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.’
‘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 in 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:
He translated:
‘“By skill again, the pilot on the wine-dark 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 Burton interrupted his melancholy.
‘Do you mean that you really are thinking of retiring?’
‘Yes.’
The other chuckled.
‘You won’t!’
‘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.’
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!’
He chuckled and rose slowly to his feet, an amiable white-haired gnome.
‘Yours aren’t the Labours of Hercules,’ 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 be’ –he shuddered–‘merely marrows.’
Taking leave of his host, Dr Burton left the severe rectangular room.
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…Mais oui, c’est une idée, ça…’
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 into 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 Adolfe Durand, a butcher, who had been tried at Lyon in 1895 –a creature of oxlike 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 criminal types. Drink, debauchery, incest, rape, loot, homicide and chicanery–enough to keep a juge d’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 modern 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 modern 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 ridding 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 modern Hercules. An ingenious and amusing conceit! In the period before his final retirement he would accept twelve cases, no more, no less. And
