Poirot said:

"So unhappy that he has forgotten what

happiness means. So unhappy that he does

not know he is unhappy."

The nun said softly:

4i7

I

"Ah, a nch man. ..."

Hercule Poirot said nothing—for he

knew there was nothing to say. ...

418

12

THE CAPTURE OF CERBERUS

ERCULE POIROT, swaying to

and fro in the tube train, thrown

now against one body, now against

another, thought to himself that there were

too many people in the world! Certainly

there were too many people in the Underground

world of London at this particular

moment (6.30 p.m.) of the evening. Heat,

noise, crowd, contiguity --the unwelcome

pressure of hands, arms, bodies, shoulders!

Hemmed in and pressed around by

strangers --and on the whole (he thought

distastefully) a plain and uninteresting lot

of strangers! Humanity seen thus en masse was not attractive. How seldom did one see a face sparkling with intelligence, how seldom a femme bien mise\ What was this passion that attacked women for

H

419

knitting under the most unpropitious conditions?

A woman did not look her best

knitting; the absorption, the glassy eyes,

the restless, busy fingers! One needed the

agility of a wild cat, and the willpower of a

Napoleon to manage to knit in a crowded

tube, but women managed it! If they

succeeded in obtaining a seat, out came a

miserable little strip of shrimp pink and

click, click went the pins!

No repose, thought Poirot, no feminine

grace! His elderly soul revolted from the

stress and hurry of the modem world.

All these young women who surrounded

him--so alike, so devoid of charm, so

lacking in rich, alluring femininity! He

demanded a more flamboyant appeal. Ah!

to see sifemme du monde, chic, sympathetic, spirituelle--a woman with ample curves, a woman ridiculously and extravagantly

dressed! Once there had been such women.

But now --now - The train stopped at a station, people

surged out, forcing Poirot back on to the

points of knitting pins, surged in, squeezing

him into even more sardine-like proximity

with his fellow passengers. The train

started off again with a jerk, Poirot was

420

thrown against a stout woman with knobbly

parcels, said ^Pardon/w bounced off again

into a long angular man whose attachecase

caught him in the small of the back. He

said c<Pardon.lw again. He felt his

moustaches becoming limp and uncurled. Quel enfer! Fortunately the next station was his!

It was also the station of what seemed

to be about a hundred and fifty other

people, since it happened to be Piccadilly

Circus. Like a great tidal wave they flowed

out on to the platform. Presently Poirot

was again jammed tightly on an escalator

being carried upwards towards the surface

of the earth.

Up, thought Poirot, from the Infernal

Regions.... How exquisitely painful was a

suit-case rammed into one's knees from

behind on an ascending escalator!

At that moment, a voice cried his name.

Startled, he raised his eyes. On the opposite

escalator, the one descending, his unbelieving