The Labours of Hercules

Miss Carnaby chimed in breathlessly:

‘Yes, it was wicked–wicked!’

‘Please tell me the facts.’

‘Well, it was like this. Shan Tung was out for his walk in the Park with Miss Carnaby–’

‘Oh dear me, yes, it was all my fault,’ chimed in the companion. ‘How could I have been so stupid–so careless–’

Lady Hoggin said acidly:

‘I don’t want to reproach you, Miss Carnaby, but I do think you might have been more alert.’

Poirot transferred his gaze to the companion.

‘What happened?’

Miss Carnaby burst into voluble and slightly flustered speech.

‘Well, it was the most extraordinary thing! We had just been along the flower walk–Shan Tung was on the lead, of course–he’d had his little run on the grass–and I was just about to turn and go home when my attention was caught by a baby in a pram–such a lovely baby–it smiled at me–lovely rosy cheeks and such curls. I couldn’t just resist speaking to the nurse in charge and asking how old it was–seventeen months, she said–and I’m sure I was only speaking to her for about a minute or two, and then suddenly I looked down and Shan wasn’t there any more. The lead had been cut right through–’

Lady Hoggin said:

‘If you’d been paying proper attention to your duties, nobody could have sneaked up and cut that lead.’

Miss Carnaby seemed inclined to burst into tears. Poirot said hastily:

‘And what happened next?’

‘Well, of course I looked everywhere. And called! And I asked the Park attendant if he’d seen a man carrying a Pekinese dog but he hadn’t noticed anything of the kind–and I didn’t know what to do–and I went on searching, but at last, of course, I had to come home–’

Miss Carnaby stopped dead. Poirot could imagine the scene that followed well enough. He asked:

‘And then you received a letter?’

Lady Hoggin took up the tale.

‘By the first post the following morning. It said that if I wanted to see Shan Tung alive I was to send £200 in one pound notes in an unregistered packet to Captain Curtis, 38 Bloomsbury Road Square. It said that if the money were marked or the police informed then–then–Shan Tung’s ears and tail would be–cut off!’

Miss Carnaby began to sniff.

‘So awful,’ she murmured. ‘How people can be such fiends!’

Lady Hoggin went on:

‘It said that if I sent the money at once, Shan Tung would be returned the same evening alive and well, but that if–if afterwards I went to the police, it would be Shan Tung who would suffer for it–’

Miss Carnaby murmured tearfully:

‘Oh dear, I’m so afraid that even now–of course, M. Poirot isn’t exactly the police–’

Lady Hoggin said anxiously:

‘So you see, Mr Poirot, you will have to be very careful.’

Hercule Poirot was quick to allay her anxiety.

‘But I, I am not of the police. My inquiries, they will be conducted very discreetly, very quietly. You can be assured, Lady Hoggin, that Shan Tung will be perfectly safe. That I will guarantee.’

Both ladies seemed relieved by the magic word. Poirot went on: ‘You have here the letter?’

Lady Hoggin shook her head.

‘No, I was instructed to enclose it with the money.’

‘And you did so?’

‘Yes.’

‘H’m, that is a pity.’

Miss Carnaby said brightly:

‘But I have the dog lead still. Shall I get it?’

She left the room. Hercule Poirot profited by her absence to ask a few pertinent questions.

‘Amy Carnaby? Oh! she’s quite all right. A good soul, though foolish, of course. I have had several companions and they have all been complete fools. But Amy was devoted to Shan Tung and she was terribly upset over the whole thing–as well she might be–hanging over perambulators and neglecting my little sweetheart! These old maids are all the same, idiotic over babies! No, I’m quite sure she had nothing whatever to do with it.’

‘It does not seem likely,’ Poirot agreed. ‘But as the dog disappeared when in her charge one must make quite certain of her honesty. She has been with you long?’

‘Nearly a year. I had excellent references with her. She was with old Lady Hartingfield until she died–ten years, I believe. After that she looked after an invalid sister for a while. She really is an excellent creature–but a complete fool, as I said.’

Amy Carnaby returned at this minute, slightly more out of breath, and produced the cut dog lead which she handed to Poirot with the utmost solemnity, looking at him with hopeful expectancy.

Poirot surveyed it carefully.

‘Mais oui,’ he said. ‘This has undoubtedly been cut.’

The two women waited expectantly. He said:

‘I will keep this.’

Solemnly he put it in his pocket. The two women breathed a sigh of relief. He had clearly done what was expected of him.

III

It was the habit of Hercule Poirot to leave nothing untested.

Though on the face of it it seemed unlikely that Miss Carnaby was anything but the foolish and rather muddle-headed woman that she appeared to be, Poirot nevertheless managed to interview a somewhat forbidding lady who was the niece of the late Lady Hartingfield.

‘Amy Carnaby?’ said Miss Maltravers. ‘Of course, remember her perfectly. She was a good soul and suited Aunt Julia down to the ground. Devoted to dogs and excellent at reading aloud. Tactful, too, never contradicted an invalid. What’s happened to her? Not in distress of any kind, I hope. I gave her a reference about a year ago to some woman–name began with H –’

Poirot explained hastily that Miss Carnaby was still in her post. There had been, he said, a little trouble over a lost dog.

‘Amy Carnaby is devoted to dogs. My aunt had a Pekinese. She left it to Miss Carnaby when she died and Miss Carnaby was devoted to it. I believe she was quite heartbroken when it died. Oh yes, she’s a good soul. Not, of course, precisely intellectual.’

Hercule Poirot agreed that Miss Carnaby could not, perhaps, be described as intellectual.

His next proceeding was to discover the Park Keeper to whom Miss Carnaby had spoken on the fateful afternoon. This he did without much difficulty. The man remembered the incident in question.

‘Middle-aged lady, rather stout–in a regular state she was–lost her Pekinese dog. I knew her well by sight–brings the dog along most afternoons. I saw her come in with it. She was in a rare taking when she lost it. Came running to me to know if I’d seen any one with a Pekinese dog! Well, I ask you! I can tell you, the Gardens is full of dogs–every kind–terriers, Pekes, German sausage-dogs–even them Borzois–all kinds we have. Not likely as I’d notice one Peke more than another.’

Hercule Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully.

He went to 38 Bloomsbury Road Square.

Nos. 38, 39 and 40 were incorporated together as the Balaclava Private Hotel. Poirot walked up the steps and pushed open the door. He was greeted inside by gloom and a smell of cooking cabbage with a reminiscence of breakfast kippers. On his left was a mahogany table with a sad-looking chrysanthemum plant on it. Above the table was a big baize-covered rack into which letters were stuck. Poirot stared at the board thoughtfully for some minutes. He pushed open a door on his right. It led into a kind of lounge with small tables and some so-called easy-chairs covered with a depressing pattern of cretonne. Three old ladies and one fierce-looking old gentleman raised their heads and gazed at the intruder with deadly venom. Hercule Poirot blushed and withdrew.

He walked farther along the passage and came to a staircase. On his right a passage branched at right angles to what was evidently the dining-room.

A little way along this passage was a door marked ‘Office.’

On this Poirot tapped. Receiving no response, he opened the door and looked in. There was a large desk in the room covered with papers but there was no one to be seen. He withdrew, closing the door again. He penetrated to the dining-room.

A sad-looking girl in a dirty apron was shuffling about with a basket of knives and forks with which she was laying the tables.

Hercule Poirot said apologetically:

‘Excuse me, but could I see the Manageress?’

The girl looked at him with lack-lustre eyes.

She said:

‘I don’t know, I’m sure.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘There is no one in the office.’

‘Well, I don’t know where she’d be, I’m sure.’

‘Perhaps,’ Hercule Poirot said, patient and persistent, ‘you could find out?’

The girl sighed. Dreary as her day’s round was, it had now been made additionally so by this new burden laid upon her. She said sadly:

‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’

Poirot thanked her and removed himself once more to the hall, not daring to face the malevolent glare of the occupants of the lounge. He was staring up at the baize-covered letter rack when a rustle and a strong smell of Devonshire violets proclaimed the arrival of the Manageress.

Mrs Harte was full of graciousness. She exclaimed:

‘So sorry I was not in my office. You were requiring rooms?’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘Not precisely. I was wondering if a friend of mine had been staying here lately. A Captain Curtis.’

‘Curtis,’ exclaimed Mrs Harte. ‘Captain Curtis? Now where have I heard that name?’

Poirot did not help her. She shook her head vexedly.

He said:

‘You have not, then, had a Captain Curtis staying here?’

‘Well, not lately, certainly. And yet, you know, the name is certainly familiar to me. Can you describe your friend at all?’

‘That,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘would be difficult.’ He went on: ‘I suppose it sometimes happens that letters arrive for people when in actual fact no one of that name is staying here?’

‘That does happen, of course.’

‘What do you do with such letters?’

‘Well, we keep them for a time. You see, it probably means that the person in question will arrive shortly. Of course, if letters or parcels are a long time here unclaimed, they are returned to the post office.’

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

He said:

‘I comprehend.’ He added: ‘It is like this, you see. I wrote a letter to my friend here.’

Mrs Harte’s face cleared.

‘That explains it. I must have noticed the name on an envelope. But really we have so many ex-Army gentlemen staying here or passing through–Let me see now.’

She peered up at the board.

Hercule Poirot said:

‘It is not there now.’

‘It must have been returned to the postman, I suppose. I am so sorry. Nothing important, I hope?’

‘No, no, it was of no importance.’

As he moved towards the door, Mrs Harte, enveloped in her pungent odour of violets, pursued him.

‘If your friend should come–’

‘It is most unlikely. I must have made a mistake…’

‘Our terms,’ said Mrs Harte, ‘are very moderate. Coffee after dinner is included. I would like you to see one or two of our bed-sitting-rooms…’

With difficulty Hercule Poirot escaped.

IV

The drawing-room of Mrs Samuelson was larger, more lavishly furnished, and enjoyed an even more stifling amount of central heating than that of Lady Hoggin. Hercule Poirot picked his way giddily amongst gilded console tables and large groups of statuary.

Mrs Samuelson was taller than Lady Hoggin and her hair was dyed with peroxide. Her Pekinese was called Nanki Poo. His bulging eyes surveyed Hercule Poirot with arrogance. Miss Keble, Mrs Samuelson’s companion, was thin and scraggy where Miss Carnaby had been plump, but she also was voluble and slightly breathless. She, too, had been blamed for Nanki Poo’s disappearance.

‘But really, Mr Poirot, it was the most amazing thing. It all happened in a second. Outside Harrods it was. A nurse there asked me the time–’

Poirot interrupted her.

‘A nurse? A hospital nurse?’

‘No, no–a children’s nurse. Such a sweet baby it was, too! A dear little mite. Such lovely rosy cheeks. They say children don’t look healthy in London, but I’m sure–’

‘Ellen,’ said Mrs Samuelson.

Miss Keble blushed, stammered, and subsided into silence.

Mrs Samuelson said acidly:

‘And while Miss Keble was bending over a perambulator that had nothing to do with her, this audacious villain cut Nanki Poo’s lead and made off with him.’

Miss Keble murmured tearfully:

‘It all happened in a second. I looked round and the darling boy was gone–there was just the dangling lead in my hand. Perhaps you’d like to see the lead, Mr Poirot?’

‘By no means,’ said Poirot hastily. He had no wish to make a collection of cut dog leads. ‘I understand,’ he went on, ‘that shortly afterwards you received a letter?’

The story followed the same course exactly–the letter–the threats of violence to Nanki Poo’s ears and tail. Only two things were different–the sum of money demanded–£300 –and the address to which it was to be sent: this time it was to Commander Blackleigh, Harrington Hotel, 76 Clonmel Gardens, Kensington.

Mrs Samuelson went on:

‘When Nanki Poo was safely back again, I went to the place myself, Mr Poirot. After all, three hundred pounds is three hundred pounds.’

‘Certainly it is.’

‘The very first thing I saw was my letter enclosing the money in a kind of rack in the hall. Whilst I was waiting for the proprietress I slipped it into my bag. Unfortunately–’

Poirot said: ‘Unfortunately, when you opened it it contained only blank sheets of paper.’

‘How did you know?’ Mrs Samuelson turned on him with awe.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘Obviously, che`re Madame, the thief would take care to recover the money before he returned the dog. He would then replace the notes with blank paper and return the letter to the rack in case its absence should be noticed.’

‘No such person as Commander Blackleigh had ever stayed there.’

Poirot smiled.

‘And of course, my husband was extremely annoyed about the whole thing. In fact, he was livid–absolutely livid!’

Poirot murmured cautiously:

‘You did not–er–consult him before dispatching the money?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs Samuelson with decision.

Poirot looked a question. The lady explained.

‘I wouldn’t have risked it for a moment. Men are so extraordinary when it’s a question of money. Jacob would have insisted on going to the police. I couldn’t risk that. My poor darling Nanki Poo. Anything might have happened to him! Of course, I had to tell my husband afterwards, because I had to explain why I was overdrawn at the Bank.’

Poirot murmured:

‘Quite so–quite so.’

‘And I have really never seen him so angry. Men,’ said Mrs Samuelson, rearranging her handsome diamond bracelet and turning her rings on her fingers, ‘think of nothing but money.’

V

Hercule Poirot went up in the lift to Sir Joseph Hoggin’s office. He sent in his card and was told that Sir Joseph was engaged at the moment but would see him presently. A haughty blonde sailed out of Sir Joseph’s room at last with her hands full of papers. She gave the quaint little man a disdainful glance in passing.

Sir Joseph was seated behind his immense mahogany desk. There was a trace of lipstick on his chin.

‘Well, Mr Poirot? Sit down. Got any news for me?’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘The whole affair is of a pleasing simplicity. In each case the money was sent to one of those boarding houses or private hotels where there is no porter or hall attendant and where a large number of guests are always coming and going, including a fairly large preponderance of ex-Service men. Nothing would be easier than for any one to walk in, abstract a letter from the rack, either take it away, or else remove the money and replace it with blank paper. Therefore, in every case, the trail ends abruptly in a blank wall.’

‘You mean you’ve no idea who the fellow is?’

‘I have certain ideas, yes. It will take a few days to follow them up.’

Sir Joseph looked at him curiously.

‘Good work. Then, when you have got anything to report–’

‘I will report to you at your house.’

Sir Joseph said:

‘If you get to the bottom of this business, it will be a pretty good piece of work.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘There is no question of failure. Hercule Poirot does not fail.’

Sir Joseph Hoggin looked at the little man and grinned.

‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ he demanded.

‘Entirely with reason.’

‘Oh well.’ Sir Joseph Hoggin leaned back in his chair. ‘Pride goes before a fall, you know.’

VI

Hercule Poirot, sitting in front of his electric radiator (and feeling a quiet satisfaction in its neat geometrical pattern) was giving instructions to his valet and general factotum.

‘You understand, Georges?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

‘More probably a flat or maisonette. And it will definitely be within certain limits. South of the Park, east of Kensington Church, west of Knightsbridge Barracks and north of Fulham Road.’

‘I understand perfectly, sir.’

Poirot murmured.

‘A curious little case. There is evidence here of a very definite talent for organization. And there is, of course, the surprising invisibility of the star performer–the Nemean Lion himself, if I may so style him. Yes, an interesting little case. I could wish that I felt more attracted to my client–but he bears an unfortunate resemblance to a soap manufacturer of Lie`ge who poisoned his wife in order to marry a blonde secretary. One of my early successes.’

Georges shook his head. He said gravely:

‘These blondes, sir, they’re responsible for a lot of trouble.’

VII

It was three days later when the invaluable Georges said:

‘This is the address, sir.’

Hercule Poirot took the piece of paper handed to him.

‘Excellent, my good Georges. And what day of the week?’

‘Thursdays, sir.’

‘Thursdays. And today, most fortunately, is a Thursday. So there need be no delay.’

Twenty minutes later Hercule Poirot was climbing the stairs of an obscure block of flats tucked away in a little street leading off a more fashionable one. No. 10 Rosholm Mansions was on the third and top floor and there was no lift. Poirot toiled upwards round and round the narrow corkscrew staircase.

He paused to regain his breath on the top landing and from behind the door of No. 10 a new sound broke the silence–the sharp bark of a dog.

Hercule Poirot nodded his head with a slight smile. He pressed the bell of No. 10.

The barking redoubled–footsteps came to the door, it was opened…

Miss Amy Carnaby fell back, her hand went to her ample breast.

‘You permit that I enter?’ said Hercule Poirot, and entered without waiting for the reply.

There was a sitting-room door open on the right and he walked in. Behind him Miss Carnaby followed as though in a dream.

The room was very small and much overcrowded. Amongst the furniture a human being could be discovered, an elderly woman lying on a sofa drawn up to the gas fire. As Poirot came in, a Pekinese dog jumped off the sofa and came forward uttering a few sharp suspicious barks.

‘Aha,’ said Poirot. ‘The chief actor! I salute you, my little friend.’

He bent forward, extending his hand. The dog sniffed at it, his intelligent eyes fixed on the man’s face.

Miss Carnaby muttered faintly:

‘So you know?’

Hercule Poirot nodded.

‘Yes, I know.’ He looked at the woman on the sofa. ‘Your sister, I think?’

Miss Carnaby said mechanically: ‘Yes, Emily, this–this is Mr Poirot.’

Emily Carnaby gave a gasp. She said: ‘Oh!’

Amy Carnaby said:

‘Augustus…’

The Pekinese looked towards her–his tail moved–then he resumed his scrutiny of Poirot’s hand. Again his tail moved faintly.

Gently, Poirot picked the little dog up and sat down with Augustus on his knee. He said:

‘So I have captured the Nemean Lion. My task is completed.’

Amy Carnaby said in a hard dry voice:

‘Do you really know everything?’

Poirot nodded.

‘I think so. You organized this business–with Augustus to help you. You took your employer’s dog out for his usual walk, brought him here and went on to the Park with Augustus. The Park Keeper saw you with a Pekinese as usual. The nurse girl, if we had ever found her, would also have agreed that you had a Pekinese with you when you spoke to her. Then, while you were talking, you cut the lead and Augustus, trained by you, slipped off at once and made a bee-line back home. A few minutes later you gave the alarm that the dog had been stolen.’

There was a pause. Then Miss Carnaby drew herself up with a certain pathetic dignity. She said:

‘Yes. It is all quite true. I –I have nothing to say.’

The invalid woman on the sofa began to cry softly.

Poirot said:

‘Nothing at all, Mademoiselle?’

Miss Carnaby said:

‘Nothing. I have been a thief–and now I am found out.’

Poirot murmured:

‘You have nothing to say–in your own defence?’

A spot of red showed suddenly in Amy Carnaby’s white cheeks. She said:

‘I –I don’t regret what I did. I think that you are a kind man, Mr Poirot, and that possibly you might understand. You see, I’ve been so terribly afraid.’

‘Afraid?’

‘Yes, it’s difficult for a gentleman to understand, I expect. But you see, I’m not a clever woman at all, and I’ve no training and I’m getting older–and I’m so terrified for the future. I’ve not been able to save anything–how could I with Emily to be cared for? –and as I get older and more incompetent there won’t be any one who wants me. They’ll want somebody young and brisk. I’ve–I’ve known so many people like I am –nobody wants you and you live in one room and you can’t have a fire or any warmth and not very much to eat, and at last you can’t even pay the rent of your room…There are Institutions, of course, but it’s not very easy to get into them unless you have influential friends, and I haven’t. There are a good many others situated like I am–poor companions–untrained useless women with nothing to look forward to but a deadly fear…’

Her voice shook. She said:

‘And so–some of us–got together and–and I thought of this. It was really having Augustus that put it into my mind. You see, to most people, one Pekinese is very much like another. (Just as we think the Chinese are.) Really, of course, it’s ridiculous. No one who knew could mistake Augustus for Nanki Poo or Shan Tung or any of the other Pekes. He’s far more intelligent for one thing, and he’s much handsomer, but, as I say, to most people a Peke is just a Peke. Augustus put it into my head–that, combined with the fact that so many rich women have Pekinese dogs.’

Poirot said with a faint smile:

‘It must have been a profitable–racket! How many are there in the–the gang? Or perhaps I had better ask how often operations have been successfully carried out?’

Miss Carnaby said simply:

‘Shan Tung was the sixteenth.’

Hercule Poirot raised his eyebrows.

‘I congratulate you. Your organization must have been indeed excellent.’

Emily Carnaby said:

‘Amy was always good at organization. Our father–he was the Vicar of Kellington in Essex–always said that Amy had quite a genius for planning. She always made all the arrangements for the Socials and the Bazaars and all that.’

Poirot said with a little bow:

‘I agree. As a criminal, Mademoiselle, you are quite in the first rank.’

Amy Carnaby cried:

‘A criminal. Oh dear, I suppose I am. But–but it never felt like that.’

‘How did it feel?’

‘Of course, you are quite right. It was breaking the law. But you see–how can I explain it? Nearly all these women who employ us are so very rude and unpleasant. Lady Hoggin, for instance, doesn’t mind what she says to me. She said her tonic tasted unpleasant the other day and practically accused me of tampering with it. All that sort of thing.’ Miss Carnaby flushed. ‘It’s really very unpleasant. And not being able to say anything or answer back makes it rankle more, if you know what I mean.’