entering the system. It would produce certain symptoms-dryness of the
mouth and throat, difficulty in swallowing, hallucinations, double
vision-all the symptoms, in fact, which Mr. Cliandler has experienced."
He turned to the young man.
"And to remove the laist doubt from your mind, I will tell you that that
is not a supposition but a fact. Your shaving-cream was heavily
impregnated with atropine sulphate. I took a sample and had it tested."
White, shaking, Hugh said, "Who did it? Why?"
Hercule Poirot said, "That is what I have been studying ever since I
arrived here. I have been looking for a motive for murder. Diana
Maberly gained financially by your deatli, hut I did not consider her
seriously-"
Hugh Cliandler flashed out, "I should hope notl"
"I envisaged another possible motive. The eternal triangle: two men and
a woman. Colonel Frobisher had been in love with your mother, Admiral
Chandler married her."
Admiral Chandler cried out, "George? Georger I won't believe it."
Hugh said in an incredulous voice, "Do you mean that hatred could go
on-to a son?"
Hercule Poirot said, "Under certain circumstances, yes."
Frobisher cried out, "It's a damned liel Don't believe him, Charles."
Cliandler shrank away from him. He muttered to himself:
"The datura ... India-yes, I see.... And we'd never suspect poisormot
with madness in the family already. . . ."
"Mais oui!" Hercule Poirot's voice rose high and shrill.
"Madness in the family. A madman-bent on revengeetng-as madmen are,
concealing his ma(less for years." He whirled round on Frobisher. "Mon
Dieu, you must have known, you must have suspected, that Hugh
was your son? Why did you never tell him so?"
Froijislier staniniered, gulped.
"didn't know. I couldn't be sure.... You see, Caroline came to me
once-she was frightened of something-in great trouble. I don't know, I
never have known, what it w;is all about. She-l-we lost our heads.
Afterward I went away at once-it was the only thing to be done, we both
knew we'd got to play the gaine. I-well, I wondered, but I couldn't be
sure. Caroline never said anything that led me to tlnk Hugh was my son.
Azid then when this-this streztk of niadness appeared, it settled things
definitely, I thought."
Poirot said, "Yes, it settled thingsl You could not see the way the boy
has of thrusting out his face and bringing down his brows-a trick he
inherited from yoll. But Charles Cliandler saw it. Saw it years
ago-and learned the truth from his wife. I think she was afraid of
himhe'(1 begun to show her the mad streak-that was what drove lier into
your al-ms-you whom she had always loved.
Charles Cliandler planned his revenge. His wife died in a boating
accident. He and she were out in the boat alone and he knows how tliat
accident came about. Then he settled down to feed his concentrated
hatred against the boy who bore his name but wlio was not his son. Your
lndian stories 1)ut the idea of datura poisoning into his head.
Hugh should be slowly driven mad. Driven to the stage where he would
take his own life in despair. The blood lust was Admiral Chandler's,
not Hugh's. It was Charles Clia(Iler who was driven to cut the throats
of sheep in lonely fields. But it was Ilugh who was to pay the penaltyl
"I)o you know when I suspected? When Admiral Chan(ller was so averse to
his son seeing a doctor. For Hugh to object was natural enough. But
the father! There nght ))e ti,eatnient which would save his son-there
were a liti,idi-e(I reasons why lie should seek to li;we a doctor's
ol)on. But, no, a doctor must not be allowed to see Htigli (,handler-in
case a doctor should discover that Htig was sanel" Htig saiel very
quietly, "Sane.... I am sane?"
He took a step toward Diana.
Frobisher said in a gruff voice, "You're sane enough.
There's no taint in our family."
Diana said, "Hugh...."
Admiral Chandler picked up Hugh's gun.
He said,"All a lot of nonsensel Think I'll go and see if I can get a
rabbit-"
Frobisher started forward, but the hand of Hercule Poirot restrained
him. Poirot said:
"You said yourself-just now-that it was the best way.
Hugh and Diana had gone from the room.
The two men, the Englishman and the Belgian, watched the last of the
Chandlers cross the Park and go up into the woods.
Presently, they heard a shot. . .
the TFT,EPHONE RANG.
"Hullo, Poirot, is that you?"
Hercule Poirot recognized the voice as that of young Dr. Stoddart. He
liked Michael Stoddart, liked the shy friendliness of his grin, was
amused by his naive interest in crime, and respected him as a
hard-working and shrewd man in his chosen profession.
"I don't like bothering you-" the voice went on and hesitated.
"hut something is bothering you?" suggested Hercule Poirot acutely.
"Exactly." Michael Stoddart's voice sounded relieved.
"Hit it in onel"
"Eh bien, what can I do for you, my friend?"
Stoddart sounded diffident. He stammered a little when he answered.
"I suppose it would be awful c-c-cheek if I asked you to come round.
Perhaps you're busy.... B-B-But I'm in a bit of a j-j-jam."
"Certainly I will come. To your house?"
"No-as a matter of fact I'm at the Mews that runs along behind.
Conningby Mews. The number is 17. Could you really come? I'd be no
end grateful."
"I arrive immediately," replied Hercule Poirot.
Hercule Poirot walked along the dark Mews, looking up at the numbers. It
was past one o'clock in the morning and for the most part the- Mews
appeared to have gone to bed, though there were still lights in one or
two windows.
As he reached 17, its door opened and Dr. Stoddart stood looking otit.
"Good manl" he said. "Come up, will you?"
A small ladderlike stairway led to the upper floor. Here, on the right,
was a fairly big room, furnished with divans, rugs, triangular silver
cushions, and large numbers of hottles and glasses.
Everything was more or less in confusion, cigarette ends were
everywhere, and there were many broken glasses.
"Hal" said Hercule Poirot. "Mon che-r Watson, I deduce that there has
been here a partyl"
"There's been a party all right," said Stoddart grimly.
"Some paity, I should sayl"
"You did not, then, attend it yourself?"
"No, I'm here strictly in my professional capacity."
"'vVhat happened?"
Stoddart said, "This place belongs to a woman called Patience Grace-Mrs.
Patience Grace."
"It sounds," said Poirot, "a charming old-world name."
"There's nothing charming or old-world about Mrs. Grace. She's
good-looking in a tough sort of way. She's got through a coul-,Ie of
husbands, and now she's got a boy friend whoin stie suspects of trying
to run out on her. They started this party on drink and they finished
it on dopecocaine, to be exact. Cocaine is stuff tliat starts off
making you feel ju
st grand and with everything in the garden lovely. It
peps you up and you feel you can do twice as much as you usually do.
Take too much of it and you get violent mental excitement, delusions,
and delirium. Mrs. Grace had a violent quarrel with her boy friend, an
unpleasant person by the name of Hawker. Result, he walked out on her
then and there, and she leaned out of the window and took a pot shot at
him with a brand new revolver that someone had been fool enough to give
her."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose.
"Did she hit him?"
"Not shel Bullet went several yards wide, I should say.
What she di'd hit was a miserable loafer who was creeping along the
I;Iews looking in the dustbins. Got him through the fleshy part of the
arm. He raised hell, of course, and the crowd hastied him in here
(juick, got the wind up with all the blood that was spilling out of him,
and came
round and got me."
"Yes?"
"I patched him up all right. It wasn't serious. Then one or two of the
men got busy on him and in the end he consented to accept a couple of
five-pound notes and say no more about it. Suited him all right, poor
devil.
Marvelous stroke of luck."
"And you?"
"I had a bit more work to do. Mrs. Grace herself was in raving
hysterics by that time. I gave her a shot of something and packed her
off to bed. There was another girl who'd more or less passed out-quite
young she was, and I attended to her, too. By that time everyone was
slinking off as fast as they could leave."
He paused.
"And then," said Poirot, "you had time to think over the situation."
"Exactly," said Stoddart. "If it was an ordinary drunken binge, well,
that would be the end of it. But dope's difl'erent."
"You are quite sure of your facts?"
"Oh, absolutely. No mistaking it. It's cocaine all right.
I found some in a lacquer box-they snuff it up, you know.
Question is, where does it come from? I remembered that you'd been
talking the other day about a big new wave of drug-taking and the
increase of drug addicts."
Hercule Poirot nodded. He said, "The police will be interested in this
party tonight."
Michael Stoddart said unhappily, "That's just it."
Poirot looked at him with suddenly awakened interest.
He said, "But you-you are not very anxious that the police should be
interested?"
Tylichael Stoddart mumbled, "Innocent people get mixed up in tlngs ...
hard lines on them."
"Is it I%Irs. Patience Grace for whom you are solicitous?"
"Good Lord, no. She's as hard-boiled as they make theml"
Hercule Poirot said gently, "It is, then, the other onethe girl?"
Dr. Stoddart said, "Of course, she's hard-boiled, too, in a way. I
mean, she'd describe herself as hard-boiled. But she's really just very
young-a bit wild and all that-but it's just kid foolishness. She gets
mixed up in a racket like this because she thinks it's smart or modern
or something like that."
A faint smile came to Poirot's lips. He said softly, "This girl, you
have met her before tonight?"
Michael Stoddart nodded. He looked very young and embarrassed.
"Ran across her in Mertonshire. At the Hunt Ball. Her father's a
retired general-blood and thunder, shoot 'em down-pukka sahib-all that
sort of thing. There are four daughters and they are all a bit
wild-driven to it with a father like that, I should say. And it's a bad
part of the country where they live-armaments works near by and a lot of
money-none of the old-fashioned country feeliliga rich crowd and most of
them pretty vicious. The girls have got in with a bad set."
Hercule Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes. Then he
said:
"I perceive now why you desired my presence. You want me to take the
affair in hand?"
"Would you? I feel I ought to do something about itbut I confess I'd
like to keep Sheila Grant out of the limelight if I could."
"That can be managed, I fancy. I should like to see the young lady."
"Come along."
He led the way out of the room. A voice called fretfully from a door
opposite.
"Doctor-for God's sake, doctor, I'm going crazy."
Stoddart went into the room. Poirot followed. It was a bedroom in a
complete state of chaos-powder sl-)illed on the floor-pots and jars
everywhere, clothes flung al)out.
On the be(i was a woman with unnaturally blond hair and a vacant,
vicious face. She called out:
"I've got idsects crawling all over me.... I have. I swear I have. I'm
going mad.... For God's sake, give me a shot
of something."
I)r. Stoddart stood by the bed; his tone was soothingprofessional.
Hercule Poirot went quietly out of the room. There was another door
opposite him. He opened that.
It was a tiny room-a mere slip of a room-plainly furnished. On the bed
a slim, girlish figure lay motionless.
Hercule Poirot tiptoed to the side of the bed and looked down upon the
girl.
Dark hair, a long pale face-and-yes, young-very young.
A gleam of white showed between the girl's lids. Her eyes opened,
startled, frightened eyes. She stared, sat up, tossing her head in an
effort to throw back the thick mane of I)ILie black hair. Slie looked
like a frightened filly. She shrank away a little-as a wild animal
shrinks when it is suspicious of a stranger who offers it food.
Slie said, and her voice was young and thin and abrupt, "Who the hell
are you?"
"I)o not be afraid, Mademoiselle."
"Where's Dr. Stoddart?"
That young man came into the room at the minute.
Thie girl said, with a note of relief in her voice, "Oh, there you arel
Who's this?"
"This is a friend of mine, Sheila. How are you feeling now?"
the girl said weakly, "Awful. Lousy.... Why did I take that foul
stuff?"
Stoddart said dryly, "I shouldn't do it again, if I were you.
"- I shan't."
Hercule Poirot said, "Who gave it to you?"
Her eyes ,widened, her upper lip twitched a little.
She said, "It was here-at the party. We all tried it. Itit w;is
wonderful at first."
Hercule Iloirot said gently, "But who brought it here?"
She shook lier head.
" I (ion't know. It might have been Tony-Tony Hawker.
but I don't really know anything about it."
Poirot said gently, "Is it the first time you have taken cocaine,
Mademoiselle?"
She nodded.
"You'd better make it the last," said Stoddart brusquely.
"Yes-I suppose so-but it was rather marvelous."
"Now look here, Sheila Grant," said Stoddart, "I'm a doctor and I know
what I'm talking about. Once start this drug-taking racket and you'll
land yourself in unbelievable misery. I've seen some and I know. Drugs
ruin people, body and soul. Drink's a gentle little picnic compared to
druls. Cut it rie-lit out from this minute.
Believe me, it isn't funnyl Whgt d
o you think your father would say to
tonipht's business?"
"Father?" Sheila Grant's voice rose. "Father?" She began to laugh. "I
can ' just see Father's facel He mustn't know about it. He'd have seven
fitsl"
"And quite right, too," said Stoddart.
"Doctor-doctor-" the long wail of Mrs. Grace's voice came from the
other room.
Stoddart muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and went
out of the room.
Sheila Grant stared at Poirot again. She was puzzled.
She said, "Who are you really? You weren't at the party."
"No, I was not at the party. I am a friend -of Dr. Stoddart's."
"You're a doctor, too? You don't look like a doctor."
"My name," said Poirot, contriving as usual to make the simple statement
sound like the curtain of the first act of a play, "my name is Hercule
Poirot."
The statement did not fail of its effect. Occasionally Poirot was
distressed to find that a callous younger generation had never heard of
him.
But it was evident that Sheila Grant had lieard of him.
She was flabbergasted-dumfounded. She stared and stared.
It has been said, with or without justification for the statement, that
everyone has an atint in Torquay.
It lias also been said that everyone lias at least a second
cousin in Mertonshire. Mertonslre is a reasonable distance from London.
It has hunting, shooting, and fishing, it has several very picturesque
but slightly self-conscious villages, it has a good system of railways
and a new arterial road facilitates motoring to and from the metropolis.
Servants object to it less than they do to other, more rural, portions
of the British Isles. As a result, it is practically impossible to live
in Mertonshire unless you have an income that runs into four figures,
and what with income tax and one thing and another, five figures is
better.
Hercule Poirot, being a foreigner, had no second cousins in the county,
but he had acquired by now a large circle of friends and he had no
difficulty in getting himself invited for a visit in that part of the
world. He had, moreover, selected as hostess a dear lady whose chief
delight was exercising her tongue on the subject of her neighbors -the
only drawback being that Poirot had to submit to hearing a great deal
about people in whom he had no interest whatever, before coming to the
subject of the people he was interested in.
"The Grants? Oh, yes, there are four of them. Four girls. I don't
wonder the poor old General can't control them. Wliat can a man do with
four girls?" Lady Carmichael's hands flew up eloquently.
Poirot said, "Wliat indeed?" and the lady continued.
"Used to be a great (lisciplinarian in his regiment, so he told me. But
those girls defeat him. Not like when I was young. Old (,olonel Sandys
was such a martinet, I rememher, that his poor daughters-"
(Long excursion into the trials of the Sandys girls and other friends of
Lady Carmichael's youth.)
" Mind you," said Lady Carmichael, reverting to her first theme, "I
don't say there's anything really wrong about those girls. Just high
spirits-and getting in with an tindesiral)le set. It's not what it used
to be down here.
The oddest peol:)Ie come here. There's no what you might call 'country'
left. It's all money, money, money nowadays.
Arid you (lo liear the oddest stories! ... Who did you say?
Atlioily Hawker? Oh, yes, I know him. Wliat I call a very
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 17
