V
Mrs. Larkin’s room was full of people.
Mrs. Larkin herself was mixing
cocktails2 at a side table. She was a tall woman with pale
auburn hair rolled into the back of her neck. Her eyes were greenish-grey with big, black pupils.
She moved easily, with a kind of
sinister3 grace. She looked as though she were in the early thirties.
Only a close
scrutiny4 revealed the lines at the corners of the eyes and hinted that she was ten years
older than her looks.
Hercule Poirot had been brought here by a brisk,
middle-aged5 woman, a friend of Lady
Carmichael’s. He found himself given a
cocktail1 and further directed to take one to a girl sitting in
the window. The girl was small and fair—her face was pink and white and suspiciously angelic.
Her eyes, Hercule Poirot noticed at once, were alert and suspicious.
He said:
“To your continued good health, Mademoiselle.”
She nodded and drank. Then she said
abruptly6:
“You know my sister.”
“Your sister? Ah, you are then one of the Miss Grants?”
“I’m Pam Grant.”
“And where is your sister today?”
“She’s out hunting. Ought to be back soon.”
“I met your sister in London.”
“I know.”
“She told you?”
Pam Grant nodded. She said abruptly:
“Was Sheila in a jam?”
“So she did not tell you everything?”
The girl shook her head. She asked:
“Was Tony Hawker there?”
Before Poirot could answer, the door opened and Hawker and Sheila Grant came in. They
were in hunting
kit7 and Sheila had a
streak8 of mud on her cheek.
“Hullo, people, we’ve come in for a drink. Tony’s
flask9 is dry.”
Poirot murmured:
“Talk of the angels—”
Pam Grant snapped:
“Devils, you mean.”
Poirot said sharply:
“Is it like that?”
Beryl Larkin had come forward. She said:
“Here you are, Tony. Tell me about the run? Did you draw Gelert’s Copse?”
She drew him away
skilfully10 to a sofa near the fireplace. Poirot saw him turn his head and
glance at Sheila before he went.
Sheila had seen Poirot. She hesitated a minute, then came over to the two in the window. She
said abruptly:
“So it was you who came to the house yesterday?”
“Did your father tell you?”
She shook her head.
“Abdul described you. I—guessed.”
Pam exclaimed: “You went to see Father?”
Poirot said:
“Ah—yes. We have—some
mutual11 friends.”
Pam said sharply:
“I don’t believe it.”
“What do you not believe? That your father and I could have a mutual friend?”
The girl flushed.
“Don’t be stupid. I meant—that wasn’t really your reason—”
She turned on her sister.
“Why don’t you say something, Sheila?”
Sheila started. She said:
“It wasn’t—it wasn’t anything to do with Tony Hawker?”
“Why should it be?” asked Poirot.
Sheila flushed and went back across the room to the others.
Pam said with sudden
vehemence12 but in a lowered voice:
“I don’t like Tony Hawker. There—there’s something sinister about him—and about her—
Mrs. Larkin, I mean. Look at them now.”
Poirot followed her glance.
Hawker’s head was close to that of his hostess. He appeared to be
soothing13 her. Her voice
rose for a minute.
“—but I can’t wait. I want it now!”
Poirot said with a little smile:
“Les femmes—whatever it is—they always want it now, do they not?”
But Pam Grant did not respond. Her face was cast down. She was
nervously14 pleating and
repleating her tweed skirt.
“You are quite a different type from your sister, Mademoiselle.”
She flung her head up, impatient of banalities. She said:
“M. Poirot. What’s the stuff Tony’s been giving Sheila? What is it that’s been making her—
different?”
He looked straight at her. He asked:
She shook her head.
“Oh no! So that’s it? Cocaine? But isn’t that very dangerous?”
Sheila Grant had come over to them, a fresh drink in her hand. She said:
“What’s dangerous?”
Poirot said:
“We are talking of the effects of drug taking. Of the slow death of the mind and spirit—the
destroying of all that is true and good in a human being.”
Sheila Grant caught her breath. The drink in her hand swayed and spilled on the floor. Poirot
went on:
“Dr. Stoddart has, I think, made clear to you just what that death in life
entails17. It is so easily
He turned away. Behind him he heard Pam Grant’s voice say: “Sheila!” and caught a whisper
—a faint whisper—from Sheila Grant. It was so low he hardly heard it.
“The flask . . .”
Hercule Poirot said goodbye to Mrs. Larkin and went out into the hall. On the hall table was a
hunting flask lying with a crop and a hat. Poirot picked it up. There were initials on it: A.H.
Poirot murmured to himself:
“Tony’s flask is empty?”
He shook it gently. There was no sound of liquor. He unscrewed the top.
Tony Hawker’s flask was not empty. It was full—of white powder. . . .
VI
Hercule Poirot stood on the terrace of Lady Carmichael’s house and pleaded with a girl.
He said:
“You are very young, Mademoiselle. It is my belief that you have not known, not really
known, what it is you and your sisters have been doing. You have been feeding, like the mares of
Diomedes, on human flesh.”
“It sounds horrible, put like that. And yet it’s true! I never realized it until that evening in
London when Dr. Stoddart talked to me. He was so grave—so sincere. I saw then what an awful
thing it was I had been doing . . . Before that I thought it was—Oh! rather like drink after hours—
something people would pay to get, but not something that really mattered very much!”
Poirot said:
“And now?”
Sheila Grant said:
“I’ll do anything you say. I—I’ll talk to the others,” she added . . . “I don’t suppose
Dr. Stoddart will ever speak to me again. . . .”
“On the contrary,” said Poirot. “Both Dr. Stoddart and I are prepared to help you in every
way in our power to start afresh. You can trust us. But one thing must be done. There is one
person who must be destroyed—destroyed
utterly26, and only you and your sisters can destroy him.
It is your evidence and your evidence alone that will convict him.”
“You mean—my father?”
“Not your father, Mademoiselle. Did I not tell you that Hercule Poirot knows everything?
Your photograph was easily recognized in official quarters. You are Sheila Kelly—a
persistent27
young shoplifter who was sent to a reformatory some years ago. When you came out of that
reformatory, you were approached by the man who calls himself General Grant and offered this
post—the post of a ‘daughter.’ There would be plenty of money, plenty of fun, a good time. All
you had to do was to introduce the ‘snuff’ to your friends, always pretending that someone else
had given it to you. Your ‘sisters’ were in the same case as yourself.”
He paused and said:
“Come now, Mademoiselle—this man must be exposed and sentenced. After that—”
“Yes, afterwards?”
Poirot coughed. He said with a smile:
“You shall be
dedicated28 to the service of the Gods. . . .”
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