Agatha Christie - The Labours of Hercules

Poirot said: "You said yourself – just now – that it was the best way…"

Hugh and Diana had gone from the room.

The two men, the Englishman and the Belgian, watched the last of the Chandlers cross the Park and go up into the woods.

Presently, they heard a shot…

The telephone rang.

"Hullo, Poirot, is that you?"

Hercule Poirot recognised the voice as that of young Dr Stoddart. He liked Michael Stoddart, liked the shy friendliness of his grin, was amused by his naïve interest in crime, and respected him as a hard-working and shrewd man in his chosen profession.

"I don't like bothering you -" the voice went on and hesitated.

"But something is bothering you -" suggested Hercule Poirot acutely.

"Exactly." Michael Stoddart's voice sounded relieved. "Hit it in one!"

"Eh bien, what can I do for you, my friend?"

Stoddart sounded diffident. He stammered a little when he answered.

"I suppose it would be awful c-c-cheek if I asked you to come round at this time of night… B-b-but I'm in a bit of a j-j-jam."

"Certainly I will come. To your house?"

"No – as a matter of fact I'm at the Mews that runs along behind. Conningby Mews. The number is 17. Could you really come? I'd be no end grateful."

"I arrive immediately," replied Hercule Poirot.

Hercule Poirot walked along the dark Mews looking up at the numbers. It was past one o'clock in the morning and for the most part the Mews appeared to have gone to bed, though there were still lights in one or two windows.

As he reached 17, its door opened and Dr Stoddart stood looking out.

"Good man!" he said. "Come up, will you?"

A small ladder-like stairway led to the upper floor. Here, on the right, was a fairly big room, furnished with divans, rugs, triangular silver cushions and large numbers of bottles and glasses.

Everything was more or less in confusion, cigarette ends were everywhere and there were many broken glasses.

"Ha!" said Hercule Poirot. "Mon cher Watson, I deduce that there has been here a party!"

"There's been a party all right," said Stoddart grimly. "Some party, I should say!"

"You did not, then, attend it yourself?"

"No, I'm here strictly in my professional capacity."

"What happened?"

Stoddart said: "This place belongs to a woman called Patience Grace – Mrs Patience Grace."

"It sounds," said Poirot, "a charming old-world name."

"There's nothing charming or old-world about Mrs Grace. She's good-looking in a tough sort of way. She's got through a couple of husbands, and now she's got a boy friend whom she suspects of trying to run out on her. They started this party on drink and they finished it on dope – cocaine, to be exact. Cocaine is stuff that starts off making you feel just grand and with everything in the garden lovely. It peps you up and you feel you can do twice as much as you usually do. Take too much of it and you get violent mental excitement, delusions and delirium. Airs. Grace had a violent quarrel with her boy friend, an unpleasant person by the name of Hawker. Result, he walked out on her then and there, and she leaned out of the window and took a pot-shot at him with a brand-new revolver that someone had been fool enough to give her."

Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose.

"Did she hit him?"

"Not she! Bullet went several yards wide, I should say. What she did hit was a miserable loafer who was creeping along the Mews looking in the dustbins. Got him through the fleshy part of the arm. He raised Hell, of course, and the crowd hustled him in here quick, got the wind up with all the blood that was spilling out of him and came round and got me."

"Yes?"

"I patched him up all right. It wasn't serious. Then one or two of the men got busy on him and in the end he consented to accept a couple of five pound notes and say no more about it. Suited him all right, poor devil. Marvellous stroke of luck."

"And you?"

"I had a bit more work to do. Mrs Grace herself was in raving hysterics by that time. I gave her a shot of something and packed her off to bed. There was another girl who'd more or less passed out – quite young she was, and I attended to her too. By that time everyone was slinking off as fast as they could leave."

He paused.

"And then," said Poirot, "you had time to think over the situation."

"Exactly," said Stoddart. "If it was an ordinary drunken binge, well, that would be the end of it. But dope's different."

"You are quite sure of your facts?"

"Oh, absolutely. No mistaking it. It's cocaine all right. I found some in a lacquer box – they snuff it up, you know. Question is, where does it come from? I remembered that you'd been talking the other day about a big, new wave of drug-taking and the increase of drug addicts."

Hercule Poirot nodded. He said: "The police will be interested in this party tonight."

Michael Stoddart said unhappily: "That's just it."

Poirot looked at him with suddenly awakened interest.

He said: "But you – you are not very anxious that the police should be interested?"

Michael Stoddart mumbled: "Innocent people get mixed up in things… hard lines on them."

"Is it Mrs Patience Grace for whom you are solicitous?"

"Good Lord, no. She's as hard-boiled as they make them!"

Hercule Poirot said gently: "It is, then, the other one – the girl?"

Dr Stoddart said: "Of course, she's hard-boiled, too, in a way. I mean, she'd describe herself as hard-boiled. But she's really just very young – a bit wild and all that – but it's just kid foolishness. She gets mixed up in a racket like this because she thinks it's smart or modern or something like that."

A faint smile came to Poirot's lips. He said softly: "This girl, you have met her before tonight?"

Michael Stoddart nodded. He looked very young and embarrassed.

"Ran across her in Mertonshire. At the Hunt Ball. Her father's a retired General – blood and thunder, shoot 'em down – pukka Sahib – all that sort of thing. There are four daughters and they are all a bit wild – driven to it with a father like that, I should say. And it's a bad part of the county where they live – armaments works nearby and a lot of money – none of the old-fashioned country feeling – a rich crowd and most of them pretty vicious. The girls have got in with a bad set."

Hercule Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes. Then he said: "I perceive now why you desired my presence. You want me to take the affair in hand?"

"Would you? I feel I ought to do something about it – but I confess I'd like to keep Sheila Grant out of the limelight if I could."

"That can be managed I fancy. I should like to see the young lady."

"Come along."

He led the way out of the room. A voice called fretfully from the door opposite.

"Doctor – for God's sake, doctor, I'm going crazy."

Stoddart went into the room. Poirot followed. It was a bedroom in a complete state of chaos – powder spilled on the floor – pots and jars everywhere, clothes flung about. On the bed was a woman with unnaturally blonde hair and a vacant, vicious face. She called out: "I've got insects crawling all over me… I have. I swear I have. I'm going mad… For God's sake, give me a shot of something."

Dr Stoddart stood by the bed, his tone was soothing – professional.

Hercule Poirot went quietly out of the room. There was another door opposite him. He opened that.

It was a tiny room – a mere slip of a room – plainly furnished. On the bed a slim, girlish figure lay motionless.

Hercule Poirot tip-toed to the side of the bed and looked down upon the girl.

Dark hair, a long, pale face – and – yes, young – very young…