Labors of Hercules

Agatha Christie

I've travelled the world twice over,

Met the famous: saints and sinners,

Poets and artists, kings and queens,

Old stars and hopeful beginners,

I've been where no-one's been before,

Learned secrets from writers and cooks

All with one library ticket

To the wonderful world of books.

THE LABOURS OF HERCULES

A modern "Labours of Hercules33 - it was an idea that appealed to Hercule Poirot.

In the period before his retirement, he decided to undertake twelve cases with special reference to the twelve

labours of ancient Hercules.

Amusing and original, each case

more baffling than the last, we

guarantee the Labours of Hercules

will test the wits of the most ingenious

armchair detective.

AGATHA CHRISTIE

THE LABOURS

OF HERCULES

Complete and Unabridged

,vw^

| ULVERSCROFT

Leicester

First Published 1947

First Large Print Edition

published April 1978

by arrangement with

Collins, London & Glasgow

and

Dodd, Mead & Company Inc.

New York

Reprinted 1990

British Library CIP Data

Christie, Agatha 18901976

Labours of Hercules--Large print ed.-(Ulverscroft large print series: mystery) I. Title

823'.912 [F]

ISBN 0 7089 01190

ETOBICOKE

PUBLIC UBRARIE5

LONG BRAf .»

Published by IF . A. Thorpe (Publishing) Ltd.

Anstey, Leicestershire

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

T. J. Press (Padstow) Ltd., Padstow, Cornwall

EDMUND CORK

OF WHOSE LABOURS ON BEHALF

OF HERCULE POIROT I AM

DEEPLY APPRECIATIVE

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY

DEDICATED

CONTENTS

Foreword page i

^ i. The Nemean Lion 13

2. The Lemean Hydra 58

^ 3. The Arcadian Deer 102

i 4. The Erymanthian Boar 134

5. The Augean Stables 173

^ 6. The Stymphalean Birds 206

7. The Cretan Bull 243

^ 8. The Horses of Diomedes 291

i/9. The Girdle of Hyppolita 325

10. The Flock of Geryon353

^ii. The Apples of the Hesperides 389

i2. The Capture of Cerberus 419

•'

FOREWORD

ERCULE POIROTS flat was essentially

modem in its furnishings.

It gleamed with chromium. Its

easy-chairs, though comfortably padded, were square and uncompromising in outline.

On one of these chairs sat Hercule

Poirot, neatly --in the middle of the

chair. Opposite him, in another chair, sat

Dr. Burton, Fellow of All Souls, sipping

appreciatively at a glass of Poirot's

Chateau Mouton Rothschild. There was

no neatness about Dr. Burton. He was

plump, untidy, and beneath his thatch of

white hair beamed a rubicund and benign

countenance. He had a deep wheezy

chuckle and the habit of covering himself

and everything round him with tobacco

ash. In vain did Poirot surround him with

ashtrays.

Dr. Burton was asking a question. 'Tell me," he said. "Why Hercule ?"

"You mean, my Christian name ?"

"Hardly a Christian name," the other

demurred. "Definitely pagan. But why?

That's what I want to know. Father's

fancy? Mother's whim? Family reasons?

If I remember rightly --though my memory

isn't what it was --you had a brother

called Achille, did you not ?"

Poirot's mind raced back over the

details of Achille Poirot's career. Had all

that really happened ?

"Only for a short space of time," he

replied.

Dr. Burton passed tactfully from the

subject of Achille Poirot.

"People should be more careful how

they name their children," he ruminated.

"I've got godchildren. I know. Blanche,

one of 'em is called--dark as a gipsy!

Then there's Deirdre, Deirdre of the

Sorrows --she's turned out merry as a

grig. As for young Patience, she might as

well have been named Impatience and

be done with it! And Diana--well, Diana --" the old Classical scholar shuddered.

"Weighs twelve stone now--and

she's only fifteen! They say it's puppy fat

--but it doesn't look that way to me. Diana! They wanted to call her Helen, but I did put my foot down there. Knowing

what her father and mother looked like!

And her grandmother for that matter!

I tried hard for Martha or Dorcas or something

sensible--but it was no good-waste of breath. Rum people, parents...." He began to wheeze gently --his small

fat face crinkled up.

Poirot looked at him inquiringly.

"Thinking of an imaginary conversation.

Your mother and the late Mrs.

Holmes, sitting sewing little garments or

knitting: 'Achille, Hercule, Sherlock, Mycroft. . . .' " Poirot failed to share his friend's amusement.

"What I understand you to mean is,

that in physical appearance I do not

resemble a Hercules ?"

Dr. Burton's eyes swept over Hercule

Poirot, over his small neat person attired

in striped trousers, correct black jacket

and natty bow tie, swept up from his

patent leather shoes to his egg-shaped

head and the immense moustache that

adorned his upper lip.

"Frankly, Poirot," said Dr. Burton, "you

don't! I gather," he added, "that you've

never had much time to study the Classics ?"

"That is so."

"Pity. Pity. You've missed a lot. Everyone

should be made to study the Classics

if I had my way."

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"Eh bien, I have got on very well without

them."

"Got on! Got on! It's not a question of

getting on. That's the wrong view

altogether. The Classics aren't a ladder

leading to quick success like a modem

correspondence course! It's not a man's

working hours that are important--it's

his leisure hours. That's the mistake we all

make. Take yourself now, you're getting

on, you'll be wanting to get out of things, to take things easy --what are you going to do then with your leisure hours ?"

Poirot was ready with his reply.

"I am going to attend --seriously --to

the cultivation of vegetable marrows."

Dr. Burton was taken aback.

"Vegetable marrows ? What d'yer mean ?

Those great swollen green things that

taste of water ?"

"Ah," Poirot spoke enthusiastically. "But

that is the whole point of it. They need not taste of water." 4

"Oh! I know--sprinkle 'em with

cheese, or minced onion or white sauce."

"No, no--you are in error. It is my

idea that the actual flavour of the marrow

itself can be improved. It can be given,"

he screwed up his eyes, "a bouquet --"

"Good God, man, it's not a claret." The word bouquet reminded Dr. Burton of the glass at his elbow. He sipped and

savoured. "Very good wine, this. Very

sound. Yes." His head nodded in approbation.

"But this vegetable marrow

business --you're not serious ? You don't

mean" --he spoke in lively horror --"that

you're actually going to stoop" --his hands

descended m sympathetic horror on his

own plump stomach --"stoop, and fork

dung on the things, and feed 'em with

strands of wool dipped in water and all the

rest of it ?"

"You seem," Poirot said, "to be well

acquainted with the culture of the marrow

"Seen gardeners doing it when I've

been staying in the country. But seriously, Poirot, what a hobby! Compare that to" --his voice sank to an appreciative purr--^an easy-chair in front of a wood fire in a long, low room lined with books --must

be a long room --not a square one. Books

all round one. A glass of port--and a

book open in your hand. Time rolls back

as you read:" he quoted sonorously:

Myrf 6 a5re KV^epvriTrf^ ev\ olvoTri ttovtw

vija OofJV IQvvel epe^Oo/A.evrJv ave^oio'i

He translated:

(c 'By skill again, the pilot on the winedark

sea straightens

The swift ship buffeted by the

winds.'

Of course you can never really get the

spirit of the original."

For the moment, in his enthusiasm, he

had forgotten Poirot. And Poirot, watching

him, felt suddenly a doubt--an uncomfortable

twinge. Was there, here, something

that he had missed ? Some richness of the

spirit? Sadness crept over him. Yes, he

should have become acquainted with the

Classics. . . . Long ago. . . . Now, alas, it

was too late. . . .

Dr. Button interrupted his melancholy.

"Do you mean that you really are

thinking of retiring ?33

"Yes.33

The other chuckled.

"You won't!33

"But I assure you --"

"You won't be able to do it, man.

You're too interested in your work."

"No --indeed --I make all the arrangements.

A few more cases --specially

selected ones --not, you understand, everything that presents itself--just problems that have a personal appeal.33

Dr. Burton grinned.

"That's the way of it. Just a case or

two, just one case more--and so on.

The Prima Donna's farewell performance

won't be in it with yours, Poirot!33

He chuckled and rose slowly to his feet, an amiable white-haired gnome.

"Yours aren't the Labours of Hercules,33 he said. "Yours are labours of love. You'll see if I'm not right. Bet you that

in twelve months' time you'll still be here, and vegetable marrows will still be33 --he shuddered --"merely marrows.33

Taking leave of his host. Dr. Burton left

the severe rectangular room.

LOH2 I

He passes out of these pages not to

return to them. We are concerned only

with what he left behind him, which was

an Idea.

For after his departure Hercule Poirot

sat down again slowly like a man in a

dream and murmured:

"The Labours of Hercules.... Mats out, c'est une idee, ca. ..." The following day saw Hercule Poirot

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."

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. ..."

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

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.

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

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