Agatha Christie - The Labours of Hercules

Poirot said: "Do you know why Miss Valetta left her post?"

The woman hesitated a moment before saying: "I couldn't say, I'm sure."

"She was dismissed, was she not?"

"Well – I believe there was a bit of a dust up! But mind you, Miss Valetta didn't let on much about it. She wasn't one to give things away. But she looked wild about it. Wicked temper she had – real Eyetalian – her black eyes all snapping and looking as if she'd like to put a knife into you. I wouldn't have crossed her when she was in one of her moods!"

"And you are quite sure you do not know Miss Valetta's present address?"

The half-crowns clinked again encouragingly.

The answer rang true enough. "I wish I did, sir. I'd be only too glad to tell you. But there – she went off in a hurry and there it is!"

Poirot said to himself thoughtfully: "Yes, there it is…"

Ambrose Vandel, diverted from his enthusiastic account of the décor he was designing for a forthcoming ballet, supplied information easily enough.

"Sanderfield? George Sanderfield? Nasty fellow. Rolling in money but they say he's a crook. Dark horse! Affair with a dancer? But of course, my dear – he had an affair with Katrina. Katrina Samoushenka. You must have seen her? Oh, my dear – too delicious. Lovely technique. The Swan of Tuolela – you must have seen that? My decor! And that other thing of Debussy or is it Mannine 'La Biche au Bois'? She danced it with Michael Novgin. He's so marvellous, isn't he?"

"And she was a friend of Sir George Sanderfield?"

"Yes, she used to weekend with him at his house on the river. Marvellous parties I believe he gives."

"Would it be possible, mon cher, for you to introduce me to Mademoiselle Samoushenka?"

"But, my dear, she isn't here any longer. She went to Paris or somewhere quite suddenly. You know, they do say that she was a Bolshevik spy or something – not that I believed it myself – you know people love saying things like that. Katrina always pretended that she was a White Russian – her father was a Prince or a Grand Duke – the usual thing! It goes down so much better." Vandel paused and returned to the absorbing subject of himself. "Now as I was saying, if you want to get the spirit of Bathsheba you've got to steep yourself in the Semitic tradition. I express it by -"

He continued happily.

The interview that Hercule Poirot managed to arrange with Sir George Sanderfield did not start too auspiciously.

The "dark horse," as Ambrose Vandel had called him, was slightly ill at ease. Sir George was a short square man with dark coarse hair and a roll of fat in his neck.

He said: "Well, M. Poirot, what can I do for you? Er – we haven't met before, I think?"

"No, we have not met."

"Well, what is it? I confess, I'm quite curious."

"Oh, it is very simple – a mere matter of information."

The other gave an uneasy laugh.

"Want me to give you some inside dope, eh? Didn't know you were interested in finance."

"It is not a matter of les affaires. It is a question of a certain lady."

"Oh, a woman." Sir George Sanderfield leant back in his armchair. He seemed to relax. His voice held an easier note.

Poirot said: "You were acquainted, I think, with Mademoiselle Katrina Samoushenka?"

Sanderfield laughed. "Yes. An enchanting creature. Pity she's left London."

"Why did she leave London?"

"My dear fellow, I don't know. Row with the management, I believe. She was temperamental, you know – very Russian in her moods. I'm sorry that I can't help you but I haven't the least idea where she is now. I haven't kept up with her at all."

There was a note of dismissal in his voice as he rose to his feet.

Poirot said: "But it is not Mademoiselle Samoushenka that I am anxious to trace."

"It isn't?"

"No, it is a question of her maid."

"Her maid?" Sanderfield stared at him.

Poirot said: "Do you – perhaps – remember her maid?"

All Sanderfield's uneasiness had returned.

He said awkwardly: "Good Lord, no, how should I? I remember she had one, of course… Bit of a bad lot, too, I should say. Sneaking, prying sort of girl. If I were you I shouldn't put any faith in a word that girl says. She's the kind of girl who's a born liar."

Poirot murmured: "So actually, you remember quite a lot about her?"

Sanderfield said hastily: "Just an impression, that's all… Don't even remember her name. Let me see, Marie something or other – no, I'm afraid I can't help you to get hold of her. Sorry."

Poirot said gently: "I have already got the name of Marie Hellin from the Thespian Theatre – and her address. But I am speaking. Sir George, of the maid who was with Mademoiselle Samoushenka before Marie Hellin. I am speaking of Nita Valetta."

Sanderfield stared.

He said: "Don't remember her at all. Marie's the only one I remember. Little dark girl with a nasty look in her eye."

Poirot said: "The girl I mean was at your house Grasslawn last June."

Sanderfield said sulkily: "Well, all I can say is I don't remember her. Don't believe she had a maid with her. I think you're making a mistake."

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He did not think he was making a mistake.

Marie Hellin looked swiftly at Poirot out of small intelligent eyes and as swiftly looked away again. She said in smooth, even tones: "But I remember perfectly. Monsieur. I was engaged by Madame Samoushenka the last week in June. Her former maid had departed in a hurry."

"Did you ever hear why that maid left?"

"She went – suddenly – that is all I know! It may have been illness – something of that kind. Madame did not say."

Poirot said: "Did you find your mistress easy to get on with?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

"She had great moods. She wept and laughed in turns. Sometimes she was so despondent she would not speak or eat. Sometimes she was wildly gay. They are like that, these dancers. It is temperament."

"And Sir George?"

The girl looked up alertly. An unpleasant gleam came into her eyes.

"Ah, Sir George Sanderfield? You would like to know about him? Perhaps it is that you really want to know? The other was only an excuse, eh? Ah, Sir George, I could tell you some curious things about him, I could tell you -"

Poirot interrupted: "It is not necessary."

She stared at him, her mouth open. Angry disappointment showed in her eyes.

"I always say you know everything, Alexis Pavlovitch."

Hercule Poirot murmured the words with his most flattering intonation.

He was reflecting to himself that this third Labour of Hercules had necessitated more travelling and more interviews than could have been imagined possible. This little matter of a missing lady's-maid was proving one of the longest and most difficult problems he had ever tackled. Every clue, when examined, led exactly nowhere.

It had brought him this evening to the Samovar Restaurant in Paris whose proprietor, Count Alexis Pavlovitch, prided himself on knowing everything that went on in the artistic world.

He nodded now complacently: "Yes, yes, my friend, I know – I always know. You ask me where she is gone – the little Samoushenka, the exquisite dancer? Ah! she was the real thing, that little one." He kissed his fingertips. "What fire – what abandon! She would have gone far – she would have been the Premiere Ballerina of her day – and then suddenly it all ends – she creeps away – to the end of the world – and soon, ah! so soon, they forget her."

"Where is she then?" demanded Poirot.

"In Switzerland. At Vagray les Alpes. It is there that they go, those who have the little dry cough and who grow thinner and thinner. She will die, yes, she will die! She has a fatalistic nature. She will surely die."