eight or ten pieces of considerable value were stolen, including the
goblet."
"What was done in the matter?"
Power shrugged his shoulders. "The police, of course, took the matter
in hand. The robbery was recognized to be the work of a well-known
international gang of thieves.
Two of their number, a Frenchman called Dublay and an Italian called
Riccovetti, were caught and tried-sotne of the stolen goods were found
in their possession."
"But not the Borgia goblet?"
"But not the Borgia goblet. There were, as far as the police could
ascertain, three men actually engaged in the robber -the two I have just
mentioned and a third, an .y Irishman named Patrick Casey. This last
was an expert cat burglar. It was he who is said to have actually
stolen the things. Dublay was the brains of the group and planned their
coups; Riccovetti drove the car and waited below for the goods to be
lowered down to him."
"And the stolen goods? Were they split up into three parts?"
"Possibly. On the other hand, the articles that were recovered were
those of least value. It seems possible that the more noteworthy and
spectacular pieces had been hastily smuggled out of the country."
"What about the third man, Casey? Was he never brought to justice?"
"Not in the sense you mean. He was not a very young man. His muscles
were stiffer than formerly. Two weeks later he fell from the fifth
floor of a building and was killed instantly."
"Where was this?"
"In Paris. He was attempting to rob the house of the millionaire
banker, Duvauglier."
"And the goblet has never been seen since?"
"Exactly."
"It has never been offered for sale?"
"I am quite sure it has not. I may say that not only the police, but
also private inquiry agents, have been on the lookout for it."
"What about the money you had paid over?"
"The Marchese, a very punctilious person, offered to refund it to me, as
the cup had been stolen from his house."
"But you did not accept?"
"No."
"Why was that?"
"Shall we say because I preferred to keep the matter in my own hands?"
"You mean that if you had accepted the Marchese's offer, the goblet, if
recovered, wox;ld be his property, whereas now it is legally yours?"
"Exactly."
Poirot asked, "What was there behind that attitude of yours?"
Emery Power said with a smile, "You appreciate that point, I see. Well,
M. Poirot, it is quite simple. I thought I knew who was actually in
possession of the goblet."
"Very interesting. And who was it?"
"Sir Reuben Rosenthal. He was not only a fellow collector but he was at
the time a personal enemy. We had been rivals in several business
deals-and on the whole I had come out the better. Our animosity
culminated in this rivalry over the Borgia goblet. Each of us was
determined to possess it. It was more or less a point of honor. Our
appointed representatives bid against each other at the sale."
"And your representative's final bid secured the treasure?"
"Not precisely. I took the precaution of having a second
agent-ostensibly the representative of a Paris dealer.
Neither of us, you understand, would have been willing to yield to the
other, but to allow a third party to acquire the cup, with the
possibility of approaching that third party quietly af terward-that was
a very different matter."
"In fact, une petite ddception."
"Exactly."
"Which was successful-and immediately afterward 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, nol It would not be so crude as that. It amounted to
this-shortly afterward 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 offerit 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 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 ?he right word.
Hercule Poirot drew himself up. He said coldly, "I do not recognize the
word impossible, Monsieurl I ask myself only-is this affair sufficiently
interesting for me to undertake?"
Eniery 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
notl"
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."
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 powow 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 cachedand the only man who knew
where it was is dead."
"You mean Cas
ey?"
"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 religiousa 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 of 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 surprisedl Sometimes," said Wagstaffe virtuously, "I
think collectors haven't any morals at all."
"Ahl 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?"
"Riccovetti 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."
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 (he 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 traveled
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 thingactionl 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 objectl"
He took from the shelf a file labeled 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 & 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
farther. But not just yet."
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. -I'he 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-gray 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
suspi
cious face, framed in starched white.
There was a distinct mustache 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 apologize for troubling you, ma mdre," he said, "but you hale 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."
I'he 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."
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 a 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, shir, 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 omenl"
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
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 23