neat and well shod. But now, tramping along this stony path, he
realized that there were other shoes....
His companion said suddenly, "Is it the way the priest would be after me
for this? I'll not have a mortal sin upon my conscience."
Hercule Poirot said, "You are only restoring to Caesar the things which
are Caesar's."
They had come to the wall of the convent. Atlas prepared to do his
part.
A groan burst from him and he exclaimed in low, poignant tones that he
was destroyed entirelyl Hercule Poirot spoke with authority.
"Be quiet. It is not the weight of the world that you have to
support-only the weight of Hercule Poirot."
Atlas was turning over two new crisp five-pound notes.
He said hopefully, "Maybe I'll not remember in the morning the way I
earned this. I'm after worrying that Father O'Reilly will be after me."
"Forget everything, my friend. Tomorrow the world is
yours."
"And what'll I put it bn? There's
Atlas murmured, Working Lad, he's a grand horse, a lovely horse he isi
Arid there's Sheila Boyne-7 to I I'd get on her."
He paused.
"Wis it my fancy now or did I hear you mention the name of a heathen
god? Hercules, you said, and glory be to God, there's a Hercules
running in the three-thirty tomorrow."
"My friend," said Hercule Poirot, "put your money on that horse. I tell
you this, Hercules cannot fail."
And it is certainly true that on the following day Mr. Rosslyn's
Hercules very unexpectedly won the Boynan Stakes, starting price 60 to
I.
Deftly Hercule Poirot unwrapped the neatly done up parcel. First the
brown paper, then the wadding, lastly the tissue paper.
On the desk in front of Emery Power he placed a gleaming golden cup.
Chased on it was a tree bearing apples of green emeralds.
The financier drew a deep breath. He said, "I congratulate you, M.
Poirot."
Hercule Poirot bowed.
Emery Power stretched out a hand. He touched the rim of the goblet,
drawing his finger round it.
He said in a deep voice, "Minel" Hercule Poirot agreed. "Yoursl" The
other gave a sigh. He leaned back in his chair He said in a
businesslike voice, "Where did you find it?"
Hercule Poirot said, "I found it on an altar."
Emery Power stared.
Poirot went on: "Casey's daughter was a nun. She was about to take her
final vows at the time of her father's death. She was an ignorant but a
devout girl. The cup was hidden in her father's house in Liverpool. She
took it t . o the convent, wanting, I think, to atone for her father's
sins.
She gave it to be used to the glory of God. I do not think that the
nuns themselves ever realized its value. They took
it, probably, for a family heirloom. In their eyes it was a chalice and
they used it as such."
Emery Power said, "An extraordinary storyl" He added, "What made you
think of going there?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps-a process of elimination. And then there was the extraordinary
fact that no one had ever tried to dispose of the cup. That looked, you
see, as though it were in a place where ordinary material values did not
apply. 'remembered that Patrick Casey's daughter was a nun."
Power said heartily, "Well, as I said before, I congratulate you. Let
me know your fee and I'll write you a check."
Hercule Poirot said, "There is no fee."
The other stared at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Did you ever read fairy stories when you were a child?
The King in them would say, 'Ask of me what you will'?"
"So you are asking something?"
"Yes, but not money. Merely a simple request."
"Well, what is it? D'you want a tip for the markets?"
"That would be only money in another form. My request is much simpler
than that.
"What is it?" '
Hercule Poirot laid his hand on the cup.
"Send this back to the convent."
There was a pause. Then Emery Power said: "Are you quite mad?"
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
"No, I am not mad. See, I will show you something."
He picked up the goblet. With his fingernail, he pressed hard into the
open jaws of the snake that was coiled round the tree. Inside the cup a
tiny portion of the gold chased interior slid aside leaving an aperture
into the hollow handle.
Poirot said, "You see? This was the drinking-cup of the Borgia Pope.
Through this little hole the poison passed into the drink. You have
said yourself that the history of this etip is evil. Violence and blood
and evil passions have accompanied its possession. Evil will perhaps
come to you
in your turn."
"Superstitionl"
"Possibly. But why were you so anxious to possess this thing? Not for
its bizauty. Not for its value. You have a hundred-a thousand,
perhaps-beautiful and rare things.
You wanted it to sustain your pride. You were determined not to be
beaten. Eh bien, you are not beaten. You winl The goblet is in your
possession. But now, why not make a great-a supreme gesture? Send it
back to where it has dwelt in peace for nearly ten years. Let the evil
of it be purified there. It belonged to the Church once-let it return
to the Church. Let it stand once more on the altar, purified and
absolved as we hope that the souls of men shall be also purified and
absolved from their sins."
He leaned forward.
"Let me describe for you the place where I found it-the Garden of Peace,
looking out over the Western Sea toward a forgotten Paradise of Youth
and Eternal Beauty."
He spoke on, describing in simple words the remote charm of Inishgowlan.
Emery Power sat back, one hand over his eyes.
He said at last, "I was born on the west coast of Ireland.
I left there as a boy to go to America."
Poirot said gently, "I heard that."
The financier sat up. His eyes were shrewd again. He said, and there
was a faint smile on his lips:
"You are a strange man, M. Poirot. You shall have your way. Take the
goblet to the convent as a gift in my name.
A pretty costly gift. Thirty thousand pounds-and what shall I get in
exchange?"
Poirot said gravely, "The nuns will have Masses said for your soul."
The rich man's smile widened-a rapacious hungry smile.
He said, "So, after all, it may be an investmentl Perhaps, the best one
I ever made."
In the little parlor of the Convent, Hercule Poirot told his story and
restored the chalice to the Mother Superior.
She murmured, "Tell him we thank him and we will pray for him."
Hercule Poirot said gently, "He needs your prayers."
"Is he then an unhappy man?"
Poirot said, "So unhappy that he has forgotten what happiness means. So
unhappy that he does not know he is unhappy."
The nun said softly, "Ah, a rich man. . .
Hercule Poirot said nothing-for he knew there was nothing to say.
HERCULE POIROT, SWAYING TO AND FRO i
n the tube train, thrown now against
one body, now against another, thought to himself that there were too
many people in the worldl Certainly there were too many people in the
underground world of London at this particular moment (6:30 p.m.) of
the evening. Heat, noise, crowd, contiguity-the unwelcome pressure of
hands, arms, bodies, shouldersl Heinmeci in anct pressed around by
strangers-and on the whole (he thought distastefully) a plain and
uninteresting lot of strangersl Humanity seen thus en masse was not
attractive. How seldom did one see a face sparkling with intelligence,
how seldom a femme bl"en mise! What was this passion that attacked
women for knitting under the most unpropitious conditions? A woman did
not look her best knitting; the absorption, the glassy eyes, the
restless busy fingersl One needed the agility of a wildcat, and the will
power of a Napoleon to manage to knit in a crowded tube, but women
managed itl If they succeeded in obtaining a seat, out came a miserable
little strip of shrimp pink and click-click went the pinsl
No repose, thought Poirot, no feminine gracel His elderly soul revolted
from the stress and hurry of the modern world. All these young women
who surrounded himso alike, so devoid of charm, so lacking in rich,
alluring femininity! He demanded a more flamboyant appeal. Alil to see
a femme du monde, chic, sympathetic, spirituellea woman with ample
curves, a woman ridiculously and extravagantly dressedl Once there had
been such women.
But now-now The train SLOpped at a station; people surged out, foreing
loirot I)a(:k onto the points of ktting-I)ins; surged in, s(lueezizig
him ijito even more sardine-like proximity
with his fellow passengers. The train started off again with a jerk,
Poirot was thrown against a stout woman with knobbly parcels, said,
"Pardon!" bounced off again into a long angular man whose attachs case
caught him in the small of the back. He said, "Pardon!" again. He felt
his mustaches becoming limp and uncurled. Quel e.nfer! Fortunately the
next station was hisl
It was also the station of what seemed to be about a hundred and
fifty_other people, since it happened to be Piccadilly Circus. Like a
great tidal wave they flowed out onto the platform. Presently Poirot
was again jammed tightly on an escalator, being carried upward toward
the surface of the earth.
Up, thought Poirot, from the Infernal Regions.... How isitely painful
was a suitcase rammed into one's knees behind on an ascending escalatorl
At that moment, a voice cried his name. Startled, he raised his eyes.
On the opposite escalator, the one descending, his unbelieving eyes saw
a vision from the past. A woman of full and flamboyant form; her
luxuriant hennared hair crowned with a small plastron of straw to which
was attached a positive platoon of brilliantly feathered little birds.
Exotic-looking furs dripped from her shoulders.
Her crimson mouth opened wide, her rich foreign voice echoed
resoundingly. Sie had good lungs.
"It is!" she screamed. "But it isl Mon cher Hercule Poirot! We must
meet againl I insistl"
But Fate itself is not more inexorable than the behavior of two
escalators moving in an inverse direction. Steadily, remorselessly,
Hercule Poirot was borne upward, and the Countess Vera Rossakoff was
borne downward.
Twisting himself sideways, leaning over the balustrade, Poirot cried
despairingly: "Chdre Mada -me-where then can I find you?"
Her reply came to him faintly from the depths. It was unexpected, yet
seemed at the moment strangely apposite.
"In Hell."
Hercule Poirot blinked. He blinked again. Suddenly he
rocked on his feet. Unawares he had reached the top-and had neglected
to step off properly. The crowd spread out round him. A little to one
side a dense crowd was pressing onto the downward escalator. Should he
join them? Had that been the Countess's meaning? No doubt that
traveling in the bowels of the earth at the rush hour was hell. If that
had been the Countess's meaning, he could not agree with her more.
Resolutely Poirot crossed over, sandwiched himself into the descending
crowd, and was borne back into the depths.
At the foot of the escalator no sign of the Countess. Poirot was left
with a choice of blue, amber, and other lights to follow.
Was the Countess patronizing the Bakerloo or the Piccadilly line?
Poirot visited each platform in turn. He was swept about among surging
crowds boarding or leaving trains, but nowhere did he espy that
flamboyant Russian figure, the Countess Vera Rossakoff.
Weary, battered, and infinitely chagrined, Hercule Poirot once more
ascended to ground level and stepped out into the hubbub of Piccadilly
Circus. He reached home in a mood of pleasurable excitement.
It is the misfortune of small, precise men to hanker after large and
flamboyant women. Poirot had never been able to rid himself of the
fatal fascination the Countess held for him. Though it was something
like twenty years since he had seen her last the magic still held.
Granted that her make-up now resembled a scenepainter's sunset, with the
woman under the make-up well hidden from sight, to Hercule Poirot she
still represented the sumptuous and the alluring. The little bourgeois
was still thrilled by the aristocrat. The memory of the adroit way she
stole jewelry roused the old admiration. He remembered the magnificent
aplomb with which she had admitted the fact when taxed with it. A woman
in a thousand-in a millionl And he had met her again-and lost herl
"In hell," she had said. Surely his ears had not deceived him? She had
said that?
But what had she meant by it? Had she meant London's
Underground Railways? Or were her words to be taken in a religious
sense? Surely, even if her own way of life made hell the most plausible
destination for her after this life, surely-surely her Russian courtesy
would not suggest that Hercule Poirot was necessarily bound for the same
place?
No, she must have meant something quite different. She must have
meant-Hercule Poirot was brought up short against bewilderment. What an
intriguing, what an unpredictable womanl A lesser woman might have
shrieked "The Ritz" or "Claridge's." But Vera Rossakoff had cried
poignantly and impossibly, "Helll"
Poirot sighed. But he was not defeated. In his perplexity he took the
simplest and most straightforward course on the following morning. He
asked his secretary, Miss Lemon.
Miss Lemon was unbelievably ugly and incredibly efficient. To her
Poirot was nobody in particular-he was merely her employer. She gave
him excellent service. Her private thoughts and dreams were
concentrated on a new filing-system which she was slowly perfecting in
the recesses of her mind.
"Miss Lemon, may I ask you a question?"
"Of course, M. Poirot." Sliss Lemon took her fingers off the typewriter
keys and waited attentively.
"If a friend asked y
ou to meet her-or him-in Hell, what would you do?"
Miss Lemon, as usual, did not pause. She knew, as the saying goes, all
the answers.
"It would be advisable, I think, to ring up for a table," she said.
Hercule Poirot stared at her in a stupefied fashion.
He said, staccato, "You-would-ring-up-for-atable?"
Miss Lemon nodded and drew the telephone toward her.
"Tonight?" she asked, and taking assent for granted since he did not
speak, she dialed briskly.
"Temple Bar 14578? Is that Hell? Will you please reserve a table for
twi,. M. Hercule Poirot. Eleven o'clock."
She replaced the receiver and her fingers hovered over the keys of her
typewriter. A slight-a very slight look of impatience was discernible
upon her face. She had done her part, the look seemed to say, surely
her employer could now leave her to get on with what she was doing?
But Hercule Poirot required explanations.
"What is it then, this Hell?" he demanded.
Miss Lemon looked slightly surprised.
"Oh, didn't you know, M. Poirot? It's a night clubquite new and very
much the rage at present-run by some Russian woman, I believe. I can
fix up for you to become a member before this evening quite easily."
Whereupon, having wasted (as she made obvious) quite time enough, Miss
Lemon broke into a perfect fusillade of efficient typing.
At eleven that evening Hercule Poirot passed through a doorway over
which a neon sign discreetly showed one letter at a time. A gentleman
in red tails received him and took from him his coat.
A gesture directed him to a flight of wide, shallow stairs leading
downward. On each step a phrase was written.
The first one ran: I meant well.
The second: Wipe the slate clean and start afresh.
The third: I can give it up any time I like.
"The good intentions that pave the way to hell," Hercule Poirot murmured
appreciatively. "Ciest bien imagind, ga!"
He descended the stairs. At the foot was a tank of water with scarlet
lilies. Spanning it was a bridge, shaped like a boat. Poirot crossed
by it.
On his left, in a kind of marble grotto, sat the largest and ugliest and
blackest dog Poirot had ever seenl It sat up very straight and gaunt and
immovable. It was perhaps, he thought (and hoped), not real. But at
that moment the dog turned its ferocious and ugly head and from the
depths of its black body a low, rumbling growl was emitted.
It ,vas a terrifying sound.
And then Poirot noticed a decorative basket of small round dog biscuits.
They were labeled: A sop for Cerberus!
It was on them that the dog's eyes were fixed. Once again the low,
rumbling growl was heard. Hastily Poirot picked up a biscuit and tossed
it toward the great hound.
A cavernous red mouth yawned; then came a snap as the powerful jaws
closed again. Cerberus had accepted his sopl Poirot moved on through an
open doorway.
The room was not a big one. It was dotted with little tables, a space
of dancing-floor in the middle. It was lighted with small red lamps,
there were frescoes on the walls, and at the far end was a vast grill at
which officiated chefs dressed as devils with tails and horns.
All this Poirot took in before, with all the impulsiveness of her
Russian nature, Countess Vera Rossakoff, resplendent in scarlet evening
dress, bore down upon him with outstretched hands.
"Ah, you have comel My dear-my very dear friendl What a joy to see you
againl After such years-so manyhow many? No, we will not say how manyl
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 24