Ah, but there he was wrong, the old

fossil. There should be, once again, the

Labours of Hercules --a modem Hercules.

An ingenious and amusing conceit! In the

period before his final retirement he would

accept twelve cases, no more, no less.

And those twelve cases should be selected

with special reference to the twelve

labours of ancient Hercules. Yes, that

would not only be amusing, it would be

artistic, it would be spiritual.

Poirot picked up the Classical Dictionary

and immersed himself once more in classical

lore. He did not intend to follow his

prototype too closely. There should be no

women, no shirt of Nessus. . . . The

Labours and the Labours only.

The first Labour, then, would be that of

the Nemean Lion.

"The Nemean Lion," he repeated, trying

it over on his tongue.

Naturally he did not expect a case to

ll

present itself actually involving a flesh

and blood lion. It would be too much of a

coincidence should he be approached by

the Directors of the Zoological Gardens to

solve a problem for them involving a real

lion.

No, here symbolism must be involved.

The first case must concern some celebrated

public figure, it must be sensational and of

the first importance! Some master criminal

--or alternately someone who was a lion

in the public eye. Some well-known writer, or politician, or painter --or even Royalty ?

He liked the idea of Royalty. . . .

He would not be in a hurry. He would

wait --wait for that case of high importance

that should be the first of his selfimposed

Labours.

12

1

THE NEMEAN LION

(c ANYTHING of interest this morning,

j—\ Miss Lemon?" he asked as he

JL centered the room the following

morning.

He trusted Miss Lemon. She was a

woman without imagination, but she had an

instinct. Anything that she mentioned as

worth consideration usually was worth

consideration. She was a born secretary.

"Nothing much, M. Poirot. There is just

one letter that I thought might interest

you. I have put it on the top of the pile."

"And what is that ?" he took an interested

step forward.

"It's from a man who wants you to

investigate the disappearance of his wife's

Pekinese dog."

Poirot paused with his foot still in the

air. He threw a glance of deep reproach at

13

Miss Lemon. She did not notice it. She

had begun to type. She typed with the

speed and precision of a quick-firing tank.

Poirot was shaken; shaken and embittered.

Miss Lemon, the efficient Miss

Lemon, had let him down! A Pekinese dog. A Pekinese dog! And after the dream he had had last night. He had been leaving

Buckingham Palace after being personally

thanked when his valet had come in with

his morning chocolate!

Words trembled on his lips --witty

caustic words. He did not utter them

because Miss Lemon, owing to the speed

and efficiency of her typing, would not

have heard them.

With a grunt of disgust he picked up the