obeying her orders alsol Yes, you may well open your eyesl From the
first I did not like that young lady with her scientific jargon and her
coat and skirt with the big pockets. Yes, pockets. Unnatural tliat any
woman should be so disdainful of her appearancel And what does she say
to me-that it is fundamentals that countl Ahal what is fundamental is
pockets.
Pockets, in which she can carry drugs and take away ' jewels -a little
exchange easily made while she is dancing with her accomplice whom she
pretends to regard as a psycliological case. Ah, but what a cover! No
one stisl)e(-ts the earnest, -the scientific psychologist with a medical
degree
and spectacles. She can smuggle in drugs, and induce her rich patients
to form the habit, and put up the money for a night club and arrange
that it shall be run by someone with-shall we say, a little weakness in
her pastl But she despises Hercule Poirot, she thinks she can deceive
him with her talk of nursery governesses and vestst Eh bien, I am ready
for her. The lights go off. Quickly I rise from my table and go to
stand by Cerberus. In the darkness I hear her come. She opens his
mouth and forces in the package, and I-delicately, unfelt by her, I snip
with a tiny pair of scissors a little piece from her sleeve."
Dramatically he produced a sliver of material.
"You observe-the identical checked tweed-and I will give it to japp to
fit it back where it belongs-and make the arrest-and say how clever once
more has been Scotland Yard."
The Countess Rossakoff stared at him in stupefaction.
Suddenly she let out a wail like a foghorn.
"But my Niki-my Niki. This will be terrible for him-" She paused. "Or
do you think not?"
"There are a lot of other girls in America," said Hercule Poirot.
"And but for you his mother would be in prison-in Prison-with her hair
cut off-sitting in a cell-and smelling of disinfectantl Ah, but you are
wonderful-wonderful."
Surging forward, she clasped Poirot in her arms and embraced him with
Slavonic fervor. Mr. Higgs looked on appreciatively. The dog Cerberus
beat his tail upon the floor.
Into the midst of this scene of rejoicing came the trill of a bell.
"Jappl" exclaimed Poirot, disengaging himself from the Countess's arms.
"It would be better, perhaps, if I went into the other room," said the
Countess.
She slipped through the connecting door. Poirot started toward the door
to the hall.
"Guv'nor," wheezed Mr. Higgs anxiously, "better look
at yourself in the glass, 'adn't you?"
Poirot did so and recoiled. Lipstick and mascara ornamented his face in
a fantastic medley.
"If that's Mr. japp from Scotland Yard, 'e'd think the worst-sure to,"
saia-Mr. Higgs.
He added, as the bell pealed again, and Poirot strove feverishly to
remove crimson grease from the points of his mustache:
"What do yer want me to do-'ook it too? What about this 'ere 'Ell
'ound?"
"If I remember rightly," said Hercule Poirot, "Cerberus returned to
Hell."
"Just as you like," said Mr. Higgs. "As a matter of fact, I've taken a
kind of fancy to 'im.... Still, 'e's not the kind I'd like to pinch-not
permanent-too noticeable, if you know what I mean. And think what he'd
cost me in shin of beef or 'orsefleshi Eats as much as a young lion, I
expect."
"From the Nemean Lion to the Capture of Cerberus," murmured Poirot. "It
is complete."
A week later Miss Lemon brought a bill to her employer.
"Excuse me, M. Poirot. Is it in order for me to pay this?
'Leonora, Florist. Red roses. Eleven pounds, eight shillings, and
sixpence. Sent to Countess Vera Rossakoff, Hell, 13 End St., W.C.l." "
As the hue of red roses, so were the cheeks of Hercule Poirot. He
blushed, blushed to the eyeballs.
"Perfectly in order, Miss Lemon. A littleer tributeto-to an occasion.
The Countess's son has just become engaged in America-to the daughter of
his employer, a a steel magnate. Red roses are-I seem to remember-her
favorite flower."
"Quite," said Miss Lemon. "They're very expensive this time of year."
Hercule Poirot drew himself up.
"There are moments," he said, "when one does not economize."
Humming a little tune, he went out of the door. His
step was light, almost sprightly. Miss Lemon stared after him. Her
filing-system was forgotten. All her feminine instincts were aroused.
"Good gracious," she murmured. "I wonder.... Reallyat his agel Surely
not. . .
Agatha Christie, Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works)
(Series: Hercule Poirot # 27)
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