The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [88]
“That was his general stock in trade—a dominating personality, the power of creating mass hysteria and the reactions produced by this drug. But he had a second aim in view.
“Lonely women, in their gratitude and fervour, made wills leaving their money to the Cult. One by one, these women died. They died in their own homes and apparently of natural causes. Without being too technical I will try to explain. It is possible to make intensified cultures of certain bacteria. The bacillus Coli Communis, for instance, the cause of ulcerative colitis. Typhoid bacilli can be introduced into the system. So can the Pneumococcus. There is also what is termed Old Tuberculin which is harmless to a healthy person but which stimulates any old tubercular lesion into activity. You perceive the cleverness of the man? These deaths would occur in different parts of the country, with different doctors attending them and without any risk of arousing suspicion. He had also, I gather, cultivated a substance which had the power of delaying but intensifying the action of the chosen bacillus.”
“He’s a devil, if there ever was one!” said Chief Inspector Japp.
Poirot went on:
“By my orders, you told him that you were a tuberculous subject. There was Old Tuberculin in the syringe when Cole arrested him. Since you were a healthy person it would not have harmed you, which is why I made you lay stress on your tubercular trouble. I was terrified that even now he might choose some other germ, but I respected your courage and I had to let you take the risk.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Miss Carnaby brightly. “I don’t mind taking risks. I’m only frightened of bulls in fields and things like that. But have you enough evidence to convict this dreadful person?”
Japp grinned.
“Plenty of evidence,” he said. “We’ve got his laboratory and his cultures and the whole layout!”
Poirot said:
“It is possible, I think, that he has committed a long line of murders. I may say that it was not because his mother was a Jewess that he was dismissed from that German University. That merely made a convenient tale to account for his arrival here and to gain sympathy for him. Actually, I fancy, he is of pure Aryan blood.”
Miss Carnaby sighed.
“Qu’est ce qu’il y a?” asked Poirot.
“I was thinking,” said Miss Carnaby, “of a marvellous dream I had at the First Festival—hashish, I suppose. I arranged the whole world so beautifully! No wars, no poverty, no ill health, no ugliness. . . .”
“It must have been a fine dream,” said Japp enviously.
Miss Carnaby jumped up. She said:
“I must get home. Emily has been so anxious. And dear Augustus has been missing me terribly, I hear.”
Hercule Poirot said with a smile:
“He was afraid, perhaps, that like him, you were going to die for Hercule Poirot!”
Eleven
THE APPLES OF THE HESPERIDES
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully into the face of the man behind the big mahogany desk. He noted the generous brow, the mean mouth, the rapacious line of the jaw and the piercing, visionary eyes. He understood from looking at the man why Emery Power had become the great financial force that he was.
And his eyes falling to the long delicate hands, exquisitely shaped, that lay on the desk, he understood, too, why Emery Power had attained renown as a great collector. He was known on both sides of the Atlantic as a connoisseur of works of art. His passion for the artistic went hand in hand with an equal passion for the historic. It was not enough for him that a thing should be beautiful—he demanded also that it should have a tradition behind it.
Emery Power was speaking. His voice was quiet—a small, distinct voice that was more effective than any mere volume of sound could have been.
“You do not, I know, take many cases nowadays. But I think you will take this one.”
“It is, then, an affair of great moment?”
Emery Power said:
“It is of moment to me.”
Poirot remained in an enquiring attitude, his head slightly on one side. He looked like a meditative robin.
The other went on:
“It concerns the recovery of a work of art. To be