The Labours of Hercules hp-26

by Agatha Christie

  Again there came that deep, hopeless sigh.

  "We're the last of the Chandlers, M. Poirot. There will be no more Chandlers at Lyde after we're gone. When Hugh got engaged to Diana, I hoped – well, it's no good talking of that. Thank God, they didn't marry. That's all I can say!"

  IV

  Hercule Poirot sat on a seat in the rose garden. Beside him sat Hugh Chandler. Diana Maberly had just left them.

  The young man turned a handsome, tortured face towards his companion.

  He said: "You've got to make her understand, M. Poirot."

  He paused for a minute and then went on: "You see, Di's a fighter. She won't give in. She won't accept what she's darned well got to accept. She – she will go on believing that I'm – sane."

  "While you yourself are quite certain that you are – pardon me – insane?"

  The young man winced. He said: "I'm not actually hopelessly off my head yet – but it's getting worse. Diana doesn't know, bless her. She's only seen me when I am – all right."

  "And when you are – all wrong, what happens?"

  Hugh Chandler took a long breath. Then he said: "For one thing – I dream. And when I dream, I am mad. Last night, for instance – I wasn't a man any longer. I was first of all a bull – a mad bull – racing about in blazing sunlight – tasting dust and blood in my mouth – dust and blood… And then I was a dog – a great slavering dog. I had hydrophobia – children scattered and fled as I came – men tried to shoot me – someone set down a great bowl of water for me and I couldn't drink. I couldn't drink…"

  He paused. "I woke up. And I knew it was true. I went over to the wash-stand. My mouth was parched – horribly parched – and dry. I was thirsty. But I couldn't drink, M. Poirot… I couldn't swallow… Oh, my God, I wasn't able to drink…"

  Hercule Poirot made a gentle murmur. Hugh Chandler went on. His hands were clenched on his knees. His face was thrust forward, his eyes were half closed as though he saw something coming towards him.

  "And there are things that aren't dreams. Things that I see when I'm wide awake. Spectres, frightful shapes. They leer at me. And sometimes I'm able to fly, to leave my bed, and fly through the air, to ride the winds – and fiends bear me company!"

  "Tcha, tcha," said Hercule Poirot.

  It was a gentle, deprecating little noise.

  Hugh Chandler turned to him.

  "Oh, there isn't any doubt. It's in my blood. It's my family heritage. I can't escape. Thank God I found it out in time! Before I'd married Diana. Suppose we'd had a child and handed on this frightful thing to him!"

  He laid a hand on Poirot's arm.

  "You must make her understand. You must tell her. She's got to forget. She's got to. There will be someone else someday. There's young Steve Graham – he's crazy about her and he's an awfully good chap. She'd be happy with him – and safe. I want her – to be happy. Graham's hard up, of course, and so are her people, but when I'm gone they'll be all right."

  Hercule's voice interrupted him.

  "Why will they be 'all right' when you are gone?"

  Hugh Chandler smiled. It was a gentle, lovable smile.

  He said: "There's my mother's money. She was an heiress, you know. It came to me. I've left it all to Diana."

  Hercule Poirot sat back in his chair. He said: "Ah!"

  Then he said: "But you may live to be quite an old man, Mr Chandler."

  Hugh Chandler shook his head.

  He said sharply: "No, M. Poirot. I am not going to live to be an old man."

  Then he drew back with a sudden shudder.

  "My God! Look!" He stared over Poirot's shoulder. "There – standing by you… it's a skeleton – its bones are shaking. It's calling to me – beckoning-"

  His eyes, the pupils widely dilated, stared into the sunshine. He leaned suddenly sideways as though collapsing.

  Then, turning to Poirot, he said in an almost childlike voice: "You didn't see – anything?"

  Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.

  Hugh Chandler said hoarsely: "I don't mind this so much – seeing things. It's the blood I'm frightened of. The blood in my room – on my clothes… We had a parrot. One morning it was there in my room with its throat cut – and I was lying on the bed with the razor in my hand wet with its blood!"

  He leant closer to Poirot.

  "Even just lately things have been killed," he whispered. "All around – in the village – out on the downs. Sheep, young lambs – a collie dog. Father locks me in at night, but sometimes – sometimes – the door's open in the morning. I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don't know where I've hidden it. I don't know. It isn't I who do these things – it's someone else who comes into me – who takes possession of me – who turns me from a man into a raving monster who wants blood and who can't drink water…"

  Suddenly he buried his face in his hands.

  After a minute or two, Poirot asked: "I still do not understand why you have not seen a doctor?"

  Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said: "Don't you really understand? Physically I'm strong. I'm as strong as a bull. I might live for years – years – shut up between four walls! That I can't face! It would be better to go out altogether… There are ways, you know. An accident, cleaning a gun… that sort of thing. Diana will understand… I'd rather take my own way out!"

  He looked defiantly at Poirot, but Poirot did not respond to the challenge. Instead he asked mildly: "What do you eat and drink?"

  Hugh Chandler flung his head back. He roared with laughter.

  "Nightmares after indigestion? Is that your idea?"

  Poirot merely repeated gently: "What do you eat and drink?"

  "Just what everybody else eats and drinks."

  "No special medicine? Cachets? Pills?"

  "Good Lord, no. Do you really think patent pills would cure my trouble?" He quoted derisively: "'Canst though then minister to a mind diseased?'"

  Hercule Poirot said dryly: "I am trying to. Does anyone in this house suffer with eye trouble?"

  Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said: "Father's eyes give him a good deal of trouble. He has to go to an oculist fairly often."

  "Ah!" Poirot meditated for a moment or two. Then he said: "Colonel Frobisher, I suppose, has spent much of his life in India?"

  "Yes, he was in the Indian Army. He's very keen on India – talks about it a lot – native traditions – and all that."

  Poirot murmured "Ah!" again.

  Then he remarked: "I see that you have cut your chin."

  Hugh put his hand up.

  "Yes, quite a nasty gash. Father startled me one day when I was shaving. I'm a bit nervy these days, you know. And I've had a bit of a rash over my chin and neck. Makes shaving difficult."

  Poirot said: "You should use a soothing cream."

  "Oh, I do. Uncle George gave me one."

  He gave a sudden laugh.

  "We're talking like a woman's beauty parlour. Lotions, soothing creams, patent pills, eye trouble. What does it all amount to? What are you getting at, M. Poirot?"

  Poirot said quietly: "I am trying to do the best I can for Diana Maberly."

  Hugh's mood changed. His face sobered. He laid a hand on Poirot's arm.

  "Yes, do what you can for her. Tell her she's got to forget. Tell her that it's no good hoping… Tell her some of the things I've told you… Tell her – oh, tell her for God's sake to keep away from me! That's the only thing she can do for me now. Keep away – and try to forget!"

  V

  "Have you courage. Mademoiselle? Great courage? You will need it."

  Diana cried sharply: "Then it's true. It's true? He is mad?"

  Hercule Poirot said: "I am not an alienist. Mademoiselle. It is not I who can say, 'This man is mad. This man is sane.'"

  She came closer to him.

  "Admiral Chandler thinks Hugh is mad. George Frobisher thinks he is mad. Hugh himself thinks he is mad -"

  Poirot was watching her.

  "And you, Mademoiselle?"


  "I? I say he isn't mad! That's why -" She stopped.

  "That is why you came to me?"

  "Yes. I couldn't have had any other reason for coming to you, could I?"

  "That," said Hercule Poirot, "is exactly what I have been asking myself, Mademoiselle!"

  "I don't understand you."

  "Who is Stephen Graham?"

  She stared. "Stephen Graham? Oh, he's – he's just someone."

  She caught him by the arm.

  "What's in your mind? What are you thinking about? You just stand there – behind that great moustache of yours – blinking your eyes in the sunlight, and you don't tell me anything. You're making me afraid – horribly afraid. Why are you making me afraid?"

  "Perhaps," said Poirot, "because I am afraid myself."

  The deep grey eyes opened wide, stared up at him. She said in a whisper: "What are you afraid of?"

  Hercule Poirot sighed – a deep sigh.

  He said: "It is much easier to catch a murderer than it is to prevent a murder."

  She cried out: "Murder? Don't use that word."

  "Nevertheless," said Hercule Poirot, "I do use it."

  He altered his tone, speaking quickly and authoritatively.

  "Mademoiselle, it is necessary that both you and I should pass the night at Lyde Manor. I look to you to arrange the matter. You can do that?"

  "I – yes – I suppose so. But why -?"

  "Because there is no time to lose. You have told me that you have courage. Prove that courage now. Do what I ask and make no questions about it."

  She nodded without a word and turned away.

  Poirot followed her into the house after the lapse of a moment or two. He heard her voice in the library and the voices of three men. He passed up the broad staircase. There was no one on the upper floor.

  He found Hugh Chandler's room easily enough. In the corner of the room was a fitted washbasin with hot and cold water. Over it, on a glass shelf, were various tubes and pots and bottles.

  Hercule Poirot went quickly and dexterously to work…

  What he had to do did not take him long. He was downstairs again in the hall when Diana came out of the library, looking flushed and rebellious.

  "It's all right," she said.

  Admiral Chandler drew Poirot into the library and closed the door. He said: "Look here, M. Poirot, I don't like this."

  "What don't you like, Admiral Chandler?"

  "Diana has been insisting that you and she should both spend the night here. I don't want to be inhospitable -"

  "It is not a question of hospitality."

  "As I say, I don't like being inhospitable – but frankly, I don't like it, M. Poirot. I – I don't want it. And I don't understand the reason for it. What good can it possibly do?"

  "Shall we say that it is an experiment I am trying?"

  "What kind of an experiment?"

  "That, you will pardon me, is my business…"

  "Now look here, M. Poirot, I didn't ask you to come here in the first place -"

  Poirot interrupted.

  "Believe me, Admiral Chandler, I quite understand and appreciate your point of view. I am here simply and solely because of the obstinacy of a girl in love. You have told me certain things. Colonel Frobisher has told me certain things. Hugh himself has told me certain things. Now – I want to see for myself."

  "Yes, but see what? I tell you, there's nothing to see! I lock Hugh into his room every night and that's that."

  "And yet – sometimes – he tells me that the door is not locked in the morning?"

  "What's that?"

  "Have you not found the door unlocked yourself?"

  Chandler was frowning.

  "I always imagined George had unlocked – what do you mean?"

  "Where do you leave the key – in the lock?"

  "No, I lay it on the chest outside. I, or George, or Withers, the valet, take it from there in the morning. We've told Withers it's because Hugh walks in his sleep… I daresay he knows more – but he's a faithful fellow, been with me for years."

  "Is there another key?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "One could have been made."

  "But who -"

  "Your son thinks that he himself has one hidden somewhere, although he is unaware of it in his waking state."

  Colonel Frobisher, speaking from the far end of the room, said: "I don't like it, Charles… The girl -"

  Admiral Chandler said quickly: "Just what I was thinking. The girl mustn't come back with you. Come back yourself, if you like."

  Poirot said: "Why don't you want Miss Maberly here tonight?"

  Frobisher said in a low voice: "It's too risky. In these cases -"

  He stopped.

  Poirot said: "Hugh is devoted to her…"

  Chandler cried: "That's just why! Damn it all, man, everything's topsy-turvy where a madman's concerned. Hugh knows that himself. Diana mustn't come here."

  "As to that," said Poirot, "Diana must decide for herself."

  He went out of the library. Diana was waiting outside in the car. She called out, "We'll get what we want for the night and be back in time for dinner."

  As they drove down the long drive, Poirot repeated to her the conversation he had just held with the Admiral and Colonel Frobisher. She laughed scornfully.

  "Do they think Hugh would hurt me?"

  By way of reply, Poirot asked her if she would mind stopping at the chemist's in the village. He had forgotten, he said, to pack a toothbrush.

  The chemist's shop was in the middle of the peaceful village street. Diana waited outside in the car. It struck her that Hercule Poirot was a long time choosing a toothbrush…

  VI

  In the big bedroom with the heavy Elizabethan oak furniture, Hercule Poirot sat and waited. There was nothing to do but wait. All his arrangements were made.

  It was towards early morning that the summons came.

  At the sound of footsteps outside, Poirot drew back the bolt and opened the door. There were two men in the passage outside – two middle-aged men who looked older than their years. The Admiral was stern-faced and grim. Colonel Frobisher twitched and trembled.

  Chandler said simply: "Will you come with us, M. Poirot?"

  There was a huddled figure lying outside Diana Maberly's bedroom door. The light fell on a rumpled, tawny head. Hugh Chandler lay there breathing stertorously. He was in his dressing-gown and slippers. In his right hand was a sharply-curved, shining knife. Not all of it was shining – here and there it was obscured by red glistening patches.

  Hercule Poirot exclaimed softly: "Mon Dieu!"

  Frobisher said sharply: "She's all right. He hasn't touched her."

  He raised his voice and called: "Diana! It's us! Let us in!"

  Poirot heard the Admiral groan and mutter under his breath: "My boy. My poor boy."

  There was a sound of bolts being drawn. The door opened and Diana stood there. Her face was dead white.

  She faltered out: "What's happened? There was someone – trying to get in – I heard them – feeling the door – the handle – scratching on the panels – Oh! it was awful… like an animal…"

  Frobisher said sharply: "Thank God your door was locked!"

  "M. Poirot told me to lock it."

  Poirot said: "Lift him up and bring him inside."

  The two men stooped and raised the unconscious man. Diana caught her breath with a little gasp as they passed her.

  "Hugh? Is it Hugh? What's that – on his hands?"

  Hugh Chandler's hands were sticky and wet with a brownish, red stain.

  Diana breathed: "Is that blood?"

  Poirot looked inquiringly at the two men.

  The Admiral nodded. He said: "Not human, thank God! A cat! I found it downstairs in the hall. Throat cut. Afterwards he must have come up here -"

  "Here?" Diana's voice was low with horror. "To me?"

  The man on the chair stirred – muttered. They watched him, fascinate
d. Hugh Chandler sat up. He blinked.

  "Hullo," his voice was dazed – hoarse. "What's happened? Why am I -?"

  He stopped. He was staring at the knife which he held still clasped in his hand.

  He said in a slow, thick voice: "What have I done?"

  His eyes went from one to the other. They rested at last on Diana shrinking back against the wall.

  He said quietly: "Did I attack Diana?"

  His father shook his head.

  Hugh said: "Tell me what has happened? I've got to know!"

  They told him – told him unwillingly – haltingly. His quiet perseverance drew it out of them.

  Outside the window the sun was coming up. Hercule Poirot drew a curtain aside. The radiance of the dawn came into the room.

  Hugh Chandler's face was composed, his voice was steady.

  He said: "I see."

  Then he got up. He smiled and stretched himself. His voice was quite natural as he said: "Beautiful morning, what? Think I'll go out in the woods and try to get a rabbit."

  He went out of the room and left them staring after him.

  Then the Admiral started forward. Frobisher caught him by the arm.

  "No, Charles, no. It's the best way – for him, poor devil, if for nobody else."

  Diana had thrown herself sobbing on the bed.

  Admiral Chandler said, his voice coming unevenly: "You're right, George – you're right, I know. The boy's got guts…"

  Frobisher said, and his voice, too, was broken: "He's a man…"

  There was a moment's silence and then Chandler said: "Damn it, where's that cursed foreigner?"

  VII

  In the gun-room, Hugh Chandler had lifted his gun from the rack and was in the act of loading it when Hercule Poirot's hand fell on his shoulder.

  Hercule Poirot's voice said one word and said it with a strange authority.

  He said: "No!"

  Hugh Chandler stared at him.

  He said in a thick, angry voice: "Take your hands off me. Don't interfere. There's going to be an accident, I tell you. It's the only way out."