VIII
Harold Waring was down by the lake. He had been walking
feverishly1 for over an hour, trying by
sheer physical energy to still the clamour of despair that had attacked him.
He came at last to the spot where he had first noticed the two grim women who held his life
and Elsie’s in their evil
talons2. He said aloud:
“Curse them! Damn them for a pair of devilish bloodsucking harpies!”
A slight cough made him spin round. He found himself facing the luxuriantly moustached
stranger who had just come out from the shade of the trees.
Harold found it difficult to know what to say. This little man must have almost certainly
overheard what he had just said.
Harold, at a loss, said somewhat ridiculously:
“Oh—er—good afternoon.”
In perfect English the other replied:
“But for you, I fear, it is not a good afternoon?”
“Well—er—I—” Harold was in difficulties again.
The little man said:
“You are, I think, in trouble, Monsieur? Can I be of any assistance to you?”
“Oh no thanks, no thanks! Just blowing off steam, you know.”
The other said gently:
“But I think, you know, that I could help you. I am correct, am I not, in connecting your
troubles with two ladies who were sitting on the terrace just now?”
Harold stared at him.
“Do you know anything about them?” He added: “Who are you, anyway?”
As though confessing to royal birth the little man said modestly:
“I am Hercule Poirot. Shall we walk a little way into the wood and you shall tell me your
story? As I say, I think I can aid you.”
To this day, Harold is not quite certain what made him suddenly pour out the whole story to a
man to whom he had only spoken a few minutes before. Perhaps it was overstrain. Anyway, it
happened. He told Hercule Poirot the whole story.
The latter listened in silence. Once or twice he nodded his head gravely. When Harold came
to a stop the other
spoke3 dreamily.
“The Stymphalean Birds, with iron
beaks4, who feed on human flesh and who dwell by the
Stymphalean Lake . . . Yes, it accords very well.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Harold staring.
Perhaps, he thought, this curious-looking little man was mad!
Hercule Poirot smiled.
“I reflect, that is all. I have my own way of looking at things, you understand. Now as to this
business of yours. You are very unpleasantly placed.”
Harold said impatiently:
“I don’t need you to tell me that!”
Hercule Poirot went on:
“It is a serious business,
blackmail5. These harpies will force you to pay—and pay—and pay
again! And if you defy them, well, what happens?”
Harold said bitterly:
“The whole thing comes out. My career’s ruined, and a wretched girl who’s never done
anyone any harm will be put through hell, and God knows what the end of it all will be!”
“Therefore,” said Hercule Poirot, “something must be done!”
Harold said baldly: “What?”
Hercule Poirot leaned back, half-closing his eyes. He said (and again a doubt about his
sanity6
crossed Harold’s mind):
“It is the moment for the castanets of bronze.”
Harold said:
“Are you quite mad?”
The other shook his head. He said:
“Mais non! I strive only to follow the example of my great
predecessor7, Hercules. Have a few
hours’ patience, my friend. By tomorrow I may be able to deliver you from your persecutors.”
IX
Harold Waring came down the following morning to find Hercule Poirot sitting alone on the
terrace. In spite of himself Harold had been impressed by Hercule Poirot’s promises.
He came up to him now and asked anxiously:
“Well?”
Hercule Poirot beamed upon him.
“It is well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything has settled itself satisfactorily.”
“But what has happened?”
Hercule Poirot replied dreamily:
“I have employed the castanets of bronze. Or, in modern
parlance8, I have caused metal wires
to hum—in short I have employed the telegraph! Your Stymphalean Birds, Monsieur, have been
removed to where they will be unable to exercise their
ingenuity9 for some time to come.”
“They were wanted by the police? They have been arrested?”
“Precisely.”
Harold drew a deep breath.
“How marvellous! I never thought of that.” He got up. “I must find Mrs. Rice and Elsie and
tell them.”
“They know.”
“Oh good.” Harold sat down again. “Tell me just what—”
He broke off.
Coming up the path from the lake were two figures with flapping cloaks and profiles like
birds.
He exclaimed:
“I thought you said they had been taken away!”
Hercule Poirot followed his glance.
“Oh, those ladies? They are very harmless; Polish ladies of good family, as the porter told
you. Their appearance is, perhaps, not very pleasing but that is all.”
“But I don’t understand!”
“No, you do not understand! It is the other ladies who were wanted by the police—the
resourceful Mrs. Rice and the
lachrymose10 Mrs. Clayton! It is they who are well-known birds of
prey11. Those two, they make their living by blackmail, mon cher.”
Harold had a sensation of the world spinning round him. He said faintly:
“But the man—the man who was killed?”
“No one was killed. There was no man!”
“But I saw him!”
“Oh no. The tall deep-voiced Mrs. Rice is a very successful male impersonator. It was she
who played the part of the husband—without her grey
wig12 and suitably made up for the part.”
He leaned forward and tapped the other on the knee.
“You must not go through life being too
credulous13, my friend. The police of a country are not
so easily
bribed14—they are probably not to be bribed at all—certainly not when it is a question of
murder! These women trade on the average Englishman’s ignorance of foreign languages.
Because she speaks French or German, it is always this Mrs. Rice who interviews the manager and
takes charge of the affair. The police arrive and go to her room, yes! But what actually passes?
You do not know. Perhaps she says she has lost a brooch—something of that kind. Any excuse to
arrange for the police to come so that you shall see them. For the rest, what actually happens? You
wire for money, a lot of money, and you hand it over to Mrs. Rice who is in charge of all the
negotiations15! And that is that! But they are greedy, these birds of prey. They have seen that you
have taken an
unreasonable16 aversion to these two unfortunate Polish ladies. The ladies in question
come and hold a
perfectly17 innocent conversation with Mrs. Rice and she cannot resist repeating
the game. She knows you cannot understand what is being said.
“So you will have to send for more money which Mrs. Rice will pretend to distribute to a
fresh set of people.”
Harold drew a deep breath. He said:
“And Elsie—Elsie?”
“She played her part very well. She always does. A most
accomplished19 little actress.
Everything is very pure—very innocent. She appeals, not to sex, but to
chivalry20.”
Hercule Poirot added dreamily:
“That is always successful with Englishmen.”
Harold Waring drew a deep breath. He said crisply:
“I’m going to set to work and learn every European language there is! Nobody’s going to
make a fool of me a second time!”
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