael Novgin. He's so marvelous, isn't he?"
"And she was a friend of Sir George Sanderfield?"
"Yes, she used to week-end with him at Is house on .the rivet-.
Niarvelous parties I believe lie gives."
"WoLil(i it be possible, mon clier, for you to introduce me to
inizidemoiselle Saniousheka?"
"But, my dear, she isn't here any longer. Slie 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 thingl
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 Bathshei-)a you've got to steep yourself in the Semitic
tradition. I expi-ess it by-"
He continued happily.
7I'he interview that Hercule Poirot managed to arrange with Sir George
San(lerfield did not start too ausl)iciotisly.
'I'lie "(lark horse," as Ambrose Vandel had called him, was slightly ill
at ease. Sir George was a short square man with clai-k coarse hair and
a roll of fat in his neck.
He s;(l, "Well, M. Poirot, what can I do for you? Erwe hztve't inet
before, I think?"
"No, &%,e have not met."
"Well, what is it? I confess, I'm quite etirios."
"Oh, it is vei-y simple-a mere matter of information."
Thie otliei- 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 It's affaires. It is a question of a certain
lady."
"Oh, a woman." Sir George Sanderfield leaned 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 it is not Mademoiselle Samoushenka that I am anxious
to trace."
"It isn't?"
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 reniember her name. Let me see, Marie something or other-no,
I'm afraid I can't help you to get hold of lier. Sorry."
Poirot said gently, "I have already got the name of
Marie Hellin from the Thespian Theater-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 uly."
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.
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 July. Her former maid had departed in a
hurry."
"Did you ever hear why that maid left?"
"She went-suddenly-that is all I knowl It may have beun
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. Soitietimes
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?
Thie 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.
"I always say you know everything, Alexis Pavlovitch."
Hercule Poirot murmured the words'with his most flattering intonation.
He was reflecting to himself that this third Labor of Hercules had
necessitated more traveling 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 knowl always know. You ask me where she is
gone-the little Samoushenka, the exquisite dancer? Ahl she was the'real
thing, that little one." He kissed his finger tips. "What fire-what
abandonl She would have gone far-she would have been the Premisre
Ballerina of her day-and then suddenly it all ends-she creeps away-to
the end of the world-and soon, ahl so soozi, they forget her."
"Where is she then?" demanded Poirot.
"In Switzerland. At Vagray It's 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 diel 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."
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.
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 7