Eight
THE HORSES OF DIOMEDES
The telephone rang.
“Hallo, Poirot, is that you?”
Hercule Poirot recognized the voice as that of young Dr. Stoddart. He liked Michael Stoddart,
liked the shy
friendliness1 of his grin, was amused by his naïve interest in crime, and respected him
as a hardworking and shrewd man in his chosen profession.
“I don’t like bothering you—” the voice went on and hesitated.
“But something is bothering you?” suggested Hercule Poirot acutely.
“Exactly.” Michael Stoddart’s voice sounded relieved. “Hit it in one!”
“Eh bien, what can I do for you, my friend?”
Stoddart sounded diffident. He
stammered2 a little when he answered.
“I suppose it would be awful c-c-cheek if I asked you to come round at this time of night . . .
B-b-but I’m in a bit of a j-j-jam.”
“Certainly I will come. To your house?”
“No—as a matter of fact I’m at the Mews that runs along behind. Conningby Mews. The
number is 17. Could you really come? I’d be no end grateful.”
“I arrive immediately,” replied Hercule Poirot.
II
Hercule Poirot walked along the dark Mews looking up at the numbers. It was past one o’clock in
the morning and for the most part the Mews appeared to have gone to bed, though there were still
lights in one or two windows.
As he reached 17, its door opened and Dr. Stoddart stood looking out.
“Good man!” he said. “Come up, will you?”
A small ladderlike stairway led to the upper floor. Here, on the right, was a fairly big room,
furnished with
divans4, rugs,
triangular5 silver cushions and large numbers of bottles and glasses.
Everything was more or less in confusion, cigarette ends were everywhere and there were
many broken glasses.
“Ha!” said Hercule Poirot. “Mon cher Watson, I deduce that there has been here a party!”
“There’s been a party all right,” said Stoddart grimly. “Some party, I should say!”
“You did not, then, attend it yourself?”
“No, I’m here
strictly6 in my professional capacity.”
“What happened?”
Stoddart said:
“This place belongs to a woman called Patience Grace—Mrs. Patience Grace.”
“It sounds,” said Poirot, “a charming old-world name.”
“There’s nothing charming or old-world about Mrs. Grace. She’s good-looking in a tough
sort of way. She’s got through a couple of husbands, and now she’s got a boyfriend whom she
suspects of trying to run out on her. They started this party on drink and they finished it on dope—
cocaine7, to be exact. Cocaine is stuff that starts off making you feel just grand and with everything
in the garden lovely. It peps you up and you feel you can do twice as much as you usually do.
Take too much of it and you get violent mental excitement,
delusions8 and
delirium9. Mrs. Grace
had a violent quarrel with her boyfriend, an unpleasant person by the name of Hawker. Result, he
walked out on her then and there, and she leaned out of the window and took a potshot at him with
a brand-new revolver that someone had been fool enough to give her.”
“Did she hit him?”
“Not she! Bullet went several yards wide, I should say. What she did hit was a
miserable11
loafer who was creeping along the Mews looking in the dustbins. Got him through the fleshy part
of the arm. He raised Hell, of course, and the crowd
hustled12 him in here quick, got the wind up
with all the blood that was spilling out of him and came round and got me.”
“Yes?”
“I patched him up all right. It wasn’t serious. Then one or two of the men got busy on him
and in the end he consented to accept a couple of five pound notes and say no more about it.
Suited him all right, poor devil. Marvellous stroke of luck.”
“And you?”
“I had a bit more work to do. Mrs. Grace herself was in
raving13 hysterics by that time. I gave
her a shot of something and packed her off to bed. There was another girl who’d more or less
passed out—quite young she was, and I attended to her too. By that time everyone was slinking off
as fast as they could leave.”
He paused.
“And then,” said Poirot, “you had time to think over the situation.”
“Exactly,” said Stoddart. “If it was an ordinary drunken binge, well, that would be the end of
it. But dope’s different.”
“You are quite sure of your facts?”
“Oh, absolutely. No mistaking it. It’s cocaine all right. I found some in a lacquer box—they
snuff it up, you know. Question is, where does it come from? I remembered that you’d been
talking the other day about a big, new wave of drug taking and the increase of drug
addicts14.”
Hercule Poirot nodded. He said:
“The police will be interested in this party tonight.”
Michael Stoddart said unhappily:
“That’s just it. . . .”
Poirot looked at him with suddenly
awakened15 interest. He said:
“But you—you are not very anxious that the police should be interested?”
“Innocent people get mixed up in things . . . hard lines on them.”
“Is it Mrs. Patience Grace for whom you are so
solicitous17?”
“Good Lord, no. She’s as hard-boiled as they make them!”
Hercule Poirot said gently:
“It is, then, the other one—the girl?”
Dr. Stoddart said:
“Of course, she’s hard-boiled, too, in a way. I mean, she’d describe herself as hard-boiled.
But she’s really just very young—a bit wild and all that—but it’s just kid foolishness. She gets
mixed up in a racket like this because she thinks it’s smart or modern or something like that.”
A faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He said softly:
“This girl, you have met her before tonight?”
Michael Stoddart nodded. He looked very young and embarrassed.
“Ran across her in Mertonshire. At the Hunt Ball. Her father’s a
retired18 General—blood and
thunder, shoot ’em down—pukka Sahib—all that sort of thing. There are four daughters and they
are all a bit wild—driven to it with a father like that, I should say. And it’s a bad part of the county
where they live—armaments works nearby and a lot of money—none of the old-fashioned country
feeling—a rich crowd and most of them pretty vicious. The girls have got in with a bad set.”
Hercule Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes. Then he said:
“I perceive now why you desired my presence. You want me to take the affair in hand?”
“Would you? I feel I ought to do something about it—but I confess I’d like to keep Sheila
Grant out of the limelight if I could.”
“That can be managed, I fancy. I should like to see the young lady.”
“Come along.”
He led the way out of the room. A voice called fretfully from a door opposite.
“Doctor—for God’s sake, doctor, I’m going crazy.”
Stoddart went into the room. Poirot followed. It was a bedroom in a complete state of
chaos19
—powder spilled on the floor—pots and jars everywhere, clothes flung about. On the bed was a
woman with
unnaturally20 blonde hair and a vacant, vicious face. She called out:
“I’ve got insects crawling all over me . . . I have. I swear I have. I’m going mad . . . For
God’s sake, give me a shot of something.”
Dr. Stoddart stood by the bed, his tone was soothing—
professional.
Hercule Poirot went quietly out of the room. There was another door opposite him. He
opened that.
It was a tiny room—a
mere3 slip of a room—plainly furnished. On the bed a slim, girlish
figure lay motionless.
Hercule Poirot tiptoed to the side of the bed and looked down upon the girl.
Dark hair, a long, pale face—and—yes, young—very young. . . .
A gleam of white showed between the girl’s lids. Her eyes opened, startled, frightened eyes.
She stared, sat up, tossing her head in an effort to throw back the thick mane of blue-black hair.
She looked like a frightened filly—she shrank away a little—as a wild animal shrinks when it is
suspicious of a stranger who offers it food.
She said—and her voice was young and thin and
abrupt21:
“Who the hell are you?”
“Do not be afraid, Mademoiselle.”
“Where’s Dr. Stoddart?”
That young man came into the room at that minute. The girl said with a note of relief in her
voice:
“Oh! there you are! Who’s this?”
“This is a friend of mine, Sheila. How are you feeling now?”
The girl said:
“Awful. Lousy . . . Why did I take that
foul22 stuff?”
Stoddart said drily:
“I shouldn’t do it again, if I were you.”
“I—I shan’t.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Who gave it to you?”
Her eyes widened, her upper lip
twitched23 a little. She said:
“It was here—at the party. We all tried it. It—it was wonderful at first.”
Hercule Poirot said gently:
“But who brought it here?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know . . . It might have been Tony—Tony Hawker. But I don’t really know anything
about it.”
Poirot said gently:
“Is it the first time you have taken cocaine, Mademoiselle?”
She nodded.
“You’d better make it the last,” said Stoddart brusquely.
“Yes—I suppose so—but it was rather marvellous.”
“Now look here, Sheila Grant,” said Stoddart. “I’m a doctor and I know what I’m talking
about. Once start this drug-taking racket and you’ll land yourself in unbelievable
misery24. I’ve seen
some and I know. Drugs ruin people, body and soul. Drink’s a gentle little picnic compared to
drugs. Cut it right out from this minute. Believe me, it isn’t funny! What do you think your father
would say to tonight’s business?”
“Father?” Sheila Grant’s voice rose. “Father?” She began to laugh. “I can just see Father’s
face! He mustn’t know about it. He’d have seven fits!”
“And quite right too,” said Stoddart.
“Doctor—doctor—” the long
wail25 of Mrs. Grace’s voice came from the other room.
Stoddart muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and went out of the room.
Sheila Grant stared at Poirot again. She was puzzled. She said:
“Who are you really? You weren’t at the party.”
“No, I was not at the party. I am a friend of Dr. Stoddart’s.”
“You’re a doctor, too? You don’t look like a doctor.”
“My name,” said Poirot,
contriving26 as usual to make the simple statement sound like the
curtain of the first act of a play, “my name is Hercule Poirot. . . .”
The statement did not fail of its effect. Occasionally Poirot was
distressed27 to find that a
callous28 younger generation had never heard of him.
But it was evident that Sheila Grant had heard of him. She was flabbergasted—dumbfounded.
She stared and stared. . . .
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