Фредерик Браун - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6. Whole No. 211, June 1961

Japp’s reception of his tentative inquiries was unexpected.

“You old fox!” said Japp affectionately. “How you get on to these things beats me!”

“But I assure you I know nothing — nothing at all. It is just idle curiosity.”

Japp said that Poirot could tell that to the Marines.

“You want to know all about this place Hell? Well, on the surface it’s just another of these things. It’s caught on. They must be making a lot of money, though of course the expenses are pretty high. There’s a Russian woman ostensibly running it, calls herself the Countess Something or other—”

“I am acquainted with Countess Rossakoff,” said Poirot. “We are old friends.”

“But she’s just a dummy,” Japp went on. “She didn’t put up the money. It might be the head waiter chap, Aristide Paaopolous — he’s got an interest in it — but we don’t believe it’s really his show either. In fact, we don’t know whose show it is!”

“And Inspector Stevens goes there to find out?”

“Oh, you saw Stevens, did you? Lucky young dog, landing a job like that at the taxpayers’ expense! A fat lot he’s found out so far!”

“What do you suspect?”

“Dope! Drug racket on a large scale. And the dope’s being paid > for not in money, M. Poirot, but in precious stones.”

“Aha?”

“This is how it goes. Lady Blank — or the Countess of Whatnot — finds it hard to get hold of cash. And in any case she doesn’t want to draw large sums out of the bank. But she’s got jewels — family heirlooms. They’re taken along to a place for ‘cleaning’ or ‘resetting’ — there the stones are taken out of their settings and replaced with paste. The unset stones are sold over here or on the Continent. It’s all plain sailing — there’s been no robbery, no hue and cry after them. Say sooner or later it’s discovered that a certain tiara or necklace is a fake? Lady Blank is all innocence and dismay — can’t imagine how or when the substitution can have taken place — necklace has never been out of her possession! Sends the poor perspiring police off on wild goose chases after dismissed maids or doubtful butlers.

“But we’re not quite so dumb as these social birds think! We had several eases come up one after another. And we found a common factor — all the women showed signs of dope — nerves, irritability, twitching, pupils of eyes dilated. Question was: Where were they getting the dope from and who was running the racket?”

“And the answer, you think, is this place Hell?”

“We believe it’s the headquarters of the whole racket. We’ve discovered where the work on the jewelry is done — a place called Golconda. Limited — respectable enough on the surface, high-class imitation jewelry. There’s a nasty bit of work called Paul Varesco — ah, I see you know him?”

“I have seen him — in Hell.”

“That’s where I’d like to see him — in the real place! He’s as bad as they make ’em — but women, even decent women, eat out of his hand. He’s got some kind of connection with Golconda, and I’m pretty sure he’s the man behind Hell. It’s ideal for his purpose — everyone goes there, society women, professional crooks — it’s the perfect meeting place.”

“You think the exchange — jewels for dope — takes place there?”

“Yes. We know the Golconda side of it — we want the other, the dope side. We want to know who’s supplying the stuff and where it’s coming from.”

“And so far you have no idea?”

“I think it’s the Russian woman — but we’ve no evidence. A few weeks ago we thought we were getting somewhere. Varesco went to the Golconda place, picked up some stones there, and went straight from there to Hell. Stevens was watching him, but he didn’t actually see him pass the stuff. When Varesco left we picked him up — the stones weren’t on him. We raided the club, rounded up everybody. Result: no stones, no dope!”

“A fiasco, in fact?”

Japp winced. “You’re telling me! Might have got in a bit of a jam, but luckily in the roundup we got Peverel — you know, the Battersea murderer. Pure luck — he was supposed to have got away to Scotland. One of our smart sergeants spotted him from his photos. So all’s well that ends well — kudos for us — terrific publicity for the club — it’s been more packed than ever since!”

Poirot said, “But it does not advance the dope inquiry. There is, perhaps, a place of concealment on the premises?”

“Must be. But we couldn’t find it. Went over the place with a tooth-comb. And between you and me, there’s been an unofficial search as well.” He winked. “Strictly on the Q.T. Spot of breaking and entering. Not a success; our ‘unofficial’ man nearly got torn to pieces by that ruddy great dog! It sleeps on the premises.”

“Aha, Cerberus?”

“Yes. Silly name for a dog. Suppose you try your hand at it, Poirot. It’s a pretty problem and worth doing. I hate the drug racket — destroys people body and soul. That really is hell, if you like!”

Poirot murmured meditatively, “It would round off things — yes... Do you know what the twelfth labor of Hercules was?”

“No idea.”

“The Capture of Cerberus. It is appropriate, is it not?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, old man, but remember, Dog eats man is news.” And Japp leaned back roaring with laughter.

“I wish to speak to you with the utmost seriousness,” said Poirot.

The hour was early, the club as yet nearly empty. The Countess and Poirot sat at a small table near the doorway.

“But I do not feel serious,” she protested. “La petite Alice, she is always serious and, entre nous, I find it very boring. My poor Niki, what fun will he have? None.”

“I entertain for you much affection,” continued Poirot, steadily. “And I do not want to see you in what is called the jam.”

“But it is absurd, what you say! I am on the top of the world, the money it rolls in!”

“You own this place?”

The Countess’s eye became slightly evasive.

“Certainly,” she replied.

“But you have a partner?”

“Who told you that?”

“Is your partner Paul Varesco?”

“Oh! Paul Varesco! What an idea!”

“He has a criminal record. Do you realize that you have criminals frequenting this place?”

The Countess burst out laughing.

“There speaks the bon bourgeois! Naturally I realize! Do you not see that that is half the attraction of this place? These young people from Mayfair — they get tired of seeing their own kind round them in the West End. They come here, they see the criminals; the thief, the blackmailer, the confidence trickster — perhaps, even, the murderer — the man who will be in the Sunday papers next week! It is exciting, that — they think they are seeing life! So does the prosperous man who all the week sells the stockings, the shoes! What a change from his respectable life and his respectable friends! And then, a further thrill — there at a table, stroking his mustache, is the Inspector from Scotland Yard — an Inspector in tails!”

“So you knew that?” said Poirot softly.

Her eyes met his and she smiled.

“Mon cher ami, I am not so simple as you seem to suppose!”

“Do you also deal in drugs here?”

“Ah, çа non!” The Countess spoke sharply. “That would be an abomination!”

Poirot sighed.

“I believe you,” he said. “But in that case it is all the more necessary that you tell me who really owns this place.”

“I own it,” she snapped.

“On paper, yes. But there is someone behind you.”

“Do you know, тon ami, I find you altogether too curious. Is he not much too curious, Dou-dou?”