“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 disfiguring dental plate—goes into the Toilette. She emerges a quarter of an hour later as—to use the words of Detective Inspector Hearn—‘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 débutante.”
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 Elliot 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 lookout 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 . . . ?”
Forty-eight
THE FLOCK OF GERYON
“The Flock of Geryon” was first published in the USA as “Weird Monster” in This Week, May 26, 1940, then in The Strand, August 1940.
I really do apologize 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 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 drily. “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 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 reprehe
nsible, 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 recognized. 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.”
“You think your friend is being victimized by a sect of this kind?”
“I do. Oh! I certainly do. The Flock of the Shepherd, they call themselves. Their headquarters is in Devonshire—a very lovely estate by the sea. The adherents go there for what they term a Retreat. That is a period of a fortnight—with religious services and rituals. And there are three big Festivals in the year, the Coming of the Pasture, the Full Pasture, and the Reaping of the Pasture.”
“Which last is stupid,” said Poirot. “Because one does not reap pasture.”
“The whole thing is stupid,” said Miss Carnaby with warmth. “The whole sect centres round the head of the movement, the Great Shepherd, he is called. A Dr. Andersen. A very handsome-looking man, I believe, with a presence.”
“Which is attractive to the women, yes?”
“I am afraid so,” Miss Carnaby sighed. “My father was a very handsome man. Sometimes, it was most awkward in the parish. The rivalry in embroidering vestments—and the division of church work. . . .”
She shook her head reminiscently.
“Are the members of the Great Flock mostly women?”
“At least three quarters of them, I gather. What men there are, are mostly cranks! It is upon the women that the success of the movement depends and—and on the funds they supply.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “Now we come to it. Frankly, you think the whole thing is a ramp?”
“Frankly, M. Poirot, I do. And another thing worries me. I happen to know that my poor friend is so bound up in this religion that she has recently made a will leaving all her property to the movement.”
Poirot said sharply:
“Was that—suggested to her?”
“In all fairness, no. It was entirely her own idea. The Great Shepherd had shown her a new way of life—so all that she had was to go on her death to the Great Cause. What really worries me is—”
“Yes—go on—”
“Several wealthy women have been among the devotees. In the last year three of them, no less, have died.”
“Leaving all their money to this sect?”
“Yes.”
“Their relations have made no protest? I should have thought it likely that there might have been litigation.”
“You see, M. Poirot, it is usually lonely women who belong to this gathering. People who have no very near relations or friends.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Miss Carnaby hurried on:
“Of course I’ve no right to suggest anything at all. From what I have been able to find out, there was nothing wrong about any of these deaths. One, I believe, was pneumonia following influenza and another was attributed to gastric ulcer. There were absolutely no suspicious circumstances, if you know what I mean, and the deaths did not take place at Green Hills Sanctuary, but at their own homes. I’ve no doubt it is quite all right, but all the same I—well—I shouldn’t like anything to happen to Emmie.”
She clasped her hands, her eyes appealed to Poirot.
Poirot himself was silent for some minutes. When he spoke there was a change in his voice. It was grave and deep.
He said:
“Will you give me, or will you find out for me, the names and addresses of these members of the sect who have recently died?”
“Yes indeed, M. Poirot.”
Poirot said slowly:
“Mademoiselle, I think you are a woman of great courage and determination. You have good histrionic powers. Would you be willing to undertake a piece of work that may be attended with considerable danger?”
“I should like nothing better,” said the adventurous Miss Carnaby.
Poirot said warningly:
“If there is a risk at all, it will be a grave one. You comprehend—either this is a mare’s nest or it is serious. To find out which it is, it will be necessary for you yourself to become a member of the Great Flock. I would suggest that you exaggerate the amount of the legacy that you recently inherited. You are now a well-to-do woman with no very definite aim in life. You argue with your friend Emmeline about this religion she has adopted—assure her that it is all nonsense. She is eager to convert you. You allow yourself to be persuaded to go down to Green Hills Sanctuary. And there you fall a victim to the persuasive powers and magnetic influence of Dr. Andersen. I think I can safely leave that part to you?”
Miss Carnaby smiled modestly. She murmured:
“I think I can manage that all right!”
II
“Well, my friend, what have you got for me?”
Chief Inspector Japp looked thoughtfully at the little man who asked the question. He said ruefully:
“Not at all what I’d like to have, Poirot. I hate these long-haired, religious cranks like poison. Filling up women with a lot of mumbo jumbo. But this fellow’s being careful. There’s nothing one can get hold of. All sounds a bit batty but harmless.”
“Have you learned anything about this Dr. Andersen?”
“I’ve looked up his past history. He was a promising chemist and got chucked out of some German University. Seems his mother was Jewish. He was always keen on the study of Oriental Myths and Religions, spent all his spare time on that and has written various articles on the subject—some of the articles sound pretty cra
zy to me.”
“So it is possible that he is a genuine fanatic?”
“I’m bound to say it seems quite likely!”
“What about those names and addresses I gave you?”
“Nothing doing there. Miss Everitt died of ulcerative colitis. Doctor quite positive there was no hanky-panky. Mrs. Lloyd died of bronchopneumonia. Lady Western died of tuberculosis. Had suffered from it many years ago—before she even met this bunch. Miss Lee died of typhoid—attributed to some salad she ate somewhere in the north of England. Three of them got ill and died in their own homes, and Mrs. Lloyd died in a hotel in the south of France. As far as those deaths go, there’s nothing to connect them with the Great Flock or with Andersen’s place down in Devonshire. Must be pure coincidence. All absolutely O.K. and according to Cocker.”
Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:
“And yet, mon cher, I have a feeling that this is the tenth Labor of Hercules, and that this Dr. Andersen is the Monster Geryon whom it is my mission to destroy.”
Japp looked at him anxiously.
“Look here, Poirot, you haven’t been reading any queer literature yourself lately, have you?”
Poirot said with dignity:
“My remarks are, as always, apt, sound, and to the point.”
“You might start a new religion yourself,” said Japp, “with the creed: ‘There is no one so clever as Hercule Poirot, Amen, D.C. Repeat ad lib.’!”
III
“It is the peace here that I find so wonderful,” said Miss Carnaby, breathing heavily and ecstatically.
“I told you so, Amy,” said Emmeline Clegg.
The two friends were sitting on the slope of a hillside overlooking a deep and lovely blue sea. The grass was vivid green, the earth and the cliffs a deep, glowing red. The little estate now known as Green Hills Sanctuary was a promontory comprising about six acres. Only a narrow neck of land joined it to the mainland so that it was almost an island.
Mrs. Clegg murmured sentimentally: