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 self-imposed Labours.
Chapter 1
The Nemean Lion
‘Anything of interest this morning, Miss Lemon?’ he asked as he entered 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 topmost letter from the little pile on the side of his desk.
Yes, it was exactly as Miss Lemon had said. A city address–a curt business-like unrefined demand. The subject–the kidnapping of a Pekinese dog. One of those bulging-eyed, overpampered pets of a rich woman. Hercule Poirot’s lip curled as he read it.
Nothing unusual about this. Nothing out of the way or–But yes, yes, in one small detail, Miss Lemon was right. In one small detail there was something unusual.
Hercule Poirot sat down. He read the letter slowly and carefully. It was not the kind of case he wanted, it was not the kind of case he had promised himself. It was not in any sense an important case, it was supremely unimportant. It was not–and here was the crux of his objection–it was not a proper Labour of Hercules.
But unfortunately he was curious…
Yes, he was curious…
He raised his voice so as to be heard by Miss Lemon above the noise of her typing.
‘Ring up this Sir Joseph Hoggin,’ he ordered, ‘and make an appointment for me to see him at his office as he suggests.’
As usual, Miss Lemon had been right.
‘I’m a plain man, Mr Poirot,’ said Sir Joseph Hoggin.
Hercule Poirot made a noncommittal gesture with his right hand. It expressed (if you chose to take it so) admiration for the solid worth of Sir Joseph’s career and an appreciation of his modesty in so describing himself. It could also have conveyed a graceful deprecation of the statement. In any case it gave no clue to the thought then uppermost in Hercule Poirot’s mind, which was that Sir Joseph certainly was (using the term in its more colloquial sense) a very plain man indeed. Hercule Poirot’s eyes rested critically on the swelling jowl, the small pig eyes, the bulbous nose and the close-lipped mouth. The whole general effect reminded him of someone or something–but for the moment he could not recollect who or what it was. A memory stirred dimly. A long time ago…in Belgium…something, surely, to do with soap…
Sir Joseph was continuing.
‘No frills about me. I don’t beat about the bush. Most people, Mr Poirot, would let this business go. Write it off as a bad debt and forget about it. But that’s not Joseph Hoggin’s way. I’m a rich man–and in a manner of speaking two hundred pounds is neither here nor there to me–’
Poirot interpolated swiftly:
‘I congratulate you.’
‘Eh?’
Sir Joseph paused a minute. His small eyes narrowed themselves still more. He said sharply:
‘That’s not to say that I’m in the habit of throwing my money about. What I want I pay for. But I pay the market price–no more.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘You realize that my fees are high?’
‘Yes, yes. But this,’ Sir Joseph looked at him cunningly, ‘is a very small matter.’
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
‘I do not bargain. I am an expert. For the services of an expert you have to pay.’
Sir Joseph said frankly:
‘I know you’re a tip-top man at this sort of thing. I made inquiries and I was told that you were the best man available. I mean to get to the bottom of this business and I don’t grudge the expense. That’s why I got you to come here.’
‘You were fortunate,’ said Hercule Poirot.
Sir Joseph said ‘Eh?’ again.
‘Exceedingly fortunate,’ said Hercule Poirot firmly. ‘I am, I may say so without undue modesty, at the apex of my career. Very shortly I intend to retire–to live in the country, to travel occasionally to see the world–also, it may be, to cultivate my garden–with particular attention to improving the strain of vegetable marrows. Magnificent vegetables–but they lack flavour. That, however, is not the point. I wished merely to explain that before retiring I had imposed upon myself a certain task. I have decided to accept twelve cases–no more, no less. A self-imposed “Labours of Hercules” if I may so describe it. Your case, Sir Joseph, is the first of the twelve. I was attracted to it,’ he sighed, ‘by its striking unimportance.’
‘Importance?’
