To me it seems but as yesterday. You have not changed-not in the least
have you changedl"
" Nor you, chhre amie," Poirot exclaimed, bowing over her hand.
Nevertheless, he was fully conscious now that twenty years is twenty
years. Countess Rossakoff might not uncharitably have been described as
a ruin. But she was at least a spectacular ruin. The exuberance, the
full-b100ded enjoyment of life was still there, and she knew, none
better, how to flatter a man.
She drew Poirot with her to a table at which two other people were
sitting.
" My friend, my celebrated friend, M. Hercule Poirot," she announced.
"He who is the terror of evildoers! I was once afraid of him myself,
but now I lead a life of the extreme, the most virtuous dullness. Is it
not so?"
The tall, thin elderly man to whom she spoke said, "Never say dtill,
Countess."
"The Professor Liskeard," the Countess annotince(l. "He who knows
everything about the past and who gave me the valuable hints for the
decorations here."
The archaeologist shuddered slightly.
"If I'd known what you meant to dol" he murmured.
"The result is so appalling."
Poirot observed the frescoes more closely. On the wall facing him,
Orpheus and his jazz band played, while Eurydice looked hopefully toward
the grifl. On the opposite wall Osiris and Isis seemed to be throwing
an Egypttn underworld boating party. On the third wall some bright
young people were enjoying mixed bathing in a state of nature.
"The Country of the Young," explained the Countess and added in the same
breath, completing her introductions, "And this is my little Alice."
Poirot bowed to the second occupant of the table, a severe-looking girl
in a check coat and skirt. She wore hornrimmed glasses.
"She is very, very clever," said Countess Rossakoff. "She has a degree
and she is a psychologist and she knows all the reasons why lunatics are
lunatical It is not, as you might think, because they are madi No, there
are all sorts of other reasons. I find that very peculiar."
The girl called Alice smiled kindly but a little disdainfully. She
asked the Professor in a firm voice if he would like to dance. He
appeared flattered but dubious.
"My dear youn x fady, I fear I only waltz."
This is a waltz said Alice patiently.
They got up am danced. Tiey did not dance well.
The Countess Rossakoff sighed. Following out a train of thought of her
own, she murmured, "And yet she is not really bad looking. . . ."
"She does not make the most of herself," said Poirot judicially.
"Frankly," cried the Countess, "I cannot understand the young people of
nowadays. They do not try any more to please-always, in my youth, I
tried-the colors that suited me-a little padding in the frocks-the
corset laced tight round the waist-the hair, perhaps, a more interesting
shade-"
She pushed back the heavy Titian tresses from her forehead-it was
undeniable that she, at least, was still trying and trying hardl
"To be content with what nature has given you, thatthat is stupid! It
is also arrogantl The little Alice she writes pages of long words about
sex, but how often, I ask yott, does a man suggest to her that they
should go to Brighton for the week-end? It is all long words and work,
and the welfare of the workers, and the future of the world.
It is very worthy, but I ask you, is it gay? And look, I ask you, how
drab these young people have made the worldl It is all regulations and
prohibitionsl Not so when I was yoting."
"That reminds me, how is your son, Madame?" At the last moment he
substituted "son," for "little boy," remembering tliat twenty years had
passed.
The Countess's face lit up with enthusiastic motherhood.
"The beloved angel! So big now, such shoulders, so handsomel He is in
America. He builds there-bridges, banks, hotels, department stores,
railways, anything the Americans wantl" Poirot looked slightly puzzled.
"He is then an engineer? Or an architect?"
"What does it matter?" demanded the Countess. "He is adorable! He is
wrapped up in iron girders, and machinery, and things called stresses.
The kind of things that I have never understood in the least. But we
adore each other-always we adore each otherl And so for his sake I adore
the little Alice. But, yes, they are engaged. They meet on a plane or
a boat or a train, and they fall in love, all in the midst of talking
about the welfare of the workers. And when she comes to London sl-ie
comes to see me and I take her to my heart." The Countess clasped her
arms across her vast bosom, "And I say, 'You and N iki love each
other-so I too love you-but if you love him why do you leave him in
America?" And she talks about her '.job' and the book she is writing and
her career, and frankly I do not understand, but I have always said one
must be tolerant." She added all in one breath, "And what do you
think, cher ami, of all this that I have imagined here?"
"It is very well imagined," said Poirot, looking round him approvingly.
"It is chic!"
The place was full and it had about it that unmistakable air of success
which cannot be counterfeited. There were languid couples in full
evening dress, Bohemians in corduroy trousers, stout gentlemen in
business suits. The band, dressed as devils, dispensed hot music. No
doubt about it, Hell had caught on.
"We have all kinds here," said the Countess. "That is as
it should be, is it not? The gates of hell are open to all?"
"Except, possibly, to the poor?" Poirot suggested.
The Countess laughed.
"Are we not told tliat it is difficult for a rich man to enter the
kingdom of heaven? Naturally, then, he should have priority in hell."
The Professor and Alice were returning to the table.
The Countess got up.
"I must speak to Aristide."
She exchanged some words with the head waiter, a lean Mephistopheles,
then went round from table to table, speaking to the guests.
The Professor, wiping his forehead and sipping a glass of wine,
remarked:
"She is a personality, is she not? People feel it."
He excused himself as he went over to speak to someone at another table.
Poirot, left alone with the severe Alice, felt slightly embarrassed as
he met the cold blue of her eyes. He recognized that she was actually
quite goodlooking, but he found her distinctly alarming.
"I do not yet know your last name," he murmured.
"Cunningham. Dr. Alice Cunningham. You have known .Vera in past days,
I understand?"
"Twenty years ago it must be."
"Ifind lier a very interesting study," said Dr. Alice Cunningliam.
"Naturally I am interested in her as the mother of the man I am goin(,,
to marry, but I am interested in her from the professional standpoint as
well."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. I am writing a book on criminal psychology. I find the night
life of this place very illuminating. We have several criminal types
who come here regularly. I have discussed their early life with some of
them. Of course, you know all about Vera's criminal tendencies-I mean
that she steals?"
"Why, yes-I know that," said Poirot, slightly taken aback.
"I call it the Magpie complex myself. She takes, you know, always
glittering things. Never money. Always jewels. I find that as a child
she was petted and indulged but very much shielded. Life was
unendurably dull for her-dull and safe. Her nature demanded drama-it
craved for punishment. That is at the root of her indulgence in theft.
She wants the importance, the notoriety of being puni*shed!"
Poirot objected: "Her life can surely not have been safe and dull as a
member of the ancien rdgime in Russia during the Revolution?"
A look of faint amusement showed in Miss Cunningham's pale blue eyes.
"Ah," she said. "A member of the ancien rdgime? She has told you
that?"
"She is undeniably an aristocrat," said Poirot staunchly, gghting back
certain uneasy memories of the wildly varying accounts of her early life
told him by the Countess herself.
"One believes what one wishes to believe," remarked Miss Cunningham,
casting a professional eye on him.
Poirot felt alarmed. In a moment, he felt, he would be told what was
his complex. He decided to carry the war into the enemy's camp. He
enjoyed the Countess Rossakoff's society partly because of her
aristocratic provenance, and he was not going to have his enjoyment
spoiled by a spectacled little girl with boiled gooseberry eyes and a
degree in psychologyf "Do you know what I find astonishing me?" he
asked.
Alice Cunningham did not admit in so many words that she did not know.
She contented herself with looking
bored but indulgent.
Poirot went on: "It amazes me that you-who are young, and who could look
pretty if you took the trouble-well, it amazes me that you do not take
the troubler You wear the heavy coat and skirt with the big pockets as
though you were going to play the game of golf. But it is not here, the
golf links, it is the underground cellar with the temperature of 71
Fahrenheit, and your nose it is hot and shines, but you do not powder
it, and the lipstick you put it on your mouth without interest without
emphasizing the curve of the lipsl You are a whman, but you do not draw
attention to the fact of being a woman. And I say to you, 'Why Not'? It
is a pityl"
For a moment he had the satisfaction of seeing Alice Cunningham look
human. He even saw a spark of anger in her eyes. Then she regained her
attitude of smiling contempt.
"My dear M. Poirot," she said, "I'm afraid you're out of touch with the
modern ideology. It is fundamentals that matter-not the trappings."
She looked up as a dark and very beautiful young man came toward them.
"This is a most interesting type," she murmured with zest. "Paul
Varescol Lives on women and has strange depraved cravingsl I want him to
tell me more about a nursery governess who looked after him when he was
three years old."
A moment or two later she was dancing with the young man. He danced
divinely. As they drifted near Poirot's table, Poirot heard her say:
"And after the summer at Bognor she gave you a toy crane? A crane-yes,
that's very suggestive."
For a moment Poirot allowed himself to toy with the speculation that
Miss Cunningham's interest in criminal types might lead one day to her
mutilated body being fotin(I in a lonely wood. He did not like Alice
Cunningbarn, but he was honest enough to realize that the reason for his
dislike was the fact that she was so palpably unimpressed by Hercule
Poirotl His vanity sufferedl
Then he saw something that momentarily put Alice Cunningham out of his
head. At a table on the opposite side of the floor sat a fair-haired
young man. He wore eyening dress, his hair shone, his mustache was such
as the Guards affect, his whole demeanor was that of one who lived a
life of ease-and pleasure. Opposite him sat the right kind of expensive
girl. He was gazing at her in a fatuous and foolish manner. Anyone
seeing them might have murmured: The idle rich! Nevertheless Poirot
knew very well that the young man was neither rich nor idle. He was, in
fact, Detective Inspector Charles Stevens, and it seemed probable to
Poirot that Detective Inspector Stevens was here on business.
On the following morning Poirot paid a visit to Scotland Yard to his old
friend, Chief inspector japp.
japp's reception of his tentative inquiries was unexpected.
"You old fox!" said japp affectionately. "How you get on to these
things beats mel"
"But I assure you I know nothing-nothing at allt It is just idle
curiosity."
japp said that Poirot could tell that to the Marinesl "You want to know
all about this place Hell? Well, on the surface it's just another of
these things. It's caught onl They must be making a lot of money,
though of course the expenses are pretty high. There's a Russian woman
ostensibly running it, calls herself the Countess Something or other-"
"I am acquainted with Countess Rossakoff," said Poirot coldly. "We are
old friends."
"But she's just a dummy," japp went on. "She didn' t put up the money.
It might be the head waiter chap, Aristide Paaopolous-he's got an
interest in it-but we don't believe it's really his show either. In
fact, we don't know whose show it isl"
"And Inspector Stevens goes there to find out?"
"Oh, you saw Stevens, did you? Lucky young dog, landing a job like that
at the taxpayers' expenser A fat lot he's
found out so farl"
"What do you suspect there is to find out?"
"Dopel Drug racket on a large scale. And the dope's being paid for not
in money, M. Poirot, but in precious stones."
"Aha?"
"This is how it goes. Lady Blank-or the Countess of Whatnot-finds it
hard to get hold of cash-and in any case doesn't want to draw large sums
out of the bank. But she's got jewels-family heirlooms sometimest
They're taken along to a place for 'cleaning' or 'resetting'-there the
stones are taken out of their settings and replaced with paste. The
unset stones are sold over here or on the Continent. It's all plain
sailing-there's been no robbery, no hue and cry after them. Say sooner
or later it's discovered that a certain tiara or necklace is a fake?
Lady Blank is all innocence and dismay-can't imagine how or when the
substitution can have taken place-necklace has never been out of her
possessionl Sends the poor perspiring police off on wild-goose chases
after dismissed maids, or doubtful butlers, or suspicious window
cleaners.
"But we're not quite so dumb as these social birds think! We had
several cases come up one after andtherand we found a common factor-all
the women showed signs of dope-nerves, irritability, twitching, pupils
of eyes dilated, etcetera. Question was: Where were they getting the
dope from and who was running the racket?"
> "And the answer, you think, is this place Hell?"
"We believe it's the headquarters of the whole racket.
We've discovered where the work on the jewelry is donea place called
Golconda, Ltd.-respectable enough on the surface, high-class imitation
jewelry. There's a nasty bit of work called Paul Varesco-ah, I see you
know him?"
"I have seen him-in Hell."
"That's where I'd like to see him-in the real placel He's as bad as they
make 'em-but women-even decent women -eat out of his handt He's got some
kind of connection with Golconda, Ltd. and I'm pretty sure he's the man
behind Hell. It's ideal for his purpose-everyone goes there,
society women, professional crooks-it's the perfect meet.
ing-place."
"'Vou think the exchange-jewels for dope-takes place there?"
"Yes. We know the Golconda side of it-we want the other-the dope side.
We want to know who's supplying the stuff and where it's coming from."
"And so far you have no idea?"
"I think it's the Russian woman-but we've no evidence.
A few weeks ago we thought we were getting somewhere.
Varesco went to the Golconda place, picked up some stones there, and
went straight from there to Hell. Stevens was watching him, but he
didn't actually see him pass the stuff.
When Varesco left we picked him up-the stones weren't on him. We raided
the club, rounded up everybodyl Result ' no stones, no dopel"
"A fiasco, in fact?"
japp winced. "You're telling mel Might have got in a bit of a jam, but
luckily in the roundup we got Peverel (you know, the Battersea
murderer). Pure luck; he was supposed to have got away to Scotland. One
of our smart sergeants spotted him from his photos. So all's well that
ends well-kudos for us-terrific boost for the club-it's been more packed
than ever since I "
Poirot said, "But it does not advance the dope inquiry.
There is, perhaps, a place of concealment on the premises?"
" Must be. But we couldn't find it. Went over the place with a
toothcomb. And between you and me, there's been an unofficial search as
well." He winked. "Strictly on the Q.T. Spot of breaking and entering.
Not a success; our , unofficial' man nearly got torn to pieces by that
ruddy great dogl It sleeps on the premises."
"Aha, Cerberus?"
"Yes. Silly name for a dog-to call it after a packet of salt."
"Cerberus," murmured Poirot thoughtfully.
"Suppose you try your hand at it, Poirot," suggested japp. "It's a
pretty problem and worth doing. I hate the
drug racket, destroys people body and soul. That really is hell, if you
likel"
Poirot murmured meditatively, "It would round off things-yes. . . .
Do you know what the twelfth labor of Hercules was?"
"No idea."
"The Capture of Cerberus. It is appropriate, is it not?"
"Don't know what you're talking about, old man, but remember, Dog eats
man is news." And japp leaned back roaring with laughter.
"I wish to speak to you with the utmost seriousness," said Poirot.
The hour was early, the club as yet nearly empty. The Countess and
Poirot sat at a small table near the doorway.
"But I do not feel serious," she protested. "La petite Alice, she is
always serious and, entre nous, I find it very boring. My poor Niki,
what fun will he have? None."
"I entertain for you much affection," continued Poirot, steadily. "And
I do not want to see you in what is called the jam."
"But it is absurd, what you say therel I am on the top of the world, the
money it rolls inl"
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 25
