The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [103]
“You permit,” said Poirot, “that I too make one or two little arrangements?”
V
Sitting at his usual small table near the entrance on Thursday night Poirot studied his surroundings. As usual Hell was going with a swing!
The Countess was even more flamboyantly made up than usual if that was possible. She was being very Russian tonight, clapping her hands and screaming with laughter. Paul Varesco had arrived. Sometimes he wore faultless evening dress, sometimes, as tonight, he chose to present himself in a kind of apache getup, tightly-buttoned coat, scarf round the neck. He looked vicious and attractive. Detaching himself from a stout, middle-aged woman plastered with diamonds, he leaned over Alice Cunningham who was sitting at a table writing busily in a little notebook and asked her to dance. The stout woman scowled at Alice and looked at Varesco with adoring eyes.
There was no adoration in Miss Cunningham’s eyes. They gleamed with pure scientific interest, and Poirot caught fragments of their conversation as they danced past him. She had progressed beyond the nursery governess and was now seeking information about the matron at Paul’s preparatory school.
When the music stopped, she sat down by Poirot looking happy and excited.
“Most interesting,” she said. “Varesco will be one of the most important cases in my book. The symbolism is unmistakable. Trouble about the vests for instance—for vest read hair shirt with all its associations—and the whole thing becomes quite plain. You may say that he’s a definitely criminal type but a cure can be effected—”
“That she can reform a rake,” said Poirot, “has always been one of woman’s dearest illusions!”
Alice Cunningham looked at him coldly.
“There is nothing personal about this, M. Poirot.”
“There never is,” said Poirot. “It is always pure disinterested altruism—but the object of it is usually an attractive member of the opposite sex. Are you interested, for instance, in where I went to school, or what was the attitude of the matron to me?”
“You are not a criminal type,” said Miss Cunningham.
“Do you know a criminal type when you see one?”
“Certainly I do.”
Professor Liskeard joined them. He sat down by Poirot.
“Are you talking about criminals? You should study the criminal code of Hammurabi, M. Poirot. 1800 b.c. most interesting. The man who is caught stealing during a fire shall be thrown into the fire.”
He stared pleasurably ahead of him towards the electric grill.
“And there are older, Summerian laws. If a wife hateth her husband and saith unto him, ‘Thou art not my husband,’ they shall throw her into the river. Cheaper and easier than the divorce court. But if a husband says that to his wife he only has to pay her a certain measure of silver. Nobody throws him in the river.”
“The same old story,” said Alice Cunningham. “One law for the man and one for the woman.”
“Women, of course, have a greater appreciation of monetary value,” said the Professor thoughtfully. “You know,” he added, “I like this place. I come here most evenings. I don’t have to pay. The Countess arranged that—very nice of her—in consideration of my having advised her about the decorations, she says. Not that they’re anything to do with me really—I’d no idea what she was asking me questions for—and naturally she and the artist have got everything quite wrong. I hope nobody will ever know I had the remotest connection with the dreadful things. I should never live it down. But she’s a wonderful woman—rather like a Babylonian, I always think. The Babylonians were good women of business, you know—”
The Professor’s words were drowned in a sudden chorus. The word “Police” was heard—women rose to their feet, there was a babel of sound. The lights went out and so did the electric grill.
As an undertone to the turmoil the Professor’s voice went on tranquilly reciting various excerpts from the laws of Hammurabi.
When the lights went on again Hercule Poirot was halfway up the wide, shallow steps. The police officers