The Labours of Hercules. Agatha Christie

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      ‘Certainly it is.’

      ‘The very first thing I saw was my letter enclosing the money in a kind of rack in the hall. Whilst I was waiting for the proprietress I slipped it into my bag. Unfortunately–’

      Poirot said: ‘Unfortunately, when you opened it it contained only blank sheets of paper.’

      ‘How did you know?’ Mrs Samuelson turned on him with awe.

      Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘Obviously, che`re Madame, the thief would take care to recover the money before he returned the dog. He would then replace the notes with blank paper and return the letter to the rack in case its absence should be noticed.’

      ‘No such person as Commander Blackleigh had ever stayed there.’

      Poirot smiled.

      ‘And of course, my husband was extremely annoyed about the whole thing. In fact, he was livid–absolutely livid!’

      Poirot murmured cautiously:

      ‘You did not–er–consult him before dispatching the money?’

      ‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs Samuelson with decision.

      Poirot looked a question. The lady explained.

      ‘I wouldn’t have risked it for a moment. Men are so extraordinary when it’s a question of money. Jacob would have insisted on going to the police. I couldn’t risk that. My poor darling Nanki Poo. Anything might have happened to him! Of course, I had to tell my husband afterwards, because I had to explain why I was overdrawn at the Bank.’

      Poirot murmured:

      ‘Quite so–quite so.’

      ‘And I have really never seen him so angry. Men,’ said Mrs Samuelson, rearranging her handsome diamond bracelet and turning her rings on her fingers, ‘think of nothing but money.’

      V

      Hercule Poirot went up in the lift to Sir Joseph Hoggin’s office. He sent in his card and was told that Sir Joseph was engaged at the moment but would see him presently. A haughty blonde sailed out of Sir Joseph’s room at last with her hands full of papers. She gave the quaint little man a disdainful glance in passing.

      Sir Joseph was seated behind his immense mahogany desk. There was a trace of lipstick on his chin.

      ‘Well, Mr Poirot? Sit down. Got any news for me?’

      Hercule Poirot said:

      ‘The whole affair is of a pleasing simplicity. In each case the money was sent to one of those boarding houses or private hotels where there is no porter or hall attendant and where a large number of guests are always coming and going, including a fairly large preponderance of ex-Service men. Nothing would be easier than for any one to walk in, abstract a letter from the rack, either take it away, or else remove the money and replace it with blank paper. Therefore, in every case, the trail ends abruptly in a blank wall.’

      ‘You mean you’ve no idea who the fellow is?’

      ‘I have certain ideas, yes. It will take a few days to follow them up.’

      Sir Joseph looked at him curiously.

      ‘Good work. Then, when you have got anything to report–’

      ‘I will report to you at your house.’

      Sir Joseph said:

      ‘If you get to the bottom of this business, it will be a pretty good piece of work.’

      Hercule Poirot said:

      ‘There is no question of failure. Hercule Poirot does not fail.’

      Sir Joseph Hoggin looked at the little man and grinned.

      ‘Sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ he demanded.

      ‘Entirely with reason.’

      ‘Oh well.’ Sir Joseph Hoggin leaned back in his chair. ‘Pride goes before a fall, you know.’

      VI

      Hercule Poirot, sitting in front of his electric radiator (and feeling a quiet satisfaction in its neat geometrical pattern) was giving instructions to his valet and general factotum.

      ‘You understand, Georges?’

      ‘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 Lie`ge who poisoned his wife in order to marry a blonde secretary. One of my early successes.’

      Georges 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 Georges said:

      ‘This is the address, sir.’

      Hercule Poirot took the piece of paper handed to him.

      ‘Excellent, my good Georges. 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 СКАЧАТЬ