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 cup is evil. Violence and blood and evil passions have accompanied its possession. Evil will perhaps come to you in turn."
"Superstition!"
"Possibly. But why were you so anxious to possess this thing? Not for its beauty. 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 win! 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 towards 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 say Masses for your soul."
The rich man's smile widened – a rapacious, hungry smile.
He said: "So, after all, it may be an investment! Perhaps, the best one I ever made…"
IX
In the little parlour 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.
Chapter 12
THE CAPTURE OF CERBERUS
I
Hercule Poirot, swaying to and fro in the tube train, thrown now against one body, now against another, thought to himself that there were too many people in the world! 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, shoulders! Hemmed in and pressed around by strangers – and on the whole (he thought distastefully) a plain and uninteresting lot of strangers! Humanity seen thus en masse was not attractive. How seldom did one see a face sparkling with intelligence, how seldom a femme bien 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 fingers! One needed the agility of a wild cat, and the willpower of a Napoleon to manage to knit in a crowded tube, but women managed it! If they succeeded in obtaining a seat, out came a miserable little strip of shrimp pink and click, click went the pins!
No repose, thought Poirot, no feminine grace! His elderly soul revolted from the stress and hurry of the modern world. All these young women who surrounded him – so alike, so devoid of charm, so lacking in rich, alluring femininity! He demanded a more flamboyant appeal. Ah! to see a femme du monde, chic, sympathetic, spirituelle – a woman with ample curves, a woman ridiculously and extravagantly dressed! Once there had been such women. But now – now – The train stopped at a station, people surged out, forcing Poirot back on to the points of knitting pins, surged in, squeezing him into 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 attaché-case caught him in the small of the back. He said "Pardon!" again. He felt his moustaches becoming limp and uncurled. Quel enfer! Fortunately the next station was his!
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 on to the platform. Presently Poirot was again jammed tightly on an escalator being carried upwards towards the surface of the earth.
Up, thought Poirot, from the Infernal Regions… How exquisitely painful was a suit-case rammed into one's knees from behind on an ascending escalator!
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 henna red 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. She had good lungs.
"It is!" she screamed. "But it is! Mon cher Hercule Poirot! We must meet again! I insist!"
But Fate itself is not more inexorable than the behaviour of two escalators moving in an inverse direction. Steadily, remorselessly, Hercule Poirot was borne upward, and the Countess Vera Rossakoff was borne downwards.
Twisting himself sideways, leaning over the balustrade, Poirot cried despairingly: "Chère Madame – where 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 on to the downward escalator. Should he join them? Had that been the Countess's meaning? No doubt that travelling 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, etc. lights to follow.
Was the Countess patronising the Bakerloo or the Piccadilly line? Poirot visited each platform in turn. He was swept about amongst 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 makeup now resembled a scene-painter'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 jewellery 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 million! And he had met her again – and lost her!
"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 Railw
ays? 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 woman! A lesser woman might have shrieked "The Ritz" or "Claridge." But Vera Rossakoff had cried poignantly and impossibly: "Hell!"
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." Miss Lemon took her fingers off the typewriter keys and waited attentively.
"If a friend asked you 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 – a table?"
Miss Lemon nodded and drew the telephone towards her.
"Tonight?" she asked, and taking assent for granted since he did not speak, she dialled briskly.
" Temple Bar 14578? Is that Hell? Will you please reserve a table for two. 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 club – quite 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 downwards. 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. "C'est bien imaginé, ça!"
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 seen! 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 was a terrifying sound.
And then Poirot noticed a decorative basket of small round dog biscuits. They were labelled, "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 towards the great hound.
A cavernous red mouth yawned, then came a snap as the powerful jaws closed again. Cerberus had accepted his sop! 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 come! My dear – my very dear friend! what a joy to see you again! After such years – so many – how many? – No, we will not say how many! To me it seems but as yesterday. You have not changed – not in the least have you changed!"
"Nor you, chère amie," Poirot exclaimed, bowing over her hand.
Nevertheless he was fully conscious now that twenty years is twenty years. Countess Rossakoff might not uncharitably have been described as a ruin. But she was at least a spectacular ruin. The exuberance, the full-blooded enjoyment of life was still there, and she knew, none better, how to flatter a man.
She drew Poirot with her to a table at which two other people were sitting.
"My friend, my celebrated friend, M. Hercule Poirot," she announced. "He who is the terror of evildoers! I was once afraid of him myself, but now I lead a life of the extreme, the most virtuous dullness. Is it not so?"
The tall thin elderly man to whom she spoke said, "Never say dull, Countess."
"The Professor Liskeard," the Countess announced. "He who knows everything about the past and who gave me the valuable hints for the decorations here."
The Archaeologist shuddered slightly.
"If I'd known what you meant to do!" he murmured. "The result is so appalling."
Poirot observed the frescoes more closely. On the wall facing him Orpheus and his jazz band played, while Eurydice looked hopefully towards the grill. On the opposite wall Osiris and Isis seemed to be throwing an Egyptian underworld boating party. On the third wall some bright young people were enjoying mixed bathing in a state of Nature.
"The Country of the Young," explained the Countess and added in the same breath, completing her introductions: "And this is my little Alice."
Poirot bowed to the second occupant of the table, a severe-looking girl in a check coat and skirt. She wore horned-rimmed glasses.
"She is very, very clever," said Countess Rossakoff. "She has a degree and she is a psychologist and she knows all the reasons why lunatics are lunatics! It is not, as you might think, because they are mad! No, there are all sorts of other reasons! I find that very peculiar."
The girl called Alice smiled kindly but a little disdainfully. She asked the Professor in a firm voice if he would like to dance. He appeared flattered but dubious.
"My dear young lady, I fear I only waltz."
"This is a waltz," said Alice patiently.
They got up and danced. They did not dance well.
The Countess Rossakoff sighed. Following out a train of thought of her own, she murmured, "And yet she is not really bad-looking…"
"She does not make the most of herself," said Poirot judicially.
"Frankly," cried the Countess, "I cannot understand the young people of nowadays. They do not try any more to please – always, in my youth, I tried – the colours that suited me – a little padding in the frocks – the corset laced tight round the waist – the hair, perhaps, a more interesting shade -"
She pushed back the heavy Titian tresses from her forehead – it was undeniable that she, at least, was still trying and trying hard!
"To be content with what Nature has given you, that – that is stupid! It is also arrogant! The little Alice she writes pages of long words about Sex, but how often, I ask you, does a man suggest to her that they should go to Brighton for the weekend? It is all long words and work, and the welfare of the workers, and the future of the world.
It is very worthy, but I ask you, is it gay? And look, I ask you, how drab these young people have made the world! It is all regulations and prohibitions! Not so when I was young."
"That reminds me, how is your son, Madame?" At the last moment he substituted "son", for "little boy", remembering that twenty years had passed.
The Countess's face lit up with enthusiastic motherhood.
"The beloved angel! So big now, such shoulders, so handsome! He is in America. He builds there – bridges, banks, hotels, department stores, railways, anything the Americans want!"
Poirot looked slightly puzzled.
"He is then an engineer? Or an architect?"
"What does it matter?" demanded the Countess. "He is adorable! He is wrapped up in iron girders, and machinery, and things called stresses. The kind of things that I have never understood in the least. But we adore each other – always we adore each other! And so for his sake I adore the little Alice. But yes, they are engaged. They meet on a plane or a boat or a train, and they fall in love, all in the midst of talking about the welfare of the workers. And when she comes to London she comes to see me and I take her to my heart." The Countess clasped her arms across her vast bosom, "And I say – 'You and Niki love each other – so I too love you – but if you love him why do you leave him in America?' And she talks about her 'job' and the book she is writing, and her career, and frankly I do not understand, but I have always said: 'One must be tolerant'." She added all in one breath, "And what do you think, cher ami, of all this that I have imagined here?"
"It is very well imagined," said Poirot, looking round him approvingly. "It is chic!"
The place was full and it had about it that unmistakable air of success which cannot be counterfeited. There were languid couples in full evening dress, Bohemians in corduroy trousers, stout gentlemen in business suits. The band, dressed as devils, dispensed hot music. No doubt about it. Hell had caught on.
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