The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [68]
Hercule Poirot said gently:
“But who brought it here?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know . . . It might have been Tony—Tony Hawker. But I don’t really know anything about it.”
Poirot said gently:
“Is it the first time you have taken cocaine, Mademoiselle?”
She nodded.
“You’d better make it the last,” said Stoddart brusquely.
“Yes—I suppose so—but it was rather marvellous.”
“Now look here, Sheila Grant,” said Stoddart. “I’m a doctor and I know what I’m talking about. Once start this drug-taking racket and you’ll land yourself in unbelievable misery. I’ve seen some and I know. Drugs ruin people, body and soul. Drink’s a gentle little picnic compared to drugs. Cut it right out from this minute. Believe me, it isn’t funny! What do you think your father would say to tonight’s business?”
“Father?” Sheila Grant’s voice rose. “Father?” She began to laugh. “I can just see Father’s face! He mustn’t know about it. He’d have seven fits!”
“And quite right too,” said Stoddart.
“Doctor—doctor—” the long wail of Mrs. Grace’s voice came from the other room.
Stoddart muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and went out of the room.
Sheila Grant stared at Poirot again. She was puzzled. She said:
“Who are you really? You weren’t at the party.”
“No, I was not at the party. I am a friend of Dr. Stoddart’s.”
“You’re a doctor, too? You don’t look like a doctor.”
“My name,” said Poirot, contriving as usual to make the simple statement sound like the curtain of the first act of a play, “my name is Hercule Poirot. . . .”
The statement did not fail of its effect. Occasionally Poirot was distressed to find that a callous younger generation had never heard of him.
But it was evident that Sheila Grant had heard of him. She was flabbergasted—dumbfounded. She stared and stared. . . .
III
It has been said, with or without justification for the statement, that everyone has an aunt in Torquay.
It has also been said that everyone has at least a second cousin in Mertonshire. Mertonshire is a reasonable distance from London, it has hunting, shooting and fishing, it has several very picturesque but slightly self-conscious villages, it has a good system of railways and a new arterial road facilitates motoring to and from the metropolis. Servants object to it less than they do to other, more rural, portions of the British Isles. As a result, it is practically impossible to live in Mertonshire unless you have an income that runs into four figures, and what with income tax and one thing and another, five figures is better.
Hercule Poirot, being a foreigner, had no second cousins in the country, but he had acquired by now a large circle of friends and he had no difficulty in getting himself invited for a visit in that part of the world. He had, moreover, selected as hostess a dear lady whose chief delight was exercising her tongue on the subject of her neighbours—the only drawback being that Poirot had to submit to hearing a great deal about people in whom he had no interest whatever, before coming to the subject of the people he was interested in.
“The Grants? Oh yes, there are four of them. Four girls. I don’t wonder the poor General can’t control them. What can a man do with four girls?” Lady Carmichael’s hands flew up eloquently. Poirot said: “What indeed?” and the lady continued:
“Used to be a great disciplinarian in his regiment, so he told me. But those girls defeat him. Not like when I was young. Old Colonel Sandys was such a martinet, I remember, that his poor daughters—”
(Long excursion into the trials of the Sandys girls and other friends of Lady Carmichael’s youth.)
“Mind you,” said Lady Carmichael, reverting to her first theme. “I don’t say there’s anything really wrong about those girls. Just high spirits—and getting in with an undesirable set. It’s not what it used to be down here. The oddest people come here. There’s no what you might call ‘county’ left. It’s all money, money, money nowadays. And you do hear the oddest stories! Who did you say? Anthony Hawker? Oh yes,