Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  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 evening dress, his whole demeanour was that of one who lives 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. Any one 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 Charles Stevens was here on business. . . .

  II

  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 me!”

  “But I assure you I know nothing—nothing at all! It is just idle curiosity.”

  Japp said that Poirot could tell that to the Marines!

  “You want to know all about this place Hell? Well, on the surface it’s just another of these things. It’s caught on! 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 headwaiter chap, Aristide Papopolous—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 is!”

  “And Inspector Stevens goes there to find out?”

  “Oh, you saw Stevens, did you? Lucky young dog landing a job like that at the taxpayer’s expense! A fat lot he’s found out so far!”

  “What do you suspect there is to find out?”

  “Dope! Drug racket on a large scale. And the dope’s being paid for not in money, 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 sometimes! 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 possession! 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 another—and 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 jewellery is done—a place called Golconda Ltd—respectable enough on the surface, high-class imitation jewellery. 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 place! He’s as bad as they make ’em—but women—even decent women—eat out of his hand! 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 meeting place.”

  “You 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 everybody! Result, no stones, no dope!”

  “A fiasco, in fact?”

  Japp winced. “You’re telling me! Might have got in a bit of a jam, but luckily in the round up 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!”

  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 dog! 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 like!”

  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.

  III

  “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 there! I am on top of the world, the money it rolls in!”

  “You own this place?”

  The Countess’s eye became slightly evasive.

  “Certainly,” she replied.

  “But you have a partner?”

  “Who told you that?” asked the Countess sharply.

  “Is your partner Paul Varesco?”

  “Oh! Paul Varesco! What an idea!”

  “He has a bad—a criminal record. Do you realize that you have criminals frequenting this place?”

  The Countess burst out laughing.

  “There speaks the bon bourgeois! Naturally I realize! Do you not see that that is half the attraction of this place? These young people from Mayfair—they get tired of seeing their own kind round them in the West End. They come here, they see the criminals; the thief, the blackmailer, the confidence trickster—perhaps, even, the murderer—the man who will be in the Sunday papers next week! It is exciting, that—they think they are seeing life! So does the prosperous man who all the week sells the knickers, the stockings, the corsets! What a change from his respectable life and his respectable friends! And then, a further thrill—there at a table, stroking his moustache, is the Inspector from S
cotland Yard—an Inspector in tails!”

  “So you knew that?” said Poirot softly.

  Her eyes met his and she smiled.

  “Mon cher ami, I am not so simple as you seem to suppose!”

  “Do you also deal in drugs here?”

  “Ah, ça no!” The Countess spoke sharply. “That would be an abomination!”

  Poirot looked at her for a moment or two, then he sighed.

  “I believe you,” he said. “But in that case it is all the more necessary that you tell me who really owns this place.”

  “I own it,” she snapped.

  “On paper, yes. But there is someone behind you.”

  “Do you know, mon ami, I find you altogether too curious? Is he not much too curious, Dou dou?”

  Her voice dropped to a coo as she spoke the last words and she threw the duck bone from her plate to the big black hound who caught it with a ferocious snap of the jaws.

  “What is it that you call that animal,” asked Poirot, diverted.

  “C’est mon petit Dou dou!”

  “But it is ridiculous, a name like that!”

  “But he is adorable! He is a police dog! He can do anything—anything—Wait!”

  She rose, looked round her, and suddenly snatched up a plate with a large succulent steak which had just been deposited before a diner at a nearby table. She crossed to the marble niche and put the plate down in front of the dog, at the same time uttering a few words in Russian.

  Cerberus gazed in front of him. The steak might not have existed.

  “You see? And it is not just a matter of minutes! No, he will remain like that for hours if need be!”

  Then she murmured a word and like lightning Cerberus bent his long neck and the steak disappeared as though by magic.

  Vera Rossakoff flung her arms round the dog’s neck and embraced him passionately, rising on tiptoe to do so.

  “See how gentle he can be!” she cried. “For me, for Alice, for his friends—they can do what they like! But one has but to give him the word and Presto! I can assure you he would tear a—police inspector, for instance—into little pieces! Yes, into little pieces!”

  She burst out laughing.

  “I would have but to say the word—”

  Poirot interrupted hastily. He mistrusted the Countess’s sense of humour. Inspector Stevens might be in real danger.

  “Professor Liskeard wants to speak to you.”

  The professor was standing reproachfully at her elbow.

  “You took my steak,” he complained. “Why did you take my steak? It was a good steak!”

  IV

  “Thursday night, old man,” said Japp. “That’s when the balloon goes up. It’s Andrews’ pigeon, of course—Narcotic Squad—but he’ll be delighted to have you horn in. No, thanks, I won’t have any of your fancy sirops. I have to take care of my stomach. Is that whisky I see over there? That’s more the ticket!”

  Setting his glass down, he went on:

  “We’ve solved the problem, I think. There’s another way out at the Club—and we’ve found it!”

  “Where?”

  “Behind the grill. Part of it swings round.”

  “But surely you would see—”

  “No, old boy. When the raid started, the lights went out—switched off at the main—and it took us a minute or two to get them turned on again. Nobody got out the front way because it was being watched, but it’s clear now that somebody could have nipped out by the secret way with the doings. We’ve been examining the house behind the Club—and that’s how we tumbled to the trick.”

  “And you propose to do—what?”

  Japp winked.

  “Let it go according to plan—the police appear, the lights go out—and somebody’s waiting on the other side of that secret door to see who comes through. This time we’ve got ’em!”

  “Why Thursday?”

  Again Japp winked.

  “We’ve got the Golconda pretty well taped now. There will be stuff going out of there on Thursday. Lady Carrington’s emeralds.”

  “You permit,” said Poirot, “that I too make one or two little arrangements?”

  V

  Sitting at his usual small table near the entrance on Thursday night Poirot studied his surroundings. As usual Hell was going with a swing!

  The Countess was even more flamboyantly made up than usual if that was possible. She was being very Russian tonight, clapping her hands and screaming with laughter. Paul Varesco had arrived. Sometimes he wore faultless evening dress, sometimes, as tonight, he chose to present himself in a kind of apache getup, tightly-buttoned coat, scarf round the neck. He looked vicious and attractive. Detaching himself from a stout, middle-aged woman plastered with diamonds, he leaned over Alice Cunningham who was sitting at a table writing busily in a little notebook and asked her to dance. The stout woman scowled at Alice and looked at Varesco with adoring eyes.

  There was no adoration in Miss Cunningham’s eyes. They gleamed with pure scientific interest, and Poirot caught fragments of their conversation as they danced past him. She had progressed beyond the nursery governess and was now seeking information about the matron at Paul’s preparatory school.

  When the music stopped, she sat down by Poirot looking happy and excited.

  “Most interesting,” she said. “Varesco will be one of the most important cases in my book. The symbolism is unmistakable. Trouble about the vests for instance—for vest read hair shirt with all its associations—and the whole thing becomes quite plain. You may say that he’s a definitely criminal type but a cure can be effected—”

  “That she can reform a rake,” said Poirot, “has always been one of woman’s dearest illusions!”

  Alice Cunningham looked at him coldly.

  “There is nothing personal about this, M. Poirot.”

  “There never is,” said Poirot. “It is always pure disinterested altruism—but the object of it is usually an attractive member of the opposite sex. Are you interested, for instance, in where I went to school, or what was the attitude of the matron to me?”

  “You are not a criminal type,” said Miss Cunningham.

  “Do you know a criminal type when you see one?”

  “Certainly I do.”

  Professor Liskeard joined them. He sat down by Poirot.

  “Are you talking about criminals? You should study the criminal code of Hammurabi, M. Poirot. 1800 b.c. most interesting. The man who is caught stealing during a fire shall be thrown into the fire.”

  He stared pleasurably ahead of him towards the electric grill.

  “And there are older, Summerian laws. If a wife hateth her husband and saith unto him, ‘Thou art not my husband,’ they shall throw her into the river. Cheaper and easier than the divorce court. But if a husband says that to his wife he only has to pay her a certain measure of silver. Nobody throws him in the river.”

  “The same old story,” said Alice Cunningham. “One law for the man and one for the woman.”

  “Women, of course, have a greater appreciation of monetary value,” said the Professor thoughtfully. “You know,” he added, “I like this place. I come here most evenings. I don’t have to pay. The Countess arranged that—very nice of her—in consideration of my having advised her about the decorations, she says. Not that they’re anything to do with me really—I’d no idea what she was asking me questions for—and naturally she and the artist have got everything quite wrong. I hope nobody will ever know I had the remotest connection with the dreadful things. I should never live it down. But she’s a wonderful woman—rather like a Babylonian, I always think. The Babylonians were good women of business, you know—”

  The Professor’s words were drowned in a sudden chorus. The word “Police” was heard—women rose to their feet, there was a babel of sound. The lights went out and so did the electric grill.

  As an undertone to the turmoil the Professor’s voice went on tranquilly reciting various excerpts from the laws of Hammurabi.


  When the lights went on again Hercule Poirot was halfway up the wide, shallow steps. The police officers by the door saluted him, and he passed out into the street and strolled to the corner. Just round the corner, pressed against the wall was a small and odoriferous man with a red nose. He spoke in an anxious, husky whisper.

  “I’m ’ere, guv’nor. Time for me to do my stuff?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “There’s a nawful lot of coppers about!”

  “That is all right. They’ve been told about you.”

  “I ’ope they won’t interfere, that’s all?”

  “They will not interfere. You’re sure you can accomplish what you have set out to do? The animal in question is both large and fierce.”

  “ ’E won’t be fierce to me,” said the little man confidently. “Not with what I’ve got ’ere! Any dog’ll follow me to Hell for it!”

  “In this case,” murmured Hercule Poirot, “he has to follow you out of Hell!”

  VI

  In the small hours of the morning the telephone rang. Poirot picked up the receiver.

  Japp’s voice said:

  “You asked me to ring you.”

  “Yes, indeed. Eh bien?”

  “No dope—we got the emeralds.”

  “Where?”

  “In Professor Liskeard’s pocket.”

  “Professor Liskeard?”

  “Surprises you, too? Frankly I don’t know what to think! He looked as astonished as a baby, stared at them, said he hadn’t the faintest idea how they got in his pocket, and dammit I believe he was speaking the truth! Varesco could have slipped them into his pocket easily enough in the black out. I can’t see a man like old Liskeard being mixed up in this sort of business. He belongs to all these high-falutin’ societies, why he’s even connected with the British Museum! The only thing he ever spends money on is books, and musty old secondhand books at that. No, he doesn’t fit. I’m beginning to think we’re wrong about the whole thing—there never has been any dope in that Club.”

  “Oh, yes there has, my friend, it was there tonight. Tell me, did no one come out through your secret way?”

  “Yes, Prince Henry of Scandenberg and his equerry—he only arrived in England yesterday. Vitamian Evans, the Cabinet Minister (devil of a job being a Labor Minister, you have to be so careful! Nobody minds a Tory politician spending money on riotous living because the taxpayers think it’s his own money—but when it’s a Labor man the public feel it’s their money he’s spending! And so it is in a manner of speaking.) Lady Beatrice Viner was the last—she’s getting married the day after tomorrow to the priggish young Duke of Leominster. I don’t believe any of that lot were mixed up in this.”