The Labours of Hercules

‘I had, up to then, regarded the whole matter as fairly simple. Nurse Harrison, I realized, was a fairly young and still handsome woman–she had been thrown closely with Doctor Oldfield for nearly three years–the doctor had been very fond of her and grateful to her for her tact and sympathy. She had formed the impression that if Mrs Oldfield died, the doctor would probably ask her to marry him. Instead of that, after Mrs Oldfield’s death, she learns that Doctor Oldfield is in love with you. Straightaway, driven by anger and jealousy, she starts spreading the rumour that Doctor Oldfield has poisoned his wife.

‘That, as I say, was how I had visualized the position at first. It was a case of a jealous woman and a lying rumour. But the old trite phrase “no smoke without fire” recurred to me significantly. I wondered if Nurse Harrison had done more than spread a rumour. Certain things she said rang strangely. She told me that Mrs Oldfield’s illness was largely imaginary–that she did not really suffer much pain. But the doctor himself had been in no doubt about the reality of his wife’s suffering. He had not been surprised by her death. He had called in another doctor shortly before her death and the other doctor had realized the gravity of her condition. Tentatively I brought forward the suggestion of exhumation…Nurse Harrison was at first frightened out of her wits by the idea. Then, almost at once, her jealousy and hatred took command of her. Let them find arsenic–no suspicion would attach to her. It would be the doctor and Jean Moncrieffe who would suffer.

‘There was only one hope. To make Nurse Harrison over-reach herself. If there were a chance that Jean Moncrieffe would escape, I fancied that Nurse Harrison would strain every nerve to involve her in the crime. I gave instructions to my faithful Georges–the most unobtrusive of men whom she did not know by sight. He was to follow her closely. And so–all ended well.’

Jean Moncrieffe said:

‘You’ve been wonderful.’

Dr Oldfield chimed in. He said:

‘Yes, indeed. I can never thank you enough. What a blind fool I was!’

Poirot asked curiously:

‘Were you as blind, Mademoiselle?’

Jean Moncrieffe said slowly:

‘I have been terribly worried. You see, the arsenic in the poison cupboard didn’t tally…’

Oldfield cried:

‘Jean–you didn’t think–?’

‘No, no–not you. What I did think was that Mrs Oldfield had somehow or other got hold of it–and that she was taking it so as to make herself ill and get sympathy and that she had inadvertently taken too much. But I was afraid that if there was an autopsy and arsenic was found, they would never consider that theory and would leap to the conclusion that you’d done it. That’s why I never said anything about the missing arsenic. I even cooked the poison book! But the last person I would ever have suspected was Nurse Harrison.’

Oldfield said:

‘I too. She was such a gentle womanly creature. Like a Madonna.’

Poirot said sadly:

‘Yes, she would have made, probably, a good wife and mother…Her emotions were just a little too strong for her.’ He sighed and murmured once more under his breath:

‘The pity of it.’

Then he smiled at the happy-looking middle-aged man and the eager-faced girl opposite him. He said to himself:

‘These two have come out of its shadow into the sun…and I –I have performed the second Labour of Hercules.’

Chapter 3

The Arcadian Deer

Hercule Poirot stamped his feet, seeking to warm them. He blew upon his fingers. Flakes of snow melted and dripped from the corners of his moustache.

There was a knock at the door and a chambermaid appeared. She was a slow-breathing thickset country girl and she stared with a good deal of curiosity at Hercule Poirot. It was possible that she had not seen anything quite like him before.

She asked: ‘Did you ring?’

‘I did. Will you be so good as to light a fire?’

She went out and came back again immediately with paper and sticks. She knelt down in front of the big Victorian grate and began to lay a fire.

Hercule Poirot continued to stamp his feet, swing his arms and blow on his fingers.

He was annoyed. His car–an expensive Messarro Gratz–had not behaved with that mechanical perfection which he expected of a car. His chauffeur, a young man who enjoyed a handsome salary, had not succeeded in putting things right. The car had staged a final refusal in a secondary road a mile and a half from anywhere with a fall of snow beginning. Hercule Poirot, wearing his usual smart patent leather shoes, had been forced to walk that mile and a half to reach the riverside village of Hartly Dene–a village which, though showing every sign of animation in summer-time, was completely moribund in winter. The Black Swan had registered something like dismay at the arrival of a guest. The landlord had been almost eloquent as he pointed out that the local garage could supply a car in which the gentleman could continue his journey.

Hercule Poirot repudiated the suggestion. His Latin thrift was offended. Hire a car? He already had a car–a large car–an expensive car. In that car and no other he proposed to continue his journey back to town. And in any case, even if repairs to it could be quickly effected, he was not going on in this snow until next morning. He demanded a room, a fire and a meal. Sighing, the landlord showed him to the room, sent the maid to supply the fire and then retired to discuss with his wife the problem of the meal.

An hour later, his feet stretched out towards the comforting blaze, Hercule Poirot reflected leniently on the dinner he had just eaten. True, the steak had been both tough and full of gristle, the brussels-sprouts had been large, pale, and definitely watery, the potatoes had had hearts of stone. Nor was there much to be said for the portion of stewed apple and custard which had followed. The cheese had been hard, and the biscuits soft. Nevertheless, thought Hercule Poirot, looking graciously at the leaping flames, and sipping delicately at a cup of liquid mud euphemistically called coffee, it was better to be full than empty, and after tramping snowbound lanes in patent leather shoes, to sit in front of a fire was Paradise!

There was a knock on the door and the chambermaid appeared.

‘Please, sir, the man from the garage is here and would like to see you.’

Hercule Poirot replied amiably:

‘Let him mount.’

The girl giggled and retired. Poirot reflected kindly that her account of him to her friends would provide entertainment for many winter days to come.

There was another knock–a different knock–and Poirot called:

‘Come in.’

He looked up with approval at the young man who entered and stood there looking ill at ease, twisting his cap in his hands.

Here, he thought, was one of the handsomest specimens of humanity he had ever seen, a simple young man with the outward semblance of a Greek god.

The young man said in a low husky voice:

‘About the car, sir, we’ve brought it in. And we’ve got at the trouble. It’s a matter of an hour’s work or so.’

Poirot said:

‘What is wrong with it?’

The young man plunged eagerly into technical details. Poirot nodded his head gently, but he was not listening. Perfect physique was a thing he admired greatly. There were, he considered, too many rats in spectacles about. He said to himself approvingly: ‘Yes, a Greek god–a young shepherd in Arcady.’

The young man stopped abruptly. It was then that Hercule Poirot’s brows knitted themselves for a second. His first reaction had been æsthetic, his second mental. His eyes narrowed themselves curiously, as he looked up.

He said:

‘I comprehend. Yes, I comprehend.’ He paused and then added: ‘My chauffeur, he has already told me that which you have just said.’

He saw the flush that came to the other’s cheek, saw the fingers grip the cap nervously.

The young man stammered:

‘Yes–er–yes, sir. I know.’

Hercule Poirot went on smoothly:

‘But you thought that you would also come and tell me yourself ?’

‘Er–yes, sir, I thought I’d better.’

‘That,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘was very conscientious of you. Thank you.’

There was a faint but unmistakable note of dismissal in the last words but he did not expect the other to go and he was right. The young man did not move.

His fingers moved convulsively, crushing the tweed cap, and he said in a still lower embarrassed voice:

‘Er–excuse me, sir–but it’s true, isn’t it, that you’re the detective gentleman–you’re Mr Hercules Pwarrit?’ He said the name very carefully.

Poirot said: ‘That is so.’

Red crept up the young man’s face. He said:

‘I read a piece about you in the paper.’

‘Yes?’

The boy was now scarlet. There was distress in his eyes–distress and appeal. Hercule Poirot came to his aid. He said gently:

‘Yes? What is it you want to ask me?’

The words came with a rush now.

‘I’m afraid you may think it’s awful cheek of me, sir. But your coming here by chance like this–well, it’s too good to be missed. Having read about you and the clever things you’ve done. Anyway, I said as after all I might as well ask you. There’s no harm in asking, is there?’

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

‘You want my help in some way?’

The other nodded. He said, his voice husky and embarrassed:

‘It’s–it’s about a young lady. If–if you could find her for me.’

‘Find her? Has she disappeared, then?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

Hercule Poirot sat up in his chair. He said sharply:

‘I could help you, perhaps, yes. But the proper people for you to go to are the police. It is their job and they have far more resources at their disposal than I have.’

The boy shuffled his feet. He said awkwardly:

‘I couldn’t do that, sir. It’s not like that at all. It’s all rather peculiar, so to speak.’

Hercule Poirot stared at him. Then he indicated a chair.

‘Eh bien, then, sit down–what is your name?’

‘Williamson, sir, Ted Williamson.’

‘Sit down, Ted. And tell me all about it.’

‘Thank you sir.’ He drew forward the chair and sat down carefully on the edge of it. His eyes had still that appealing doglike look.

Hercule Poirot said gently:

‘Tell me.’

Ted Williamson drew a deep breath.

‘Well, you see, sir, it was like this. I never saw her but the once. And I don’t know her right name nor anything. But it’s queer like, the whole thing, and my letter coming back and everything.’

‘Start,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘at the beginning. Do not hurry yourself. Just tell me everything that occurred.’

‘Yes, sir. Well, perhaps you know Grasslawn, sir, that big house down by the river past the bridge?’

‘I know nothing at all.’

‘Belongs to Sir George Sanderfield, it does. He uses it in the summer-time for week-ends and parties–rather a gay lot he has down as a rule. Actresses and that. Well, it was last June–and the wireless was out of order and they sent me up to see to it.’

Poirot nodded.

‘So I went along. The gentleman was out on the river with his guests and the cook was out and his manservant had gone along to serve the drinks and all that on the launch. There was only this girl in the house–she was the lady’s-maid to one of the guests. She let me in and showed me where the set was, and stayed there while I was working on it. And so we got to talking and all that…Nita her name was, so she told me, and she was lady’s-maid to a Russian dancer who was staying there.’

‘What nationality was she, English?’

‘No, sir, she’d be French, I think. She’d a funny sort of accent. But she spoke English all right. She–she was friendly and after a bit I asked her if she could come out that night and go to the pictures, but she said her lady would be needing her. But then she said as how she could get off early in the afternoon because as how they wasn’t going to be back off the river till late. So the long and the short of it was that I took the afternoon off without asking(and nearly got the sack for it too) and we went for a walk along by the river.’

He paused. A little smile hovered on his lips. His eyes were dreamy. Poirot said gently:

‘And she was pretty, yes?’

‘She was just the loveliest thing you ever saw. Her hair was like gold–it went up each side like wings–and she had a gay kind of way of tripping along. I –I –well, I fell for her right away, sir. I’m not pretending anything else.’

Poirot nodded. The young man went on:

‘She said as how her lady would be coming down again in a fortnight and we fixed up to meet again then.’ He paused. ‘But she never came. I waited for her at the spot she’d said, but not a sign of her, and at last I made bold to go up to the house and ask for her. The Russianlady was staying there all right and her maid too, they said. Sent for her, they did, but when she came, why, it wasn’t Nita at all! Just a dark catty-looking girl–a bold lot if there ever was one. Marie, they called her. ‘You want to see me?’ she says, simpering all over. She must have seen I was took aback. I said was she the Russian lady’s maid and something about her not being the one I’d seen before, and then she laughed and said that the last maid had been sent away sudden. ‘Sent away?’ I said. ‘What for?’ She sort of shrugged her shoulders and stretched out her hands. ‘How should I know?’ she said. ‘I was not there.’

‘Well, sir, it took me aback. At the moment I couldn’t think of anything to say. But afterwards I plucked up the courage and I got to see this Marie again and asked her to get me Nita’s address. I didn’t let on to her that I didn’t even know Nita’s last name. I promised her a present if she did what I asked–she was the kind as wouldn’t do anything for you for nothing. Well, she got it all right for me–an address in North London, it was, and I wrote to Nita there–but the letter came back after a bit–sent back through the post office with no longer at this address scrawled on it.’

Ted Williamson stopped. His eyes, those deep blue steady eyes, looked across at Poirot. He said:

‘You see how it is, sir? It’s not a case for the police. But I want to find her. And I don’t know how to set about it. If–if you could find her for me.’ His colour deepened. ‘I’ve–I’ve a bit put by. I could manage five pounds–or even ten.’

Poirot said gently:

‘We need not discuss the financial side for the moment. First reflect on this point–this girl, this Nita–she knew your name and where you worked?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’

‘She could have communicated with you if she had wanted to?’

Ted said more slowly:

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then do you not think–perhaps–’

Ted Williamson interrupted him.

‘What you’re meaning, sir, is that I fell for her but she didn’t fall for me? Maybe that’s true in a way…But she liked me–she did like me–it wasn’t just a bit of fun to her…And I’ve been thinking, sir, as there might be a reason for all this. You see, sir, it was a funny crowd she was mixed up in. She might be in a bit of trouble, if you know what I mean.’

‘You mean she might have been going to have a child? Your child?’

‘Not mine, sir.’ Ted flushed. ‘There wasn’t nothing wrong between us.’

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully. He murmured:

‘And if what you suggest is true–you still want to find her?’

The colour surged up in Ted Williamson’s face. He said:

‘Yes, I do, and that’s flat! I want to marry her if she’ll have me. And that’s no matter what kind of a jam she’s in! If you’ll only try and find her for me, sir?’

Hercule Poirot smiled. He said, murmuring to himself:

‘“Hair like wings of gold.” Yes, I think this is the third Labour of Hercules…If I remember rightly, that happened in Arcady…’

II

Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the sheet of paper on which Ted Williamson had laboriously inscribed a name and address.

Miss Valetta, 17 Upper Renfrew Lane, N15.

He wondered if he would learn anything at that address. Somehow he fancied not. But it was the only help Ted could give him.

No. 17 Upper Renfrew Lane was a dingy but respectable street. A stout woman with bleary eyes opened the door to Poirot’s knock.

‘Miss Valetta?’

‘Gone away a long time ago, she has.’

Poirot advanced a step into the doorway just as the door was about to close.

‘You can give me, perhaps, her address?’

‘Couldn’t say, I’m sure. She didn’t leave one.’

‘When did she go away?’

‘Last summer it was.’

‘Can you tell me exactly when?’

A gentle clicking noise came from Poirot’s right hand where two half-crowns jostled each other in friendly fashion.

The bleary-eyed woman softened in an almost magical manner. She became graciousness itself.

‘Well, I’m sure I’d like to help you, sir. Let me see now. August, no, before that–July–yes, July it must have been. About the first week in July. Went off in a hurry, she did. Back to Italy, I believe.’

‘She was an Italian, then?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘And she was at one time lady’s maid to a Russian dancer, was she not?’

‘That’s right. Madame Semoulina or some such name. Danced at the Thespian in this Bally everyone’s so wild about. One of the stars, she was.’

Poirot said:

‘Do you know why Miss Valetta left her post?’

The woman hesitated a moment before saying:

‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure.’

‘She was dismissed, was she not?’

‘Well–I believe there was a bit of a dust up! But mind you, Miss Valetta didn’t let on much about it. She wasn’t one to give things away. But she looked wild about it. Wicked temper she had–real Eyetalian–her black eyes all snapping and looking as if she’d like to put a knife into you. I wouldn’t have crossed her when she was in one of her moods!’

‘And you are quite sure you do not know Miss Valetta’s present address?’

The half-crowns clinked again encouragingly.

The answer rang true enough.

‘I wish I did, sir. I’d be only too glad to tell you. But there–she went off in a hurry and there it is!’

Poirot said to himself thoughtfully:

‘Yes, there it is…’

III

Ambrose Vandel, diverted from his enthusiastic account of the décor he was designing for a forthcoming ballet, supplied information easily enough.

‘Sanderfield? George Sanderfield? Nasty fellow. Rolling in money but they say he’s a crook. Dark horse! Affair with a dancer? But of course, my dear–he had an affair with Katrina. Katrina Samoushenka. You must have seen her? Oh, my dear–too delicious. Lovely technique. The Swan of Tuolela–you must have seen that? My décor! And that other thing of Debussy or is it Mannine “La Biche au Bois”? She danced it with Michael Novgin. He’s so marvellous, isn’t he?’

‘And she was a friend of Sir George Sanderfield?’

‘Yes, she used to week-end with him at his house on the river. Marvellous parties I believe he gives.’

‘Would it be possible, mon cher, for you to introduce me to Mademoiselle Samoushenka?’

‘But, my dear, she isn’t here any longer. She went to Paris or somewhere quite suddenly. You know, they do say that she was a Bolshevik spy or something–not that I believed it myself–you know people love saying things like that. Katrina always pretended that she was a White Russian–her father was a Prince or a Grand Duke–the usual thing! It goes down so much better.’ Vandel paused and returned to the absorbing subject of himself. ‘Now as I was saying, if you want to get the spirit of Bathsheba you’ve got to steep yourself in the Semitic tradition. I express it by–’

He continued happily.

IV

The interview that Hercule Poirot managed to arrange with Sir George Sanderfield did not start too auspiciously.

The ‘dark horse’, as Ambrose Vandel had called him, was slightly ill at ease. Sir George was a short square man with dark coarse hair and a roll of fat in his neck.

He said:

‘Well, M. Poirot, what can I do for you? Er–we haven’t met before, I think?’

‘No, we have not met.’

‘Well, what is it? I confess, I’m quite curious.’

‘Oh, it is very simple–a mere matter of information.’

The other gave an uneasy laugh.

‘Want me to give you some inside dope, eh? Didn’t know you were interested in finance.’

‘It is not a matter of les affaires. It is a question of a certain lady.’

‘Oh, a woman.’ Sir George Sanderfield leant back in his armchair. He seemed to relax. His voice held an easier note.

Poirot said:

‘You were acquainted, I think, with Mademoiselle Katrina Samoushenka?’

Sanderfield laughed.

‘Yes. An enchanting creature. Pity she’s left London.’

‘Why did she leave London?’

‘My dear fellow, I don’t know. Row with the management, I believe. She was temperamental, you know–very Russian in her moods. I’m sorry that I can’t help you but I haven’t the least idea where she is now. I haven’t kept up with her at all.’

There was a note of dismissal in his voice as he rose to his feet.

Poirot said:

‘But is not Mademoiselle Samoushenka that I am anxious to trace.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, it is a question of her maid.’

‘Her maid?’ Sanderfield stared at him.

Poirot said:

‘Do you–perhaps–remember her maid?’

All Sanderfield’s uneasiness had returned. He said awkwardly:

‘Good Lord, no, how should I? I remember she had one, of course…Bit of a bad lot, too, I should say. Sneaking, prying sort of girl. If I were you I shouldn’t put any faith in a word that girl says. She’s the kind of girl who’s a born liar.’

Poirot murmured:

‘So actually, you remember quite a lot about her?’

Sanderfield said hastily:

‘Just an impression, that’s all…Don’t even remember her name. Let me see, Marie something or other–no, I’m afraid I can’t help you to get hold of her. Sorry.’

Poirot said gently:

‘I have already got the name of Marie Hellin from the Thespian Theatre–and her address. But I am speaking, Sir George, of the maid who was with Mademoiselle Samoushenka before Marie Hellin. I am speaking of Nita Valetta.’

Sanderfield stared. He said:

‘Don’t remember her at all. Marie’s the only one I remember. Little dark girl with a nasty look in her eye.’

Poirot said:

‘The girl I mean was at your house Grasslawn last June.’

Sanderfield said sulkily:

‘Well, all I can say is I don’t remember her. Don’t believe she had a maid with her. I think you’re making a mistake.’

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He did not think he was making a mistake.

V

Marie Hellin looked swiftly at Poirot out of small intelligent eyes and as swiftly looked away again. She said in smooth, even tones:

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