“You understand, George?”
“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 Liège who poisoned his wife in order to marry a blonde secretary. One of my early successes.”
George 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 George said:
“This is the address, sir.”
Hercule Poirot took the piece of paper handed to him.
“Excellent, my good George. 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 beeline 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.”
“I know what you mean,” said Hercule Poirot.
“And then seeing money frittered away so wastefully—that is upsetting. And Sir Joseph, occasionally he used to describe a coup he had made in the City—sometimes something that seemed to me (of course, I know I’ve only got a woman’s brain and don’t understand finan
ce) downright dishonest. Well, you know, M. Poirot, it all—it all unsettled me, and I felt that to take a little money away from these people who really wouldn’t miss it and hadn’t been too scrupulous in acquiring it—well, really it hardly seemed wrong at all.”
Poirot murmured:
“A modern Robin Hood! Tell me, Miss Carnaby, did you ever have to carry out the threats you used in your letters?”
“Threats?”
“Were you ever compelled to mutilate the animals in the way you specified?”
Miss Carnaby regarded him in horror.
“Of course, I would never have dreamed of doing such a thing! That was just—just an artistic touch.”
“Very artistic. It worked.”
“Well, of course I knew it would. I know how I should have felt about Augustus, and of course I had to make sure these women never told their husbands until afterwards. The plan worked beautifully every time. In nine cases out of ten the companion was given the letter with the money to post. We usually steamed it open, took out the notes, and replaced them with paper. Once or twice the woman posted it herself. Then, of course, the companion had to go to the hotel and take the letter out of the rack. But that was quite easy, too.”
“And the nursemaid touch? Was it always a nursemaid?”
“Well, you see, M. Poirot, old maids are known to be foolishly sentimental about babies. So it seemed quite natural that they should be absorbed over a baby and not notice anything.”
Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:
“Your psychology is excellent, your organization is first class, and you are also a very fine actress. Your performance the other day when I interviewed Lady Hoggin was irreproachable. Never think of yourself disparagingly, Miss Carnaby. You may be what is termed an untrained woman but there is nothing wrong with your brains or with your courage.”
Miss Carnaby said with a faint smile:
“And yet I have been found out, M. Poirot.”
“Only by me. That was inevitable! When I had interviewed Mrs. Samuelson I realized that the kidnapping of Shan Tung was one of a series. I had already learned that you had once been left a Pekinese dog and had an invalid sister. I had only to ask my invaluable servant to look for a small flat within a certain radius occupied by an invalid lady who had a Pekinese dog and a sister who visited her once a week on her day out. It was simple.”
Amy Carnaby drew herself up. She said:
“You have been very kind. It emboldens me to ask you a favour. I cannot, I know, escape the penalty for what I have done. I shall be sent to prison, I suppose. But if you could, M. Poirot, avert some of the publicity. So distressing for Emily—and for those few who knew us in the old days. I could not, I suppose, go to prison under a false name? Or is that a very wrong thing to ask?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I think I can do more than that. But first of all I must make one thing quite clear. This ramp has got to stop. There must be no more disappearing dogs. All that is finished!”
“Yes! Oh yes!”
“And the money you extracted from Lady Hoggin must be returned.”
Amy Carnaby crossed the room, opened the drawer of a bureau and returned with a packet of notes which she handed to Poirot.
“I was going to pay it into the pool today.”
Poirot took the notes and counted them. He got up.
“I think it possible, Miss Carnaby, that I may be able to persuade Sir Joseph not to prosecute.”
“Oh, M. Poirot!”
Amy Carnaby clasped her hands. Emily gave a cry of joy. Augustus barked and wagged his tail.
“As for you, mon ami,” said Poirot addressing him. “There is one thing that I wish you would give me. It is your mantle of invisibility that I need. In all these cases nobody for a moment suspected that there was a second dog involved. Augustus possessed the lion’s skin of invisibility.”
“Of course, M. Poirot, according to the legend, Pekinese were lions once. And they still have the hearts of lions!”
“Augustus is, I suppose, the dog that was left to you by Lady Hartingfield and who is reported to have died? Were you never afraid of him coming home alone through the traffic?”
“Oh no, M. Poirot, Augustus is very clever about traffic. I have trained him most carefully. He has even grasped the principle of One Way Streets.”
“In that case,” said Hercule Poirot, “he is superior to most human beings!”
VIII
Sir Joseph received Hercule Poirot in his study. He said:
“Well, Mr. Poirot? Made your boast good?”
“Let me first ask you a question,” said Poirot as he seated himself. “I know who the criminal is and I think it possible that I can produce sufficient evidence to convict this person. But in that case I doubt if you will ever recover your money.”
“Not get back my money?”
Sir Joseph turned purple.
Hercule Poirot went on:
“But I am not a policeman. I am acting in this case solely in your interests. I could, I think, recover your money intact, if no proceedings were taken.”
“Eh?” said Sir Joseph. “That needs a bit of thinking about.”
“It is entirely for you to decide. Strictly speaking, I suppose you ought to prosecute in the public interest. Most people would say so.”
“I dare say they would,” said Sir Joseph sharply. “It wouldn’t be their money that had gone west. If there’s one thing I hate it’s to be swindled. Nobody’s ever swindled me and got away with it.”
“Well then, what do you decide?”
Sir Joseph hit the table with his fist.
“I’ll have the brass! Nobody’s going to say they got away with two hundred pounds of my money.”
Hercule Poirot rose, crossed to the writing table, wrote out a cheque for two hundred pounds and handed it to the other man.
Sir Joseph said in a weak voice:
“Well, I’m damned! Who the devil is this fellow?”
Poirot shook his head.
“If you accept the money, there must be no questions asked.”
Sir Joseph folded up the cheque and put it in his pocket.
“That’s a pity. But the money’s the thing. And what do I owe you, Mr. Poirot?”
“My fees will not be high. This was, as I said, a very unimportant matter.” He paused—and added, “Nowadays nearly all my cases are murder cases. . . .”
Sir Joseph started slightly.
“Must be interesting?” he said.
“Sometimes. Curiously enough, you recall to me one of my earlier cases in Belgium, many years ago—the chief protagonist was very like you in appearance. He was a wealthy soap manufacturer. He poisoned his wife in order to be free to marry his secretary . . . Yes—the resemblance is very remarkable. . . .”
A faint sound came from Sir Joseph’s lips—they had gone a queer blue colour. All the ruddy hue had faded from his cheeks. His eyes, starting out of his head, stared at Poirot. He slipped down a little in his chair.
Then, with a shaking hand, he fumbled in his pocket. He drew out the cheque and tore it into pieces.
“That’s washed out—see? Consider it as your fee.”
“Oh but, Sir Joseph, my fee would not have been as large as that.”
“That’s all right. You keep it.”
“I shall send it to a deserving charity.”
“Send it anywhere you damn well like.”
Poirot leaned forward. He said:
“I think I need hardly point out, Sir Joseph, that in your position, you would do well to be exceedingly careful.”
Sir Joseph said, his voice almost inaudible:
“You needn’t worry. I shall be careful all right.”
Hercule Poirot left the house. As he went down the steps he said to himself:
“So—I was right.”
IX
Lady Hoggin said to her husband:
“Funny, this tonic tastes quite different. It hasn’t got that bitter t
aste any more. I wonder why?”
Sir Joseph growled:
“Chemist. Careless fellows. Make things up differently different times.”
Lady Hoggin said doubtfully:
“I suppose that must be it.”
“Of course it is. What else could it be?”
“Has the man found out anything about Shan Tung?”
“Yes. He got me my money back all right.”
“Who was it?”
“He didn’t say. Very close fellow, Hercule Poirot. But you needn’t worry.”
“He’s a funny little man, isn’t he?”
Sir Joseph gave a slight shiver and threw a sideways glance upwards as though he felt the invisible presence of Hercule Poirot behind his right shoulder. He had an idea that he would always feel it there.
He said:
“He’s a damned clever little devil!”
And he thought to himself:
“Greta can go hang! I’m not going to risk my neck for any damned platinum blonde!”
X
“Oh!”
Amy Carnaby gazed down incredulously at the cheque for two hundred pounds. She cried:
“Emily! Emily! Listen to this.
‘Dear Miss Carnaby,
Allow me to enclose a contribution to your very deserving Fund before it is finally wound up.
Yours very truly,
Hercule Poirot.’ ”
“Amy,” said Emily Carnaby, “you’ve been incredibly lucky. Think where you might be now.”
“Wormwood Scrubbs—or is it Holloway?” murmured Amy Carnaby. “But that’s all over now—isn’t it, Augustus? No more walks to the Park with mother or mother’s friends and a little pair of scissors.”
A far away wistfulness came into her eyes. She sighed.
“Dear Augustus! It seems a pity. He’s so clever . . . One can teach him anything. . . .”
Forty
THE LERNEAN HYDRA
“The Lernean Hydra” was first published in the USA as “The Invisible Enemy” in This Week, September 3, 1939, then in The Strand, December 1939.
Hercule Poirot looked encouragingly at the man seated opposite him.
Dr. Charles Oldfield was a man of perhaps forty. He had fair hair slightly grey at the temples and blue eyes that held a worried expression. He stooped a little and his manner was a trifle hesitant. Moreover, he seemed to find difficulty in coming to the point.