The Labours of Hercules. Agatha Christie

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      ‘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.

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