The Labours of Hercules hp-26

by Agatha Christie

  IV

  Miss Pope's establishment was, like many other establishments of the same kind, situated in Neuilly. Hercule Poirot, staring up at its respectable façade, was suddenly submerged by a flow of girls emerging from its portals.

  He counted twenty-five of them, all dressed alike in dark blue coats and skirts with uncomfortable-looking British hats of dark blue velour on their heads, round which was tied the distinctive purple and gold of Miss Pope's choice. They were of ages varying from fourteen to eighteen, thick and slim, fair and dark, awkward and graceful. At the end, walking with one of the younger girls, was a grey-haired, fussy looking woman whom Poirot judged to be Miss Burshaw.

  Poirot stood looking after them a minute, then he rang the bell and asked for Miss Pope.

  Miss Lavinia Pope was a very different person from her second-in-command, Miss Burshaw. Miss Pope had personality. Miss Pope was awe inspiring. Even should Miss Pope unbend graciously to parents, she would still retain that obvious superiority to the rest of the world which is such a powerful asset to a schoolmistress.

  Her grey hair was dressed with distinction, her costume was severe but chic. She was competent and omniscient.

  The room in which she received Poirot was the room of a woman of culture. It had graceful furniture, flowers, some framed, signed photographs of those of Miss Pope's pupils who were of note in the world – many of them in their presentation gowns and feathers. On the walls hung reproductions of the world's artistic masterpieces and some good water-colour sketches. The whole place was clean and polished to the last degree. No speck of dust, one felt, would have the temerity to deposit itself in such a shrine.

  Miss Pope received Poirot with the competence of one whose judgment seldom fails.

  "M. Hercule Poirot? I know your name, of course. I suppose you have come about this very unfortunate affair of Winnie King. A most distressing incident."

  Miss Pope did not look distressed. She took disaster as it should be taken, dealing with it competently and thereby reducing it almost to insignificance.

  "Such a thing," said Miss Pope, "has never occurred before."

  "And never will again!" her manner seemed to say.

  Hercule Poirot said: "It was the girl's first term here, was it not?"

  "It was."

  "You had a preliminary interview with Winnie – and with her parents?"

  "Not recently. Two years ago, I was staying near Cranchester – with the Bishop, as a matter of fact -"

  Miss Pope's manner said: "Mark this, please. I am the kind of person who stays with Bishops!"

  "While I was there I made the acquaintance of Canon and Mrs King. Mrs King, alas, is an invalid. I met Winnie then. A very well brought up girl, with a decided taste for art. I told Mrs King that I should be happy to receive her here in a year or two – when her general studies were completed. We specialise here, M. Poirot, in Art and Music. The girls are taken to the Opera, to the Comedie Française, they attend lectures at the Louvre. The very best masters come here to instruct them in music, singing, and painting. The broader culture, that is our aim."

  Miss Pope remembered suddenly that Poirot was not a parent and added abruptly: "What can I do for you, M. Poirot?"

  "I would be glad to know what is the present position regarding Winnie?"

  "Canon King has come over to Amiens and is taking Winnie back with him. The wisest thing to do after the shock the child has sustained."

  She went on: "We do not take delicate girls here. We have no special facilities for looking after invalids. I told the Canon that in my opinion he would do well to take the child home with him."

  Hercule Poirot asked bluntly: "What in your opinion actually occurred, Miss Pope?"

  "I have not the slightest idea, M. Poirot. The whole thing, as reported to me, sounds quite incredible. I really cannot see that the member of my staff who was in charge of the girls was in any way to blame – except that she might, perhaps, have discovered the girl's absence sooner."

  Poirot said: "You have received a visit, perhaps, from the police?"

  A faint shiver passed over Miss Pope's aristocratic form.

  She said glacially: "A Monsieur Lefarge of the Prefecture called to see me, to see if I could throw any light upon the situation. Naturally I was unable to do so. He then demanded to inspect Winnie's trunk which had, of course, arrived here with those of the other girls. I told him that that had already been called for by another member of the police. Their departments, I fancy, must overlap. I got a telephone call, shortly afterwards, insisting that I had not turned over all Winnie's possessions to them. I was extremely short with them over that. One must not submit to being bullied by officialdom."

  Poirot drew a long breath. He said: "You have a spirited nature. I admire you for it, Mademoiselle. I presume that Winnie's trunk had been unpacked on arrival?"

  Miss Pope looked a little put out of countenance.

  "Routine," she said. "We live strictly by routine. The girls' trunks are unpacked on arrival and their things put away in the way I expect them to be kept. Winnie's things were unpacked with those of the other girls. Naturally, they were afterwards repacked, so that her trunk was handed over exactly as it had arrived."

  Poirot said: "Exactly?"

  He strolled over to the wall.

  "Surely this is a picture of the famous Cranchester Bridge with the Cathedral showing in the distance."

  "You are quite right, M. Poirot. Winnie had evidently painted that to bring to me as a surprise. It was in her trunk with a wrapper round it and 'For Miss Pope from Winnie' written on it. Very charming of the child."

  "Ah!" said Poirot. "And what do you think of it – as a painting?"

  He himself had seen many pictures of Cranchester Bridge. It was a subject that could always be found represented at the Academy each year – sometimes as an oil painting – sometimes in the watercolour room. He had seen it painted well, painted in a mediocre fashion, painted boringly. But he had never seen it quite as crudely represented as in the present example.

  Miss Pope was smiling indulgently.

  She said: "One must not discourage one's girls, M. Poirot. Winnie will be stimulated to do better work, of course."

  Poirot said thoughtfully: "It would have been more natural, would it not, for her to do a water-colour?"

  "Yes. I did not know she was attempting to paint in oils."

  "Ah," said Hercule Poirot. "You will permit me, Mademoiselle?"

  He unhooked the picture and took it to the window. He examined it, then, looking up, he said: "I am going to ask you, Mademoiselle, to give me this picture."

  "Well, really, M. Poirot -"

  "You cannot pretend that you are very attached to it. The painting is abominable."

  "Oh, it has no artistic merit, I agree. But it is a pupil's work and -"

  "I assure you. Mademoiselle, that it is a most unsuitable picture to have hanging upon your wall."

  "I don't know why you should say that, M. Poirot."

  "I will prove it to you in a moment." He took a bottle, a sponge and some rags from his pocket.

  He said: "First I am going to tell you a little story, Mademoiselle. It has a resemblance to the story of the Ugly Duckling that turned into a Swan."

  He was working busily as he talked. The odour of turpentine filled the room.

  "You do not perhaps go much to theatrical revues?"

  "No, indeed, they seem to me so trivial…"

  "Trivial, yes, but sometimes instructive. I have seen a clever revue artist change her personality in the most miraculous way. In one sketch she is a cabaret star, exquisite and glamorous. Ten minutes later, she is an undersized, anaemic child with adenoids, dressed in a gym tunic – ten minutes later still, she is a ragged gypsy telling fortunes by a caravan."

  "Very possible, no doubt, but I do not see -"

  "But I am showing you how the conjuring trick was worked on the train. Winnie, the schoolgirl, with her fair plaits, her spectacles, her disfi
guring dental plate – goes into the Toilette. She emerges a quarter of an hour later as – to use the words of Detective Inspector Heam – 'a flashy piece of goods'. Sheer silk stockings, high heeled shoes – a mink coat to cover a school uniform, a daring little piece of velvet called a hat perched on her curls – and a face – oh yes, a face. Rouge, powder, lipstick, mascara! What is the real face of that quick change artiste really like? Probably only the good God knows! But you, Mademoiselle, you yourself, you have often seen how the awkward schoolgirl changes almost miraculously into the attractive and well-groomed debutante."

  Miss Pope gasped.

  "Do you mean that Winnie King disguised herself as -"

  "Not Winnie King – no. Winnie was kidnapped on the way across London. Our quick change artiste took her place. Miss Burshaw had never seen Winnie King – how was she to know that the schoolgirl with the lank plaits and the brace on her teeth was not Winnie King at all? So far, so good, but the impostor could not afford actually to arrive here, since you were acquainted with the real Winnie. So hey presto, Winnie disappears in the Toilette and emerges as wife to a man called Jim Elliott whose passport includes a wife! The fair plaits, the spectacles, the lisle thread stockings, the dental plate – all that can go into a small space. But the thick unglamorous shoes and the hat – that very unyielding British hat – have to be disposed of elsewhere – they go out of the window. Later, the real Winnie is brought across the channel – no one is looking for a sick, half-doped child being brought from England to France – and is quietly deposited from a car by the side of the main road. If she has been doped all along with scopolamine, she will remember very little of what has occurred."

  Miss Pope was staring at Poirot.

  She demanded: "But why? What would be the reason of such a senseless masquerade?"

  Poirot replied gravely: "Winnie's luggage! These people wanted to smuggle something from England into France – something that every Customs man was on the look-out for – in fact, stolen goods. But what place is safer than a schoolgirl's trunk? You are well-known, Miss Pope, your establishment is justly famous. At the Gare du Nord the trunks of Mesdemoiselles the little Pensionnaires are passed en bloc. It is the well-known English school of Miss Pope! And then, after the kidnapping, what more natural than to send and collect the child's luggage – ostensibly from the Préfecture?"

  Hercule Poirot smiled.

  "But fortunately, there was the school routine of unpacking trunks on arrival – and a present for you from Winnie – but not the same present that Winnie packed at Cranchester"

  He came towards her.

  "You have given this picture to me. Observe now, you must admit that it is not suitable for your select school!"

  He held out the canvas.

  As though by magic Cranchester Bridge had disappeared. Instead was a classical scene in rich, dim colourings.

  Poirot said softly: "The Girdle of Hyppolita. Hyppolita gives her girdle to Hercules – painted by Rubens. A great work of art – mais tout de même not quite suitable for your drawing room."

  Miss Pope blushed slightly.

  Hyppolita's hand was on her girdle – she was wearing nothing else… Hercules had a lion skin thrown lightly over one shoulder. The flesh of Rubens is rich, voluptuous flesh…

  Miss Pope said, regaining her poise: "A fine work of art… All the same – as you say – after all, one must consider the susceptibilities of parents. Some of them are inclined to be narrow… if you know what I mean…"

  V

  It was just as Poirot was leaving the house that the onslaught took place. He was surrounded, hemmed-in, overwhelmed by a crowd of girls, thick, thin, dark and fair.

  "Mon Dieu!" he murmured. "Here indeed is the attack by the Amazons!"

  A tall fair girl was crying out: "A rumour has gone round -"

  They surged closer. Hercule Poirot was surrounded. He disappeared in a wave of young, vigorous femininity.

  Twenty-five voices arose, pitched in various keys but all uttering the same momentous phrase.

  "M. Poirot, will you write your name in my autograph book?"

  Chapter 10

  THE FLOCK OF GERYON

  I

  "I really do apologise for intruding like this, M. Poirot."

  Miss Carnaby clasped her hands fervently round her handbag and leaned forward, peering anxiously into Poirot's face. As usual, she sounded breathless.

  Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose.

  She said anxiously: "You do remember me, don't you?"

  Hercule Poirot's eyes twinkled.

  He said: "I remember you as one of the most successful criminals that I have ever encountered!"

  "Oh dear me, M. Poirot, must you really say such things? You were so kind to me. Emily and I often talk about you, and if we see anything about you in the paper we cut it out at once and paste it in a book. As for Augustus, we have taught him a new trick. We say, "Die for Sherlock Holmes, die for Mr Fortune, die for Sir Henry Merrivale, and then die for M. Hercule Poirot' and he goes down and lies like a log – lies absolutely still without moving until we say the word!"

  "I am gratified," said Poirot. "And how is ce cher Auguste?"

  Miss Carnaby clasped her hands and became eloquent in praise of her Pekinese.

  "Oh, M. Poirot, he's cleverer than ever. He knows everything. Do you know, the other day I was just admiring a baby in a pram and suddenly I felt a tug and there was Augustus trying his hardest to bite through his lead. Wasn't that clever?"

  Poirot's eyes twinkled. He said: "It looks to me as though Augustus shared these criminal tendencies we were speaking of just now!"

  Miss Carnaby did not laugh. Instead, her nice plump face grew worried and sad.

  She said in a kind of gasp: "Oh, M. Poirot, I'm so worried!"

  Poirot said kindly: "What is it?"

  "Do you know, M. Poirot, I'm afraid – I really am afraid – that I must be a hardened criminal – if I may use such a term. Ideas come to me!"

  "What kind of ideas?"

  "The most extraordinary ideas! For instance, yesterday, a really most practical scheme for robbing a post office came into my head. I wasn't thinking about it – it just came! And another very ingenious way for evading custom duties… I feel convinced – quite convinced – that it would work."

  "It probably would," said Poirot dryly. "That is the danger of your ideas."

  "It has worried me, M. Poirot, very much. Having been brought up with strict principles, as I have been, it is most disturbing that such lawless – such really wicked – ideas should come to me. The trouble is partly, I think, that I have a good deal of leisure time now. I have left Lady Hoggin and I am engaged by an old lady to read to her and to write her letters every day. The letters are soon done and the moment I begin reading she goes to sleep, so I am left just sitting there – with an idle mind – and we all know the use the devil has for idleness."

  "Tcha, tcha," said Poirot.

  "Recently I have read a book – a very modern book, translated from the German. It throws a most interesting light on criminal tendencies. One must, so I understand, sublimate one's impulses! That, really, is why I came to you."

  "Yes?" said Poirot.

  "You see, M. Poirot. I think that it is really not so much wickedness as a craving for excitement! My life has unfortunately been very humdrum. The – er – campaign of the Pekinese dogs, I sometimes feel, was the only time I really lived. Very reprehensible, of course, but, as my book says, one must not turn one's back on the truth. I came to you, M. Poirot, because I hoped it might be possible to – to sublimate that craving for excitement by employing it, if I may put it that way, on the side of the angels."

  "Aha," said Poirot. "It is then as a colleague that you present yourself?"

  Miss Carnaby blushed.

  "It is very presumptuous of me, I know. But you were so kind -"

  She stopped. Her eyes, faded blue eyes, had something in them of the pleading of a dog who hopes against hope that
you will take him for a walk.

  "It is an idea," said Hercule Poirot slowly.

  "I am, of course, not at all clever," explained Miss Carnaby. "But my powers of – of dissimulation are good. They have to be – otherwise one would be discharged from the post of companion immediately. And I have always found that to appear even stupider than one is, occasionally has good results."

  Hercule Poirot laughed. He said: "You enchant me, Mademoiselle."

  "Oh dear, M. Poirot, what a very kind man you are. Then you do encourage me to hope? As it happens, I have just received a small legacy – a very small one, but it enables my sister and myself to keep and feed ourselves in a frugal manner so that I am not absolutely dependent on what I earn."

  "I must consider," said Poirot, "where your talents may best be employed. You have no idea yourself, I suppose?"

  "You know, you must really be a thought reader, M. Poirot. I have been anxious lately about a friend of mine. I was going to consult you. Of course you may say it is all an old maid's fancy – just imagination. One is prone, perhaps to exaggerate, and to see design where there may be only coincidence."

  "I do not think you would exaggerate, Miss Carnaby. Tell me what is on your mind."

  "Well, I have a friend, a very dear friend, though I have not seen very much of her of late years. Her name is Emmeline Clegg. She married a man in the North of England and he died a few years ago leaving her very comfortably off. She was unhappy and lonely after his death and I am afraid she is in some ways a rather foolish and perhaps credulous woman. Religion, M. Poirot, can be a great help and sustenance – but by that I mean orthodox religion."

  "You refer to the Greek Church?" asked Poirot.

  Miss Carnaby looked shocked.

  "Oh no, indeed. Church of England. And though I do not approve of Roman Catholics, they are at least recognised. And the Wesleyans and Congregationalists – they are all well-known respectable bodies. What I am talking about are these odd sects. They just spring up. They have a kind of emotional appeal but sometimes I have very grave doubts as to whether there is any true religious feeling behind them at all."