Harold suggested, catching at a straw: "You'll be able to say that at least – that it was all perfectly all right."
Mrs Rice said bitterly: "Yes, if they believe me. But you know what these people out here are like!"
Harold agreed gloomily. To the Continental mind, there would undoubtedly be a guilty connection between himself and Elsie, and all Mrs Rice's denials would be taken as a mother lying herself black in the face for her daughter.
Harold said gloomily: "Yes, we're not in England, worse luck."
"Ah!" Mrs Rice lifted her head. "That's true… It's not England. I wonder now if something could be done -"
"Yes?" Harold looked at her eagerly.
Mrs Rice said abruptly: "How much money have you got?"
"Not much with me." He added: "I could wire for money, of course."
Mrs Rice said grimly: "We may need a good deal. But I think it's worth trying."
Harold felt a faint lifting of despair.
He said: "What is your idea?"
Mrs Rice spoke decisively. "We haven't a chance of concealing the death ourselves, but I do think there's just a chance of hushing it up officially!"
"You really think so?" Harold was hopeful but slightly incredulous.
"Yes, for one thing the manager of the hotel will be on our side. He'd much rather have the thing hushed up. It's my opinion that in these out of the way curious little Balkan countries you can bribe anyone and everyone – and the police are probably more corrupt than anyone else!"
Harold said slowly: "Do you know, I believe you're right."
Mrs Rice went on: "Fortunately, I don't think anyone in the hotel heard anything."
"Who has the room next to Elsie's on the other side from yours?"
"The two Polish ladies. They didn't hear anything. They'd have come out into the passage if they had. Philip arrived late, nobody saw him but the night porter. Do you know, Harold, I believe it will be possible to hush the whole thing up – and get Philip's death certified as due to natural causes! It's just a question of bribing high enough – and finding the right man – probably the Chief of Police!"
Harold smiled faintly. He said: "It's rather Comic Opera, isn't it? Well, after all, we can but try."
VI
Mrs Rice was energy personified. First the manager was summoned. Harold remained in his room, keeping out of it. He and Mrs Rice had agreed that the story told had better be that of a quarrel between husband and wife. Elsie's youth and prettiness would command more sympathy.
On the following morning various police officials arrived and were shown up to Mrs Rice's bedroom. They left at midday. Harold had wired for money but otherwise had taken no part in the proceedings – indeed he would have been unable to do so since none of these official personages spoke English.
At twelve o'clock Mrs Rice came to his room. She looked white and tired, but the relief on her face told its own story.
She said simply: "It's worked!"
"Thank heaven! You've really been marvellous! It seems incredible!"
Mrs Rice said thoughtfully: "By the ease with which it went, you might almost think it was quite normal. They practically held out their hands right away. It's – it's rather disgusting, really!"
Harold said dryly: "This isn't the moment to quarrel with the corruption of the public services. How much?"
"The tariff's rather high."
She read out a list of figures.
The Chief of Police.
The Commissaire.
The Agent.
The Doctor.
The Hotel Manager.
The Night Porter.
Harold's comment was merely: "The night porter doesn't get much, does he? I suppose it's mostly a question of gold lace."
Mrs Rice explained: "The manager stipulated that the death should not have taken place in his hotel at all. The official story will be that Philip had a heart attack in the train. He went along the corridor for air – you know how they always leave those doors open – and he fell out on the line. It's wonderful what the police can do when they try!"
"Well," said Harold. "Thank God our police force isn't like that."
And in a British and superior mood he went down to lunch.
VII
After lunch Harold usually joined Mrs Rice and her daughter for coffee. He decided to make no change in his usual behaviour.
This was the first time he had seen Elsie since the night before. She was very pale and was obviously still suffering from shock, but she made a gallant endeavour to behave as usual, uttering small commonplaces about the weather and the scenery.
They commented on a new guest who had just arrived, trying to guess his nationality. Harold thought a moustache like that must be French – Elsie said German – and Mrs Rice thought he might be Spanish.
There was no one else but themselves on the terrace with the exception of the two Polish ladies who were sitting at the extreme end, both doing fancywork.
As always when he saw them, Harold felt a queer shiver of apprehension pass over him. Those still faces, those curved beaks of noses, those long claw-like hands…
A page boy approached and told Mrs Rice she was wanted. She rose and followed him. At the entrance to the hotel they saw her encounter a police official in full uniform.
Elsie caught her breath.
"You don't think – anything's gone wrong?"
Harold reassured her quickly. "Oh no, no, nothing of that kind."
But he himself knew a sudden pang of fear.
He said: "Your mother's been wonderful!"
"I know. Mother is a great fighter. She'll never sit down under defeat." Elsie shivered. "But it is all horrible, isn't it?"
"Now, don't dwell on it. It's all over and done with."
Elsie said in a low voice: "I can't forget that – that it was I who killed him."
Harold said urgently: "Don't think of it that way. It was an accident. You know that really."
Her face grew a little happier.
Harold added: "And anyway it's past. The past is the past. Try never to think of it again."
Mrs Rice came back. By the expression on her face they saw that all was well.
"It gave me quite a fright," she said almost gaily. "But it was only a formality about some papers. Everything's all right, my children. We're out of the shadow. I think we might order ourselves a liqueur on the strength of it."
The liqueur was ordered and came. They raised their glasses.
Mrs Rice said: "To the Future!"
Harold smiled at Elsie and said: "To your happiness!"
She smiled back at him and said as she lifted her glass: "And to you – to your success! I'm sure you're going to be a very great man."
With the reaction from fear they felt gay, almost light-headed. The shadow had lifted! All was well…
From the far end of the terrace the two bird-like women rose. They rolled up their work carefully. They came across the stone flags.
With little bows they sat down by Mrs Rice. One of them began to speak. The other one let her eyes rest on Elsie and Harold. There was a little smile on her lips. It was not, Harold thought, a nice smile…
He looked over at Mrs Rice. She was listening to the Polish woman and though he couldn't understand a word, the expression on Mrs Rice's face was clear enough. All the old anguish and despair came back. She listened and occasionally spoke a brief word.
Presently the two sisters rose, and with stiff little bows went into the hotel.
Harold leaned forward.
He said hoarsely: "What is it?"
Mrs Rice answered him in the quiet hopeless tones of despair.
"Those women are going to blackmail us. They heard everything last night. And now we've tried to hush it up, it makes the whole thing a thousand times worse…"
VIII
Harold Waring was down by the lake. He had been walking feverishly for over an hour, trying by sheer physical energy to still the clamour of despair that had attack
ed him.
He came at last to the spot where he had first noticed the two grim women who held his life and Elsie's in their evil talons. He said aloud: "Curse them! Damn them for a pair of devilish blood-sucking harpies!"
A slight cough made him spin round. He found himself facing the luxuriantly moustached stranger who had just come out from the shade of the trees.
Harold found it difficult to know what to say. This little man must have almost certainly overheard what he had just said.
Harold, at a loss, said somewhat ridiculously: "Oh – er – good-afternoon."
In perfect English the other replied: "But for you, I fear, it is not a good afternoon?"
"Well – er – I -" Harold was in difficulties again.
The little man said: "You are, I think, in trouble, Monsieur? Can I be of any assistance to you?"
"Oh no thanks, no thanks! Just blowing off steam, you know."
The other said gently: "But I think, you know, that I could help you. I am correct, am I not, in connecting your troubles with two ladies who were sitting on the terrace just now?" Harold stared at him.
"Do you know anything about them?" He added: "Who are you, anyway?"
As though confessing to royal birth the little man said modestly: "I am Hercule Poirot. Shall we walk a little way into the wood and you shall tell me your story? As I say, I think I can aid you."
To this day, Harold is not quite certain what made him suddenly pour out the whole story to a man to whom he had only spoken a few minutes before. Perhaps it was over-strain. Anyway, it happened. He told Hercule Poirot the whole story.
The latter listened in silence. Once or twice he nodded his head gravely. When Harold came to a stop the other spoke dreamily.
"The Stymphalean Birds, with iron beaks, who feed on human flesh and who dwell by the Stymphalean Lake… Yes, it accords very well."
"I beg your pardon," said Harold staring.
Perhaps, he thought, this curious-looking little man was mad!
Hercule Poirot smiled. "I reflect, that is all. I have my own way of looking at things, you understand. Now as to this business of yours. You are very unpleasantly placed."
Harold said impatiently: "I don't need you to tell me that!"
Hercule Poirot went on: "It is a serious business, blackmail. These harpies will force you to pay – and pay – and pay again! And if you defy them, well, what happens?"
Harold said bitterly: "The whole thing comes out. My career's ruined, and a wretched girl who's never done anyone any harm will be put through hell, and God knows what the end of it all will be!"
"Therefore," said Hercule Poirot, "something must be done!"
Harold said baldly: "What?"
Hercule Poirot leaned back, half-closing his eyes. He said (and again a doubt of his sanity crossed Harold's mind): "It is the moment for the castanets of bronze."
Harold said: "Are you quite mad?"
The other shook his head. He said: "Mais non! I strive only to follow the example of my great predecessor, Hercules. Have a few hours' patience, my friend. By tomorrow I may be able to deliver you from your persecutors."
IX
Harold Waring came down the following morning to find Hercule Poirot sitting alone on the terrace. In spite of himself Harold had been impressed by Hercule Poirot's promises.
He came up to him now and asked anxiously: "Well?"
Hercule Poirot beamed upon him. "It is well."
"What do you mean?"
"Everything has settled itself satisfactorily."
"But what has happened?"
Hercule Poirot replied dreamily: "I have employed the castanets of bronze. Or, in modern parlance, I have caused metal wires to hum – in short I have employed the telegraph! Your Stymphalean Birds, Monsieur, have been removed to where they will be unable to exercise their ingenuity for some time to come."
"They were wanted by the police? They have been arrested?"
"Precisely."
Harold drew a deep breath. "How marvellous! I never thought of that."
He got up. "I must find Mrs Rice and Elsie and tell them."
"They know."
"Oh good." Harold sat down again. "Tell me just what -"
He broke off.
Coming up the path from the lake were two figures with flapping cloaks and profiles like birds.
He exclaimed: "I thought you said they had been taken away!"
Hercule Poirot followed his glance.
"Oh, those ladies? They are very harmless, Polish ladies of good family, as the porter told you. Their appearance is, perhaps, not very pleasing but that is all."
"But I don't understand!"
"No, you do not understand! It is the other ladies who were wanted by the police – the resourceful Mrs Rice and the lachrymose Mrs Clayton! It is they who are well-known birds of prey. Those two, they make their living by blackmail, mon cher."
Harold had a sensation of the world spinning round him.
He said faintly: "But the man – the man who was killed?"
"No one was killed. There was no man!"
"But I saw him!"
"Oh no. The tall deep-voiced Mrs Rice is a very successful male impersonator. It was she who played the part of the husband – without her grey wig and suitably made up for the part."
He leaned forward and tapped the other on the knee.
"You must not go through life being too credulous, my friend. The police of a country are not so easily bribed – they are probably not to be bribed at all – certainly not when it is a question of murder! These women trade on the average Englishman's ignorance of foreign languages. Because she speaks French or German, it is always this Mrs Rice who interviews the manager and takes charge of the affair. The police arrive and go to her room, yes! But what actually passes? You do not know. Perhaps she says she has lost a brooch – something of that kind. Any excuse to arrange for the police to come so that you shall see them. For the rest, what actually happens? You wire for money, a lot of money, and you hand it over to Mrs Rice who is in charge of all the negotiations! And that is that! But they are greedy, these birds of prey. They have seen that you have taken an unreasonable aversion to these two unfortunate Polish ladies. The ladies in question come and hold a perfectly innocent conversation with Mrs Rice and she cannot resist repeating the game. She knows you cannot understand what is being said.
"So you will have to send for more money which Mrs Rice will pretend to distribute to a fresh set of people."
Harold drew a deep breath. He said: "And Elsie – Elsie?"
Hercule Poirot averted his eyes.
"She played her part very well. She always does. A most accomplished little actress. Everything is very pure – very innocent. She appeals, not to sex, but to chivalry."
Hercule Poirot added dreamily: "That is always successful with Englishmen."
Harold Waring drew a deep breath. He said crisply: "I'm going to set to work and learn every European language there is! Nobody's going to make a fool of me a second time!"
Chapter 7
THE CRETAN BULL
I
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at his visitor.
He saw a pale face with a determined-looking chin, eyes that were more grey than blue, and hair that was of that real blue-black shade so seldom seen – the hyacinthine locks of ancient Greece.
He noted the well-cut, but also well-worn, country tweeds, the shabby handbag, and the unconscious arrogance of manner that lay behind the girl's obvious nervousness. He thought to himself: "Ah yes, she is 'the County' – but no money! And it must be something quite out of the way that would bring her to me."
Diana Maberly said, and her voice shook a little: "I – I don't know whether you can help me or not, M. Poirot. It's – it's a very extraordinary position."
Poirot said: "But yes? Tell me?"
Diana Maberly said: "I've come to you because I don't know what to do! I don't even know if there is anything to do!"
"W
ill you let me be the judge of that?"
The colour surged suddenly into the girl's face.
She said rapidly and breathlessly: "I've come to you because the man I've been engaged to for over a year has broken off our engagement."
She stopped and eyed him defiantly.
"You must think," she said, "that I'm completely mental."
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
"On the contrary. Mademoiselle, I have no doubt whatever but that you are extremely intelligent. It is certainly not my metier in life to patch up the lovers' quarrels, and I know very well that you are quite aware of that. It is, therefore, that there is something unusual about the breaking of this engagement. That is so, is it not?"
The girl nodded. She said in a clear, precise voice. "Hugh broke off our engagement because he thinks he is going mad. He thinks people who are mad should not marry."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose a little.
"And do you not agree?"
"I don't know… What is being mad, after all? Everyone is a little mad."
"It has been said so," Poirot agreed cautiously.
"It's only when you begin thinking you're a poached egg or something that they have to shut you up."
"And your fiancé has not reached that stage?"
Diana Maberly said: "I can't see that there's anything wrong with Hugh at all. He's, oh, he's the sanest person I know. Sound – dependable -"
"Then why does he think he is going mad?"
Poirot paused a moment before going on.
"Is there, perhaps, madness in his family?"
Reluctantly Diana jerked her head in assent.
She said: "His grandfather was mental, I believe – and some great-aunt or other. But what I say is, that every family has got someone queer in it. You know, a bit half-witted or extra clever or something!"
Her eyes were appealing.
Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly.
He said: "I am very sorry for you. Mademoiselle."
Her chin shot out. She cried: "I don't want you to be sorry for me! I want you to do something!"
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