perusing a large calf-bound volume and

other slimmer works, with occasional

harried glances at various typewritten slips

of paper.

His secretary. Miss Lemon, had been

detailed to collect information on the

subject of Hercules and to place same

before him.

Without interest (hers not the type to

wonder why!) but with perfect efficiency,

Miss Lemon had fulfilled her task.

Hercule Poirot was plunged head first

in a bewildering sea of classical lore with

particular reference to "Hercules, a celebrated

hero who, after death, was ranked

among the gods, and received divine

honours."

8

So far, so good --but thereafter it was

far from plain sailing. For two hours Poirot

read diligently, making notes, frowning, consulting his slips of paper and his other books of reference. Finally he sank back in

his chair and shook his head. His mood

of the previous evening was dispelled.

What people!

Take this Hercules --this hero! Hero, indeed! What was he but a large muscular creature of low intelligence and criminal

tendencies! Poirot was reminded of one

Adoife Durand, a butcher, who had been

tried at Lyons in 1895 --a creature of

oxiike strength who had killed several

children. The defence had been epilepsy

--from which he undoubtedly suffered - though whether grand mal or petit mal had been an argument of several days' discussion.

This ancient Hercules probably

suffered from grand mal. No, Poirot shook

his head, if that was the Greeks' idea of a

hero, then measured by modern standards

it certainly would not do. The whole

classical pattern shocked him. These gods

and goddesses --they seemed to have as

many different aliases as a modern criminal.

Indeed they seemed to be definitely crimi 9

nal types. Drink, debauchery, incest, rape,

loot, homicide and chicanery --enough to

keep a juge d9 Instruction constantly busy.

No decent family life. No order, no

method. Even in their crimes, no order or

method!

''Hercules indeed!" said Hercule Poirot, rising to his feet, disillusioned. He looked round him with approval.

A square room, with good square modern

furniture --even a piece of good modem

sculpture representing one cube placed on

another cube and above it a geometrical

arrangement of copper wire. And in the

midst of this shining and orderly room, himself. He looked at himself in the glass. Here, then, was a modem Hercules --very

distinct from that unpleasant sketch of a

naked figure with bulging muscles, brandishing

a club. Instead, a small compact

figure attired in correct urban wear with a

moustache --such a moustache as

Hercules never dreamed of cultivating - a moustache magnificent yet sophisticated. Yet there was between this Hercule

Poirot and the Hercules of Classical lore

one point of resemblance. Both of them, undoubtedly, had been instrumental in rid10

ding the world of certain pests. . . . Each

of them could be described as a benefactor

to the Society he lived in. ...

What had Dr. Burton said last night as

he left: '^Yours are not the Labours of

Hercules. ..."