Eleven
THE APPLES OF THE HESPERIDES
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully into the face of the man behind the big mahogany desk. He
noted1 the generous brow, the mean mouth, the
rapacious2 line of the
jaw3 and the piercing, visionary
eyes. He understood from looking at the man why Emery Power had become the great financial
force that he was.
And his eyes falling to the long delicate hands,
exquisitely5 shaped, that lay on the desk, he
understood, too, why Emery Power had
attained6 renown7 as a great collector. He was known on
hand with an equal passion for the historic. It was not enough for him that a thing should be
beautiful—he demanded also that it should have a tradition behind it.
Emery Power was speaking. His voice was quiet—a small, distinct voice that was more
effective than any
mere10 volume of sound could have been.
“You do not, I know, take many cases nowadays. But I think you will take this one.”
“It is, then, an affair of great moment?”
Emery Power said:
“It is of moment to me.”
Poirot remained in an
enquiring11 attitude, his head slightly on one side. He looked like a
The other went on:
“It concerns the recovery of a work of art. To be exact, a gold chased
goblet14, dating from the
Renaissance15. It is said to be the goblet used by Pope Alexander VI—Roderigo Borgia. He
sometimes presented it to a favoured guest to drink from. That guest, M. Poirot, usually died.”
“A pretty history,” Poirot murmured.
“Its career has always been associated with violence. It has been stolen more than once.
Murder has been done to gain possession of it. A trail of bloodshed has followed it through the
ages.”
“On account of its intrinsic value or for other reasons?”
“Its intrinsic value is certainly considerable. The workmanship is
exquisite4 (it is said to have
been made by Benvenuto Cellini). The design represents a tree round which a jewelled serpent is
coiled and the apples on the tree are formed of very beautiful emeralds.”
Poirot murmured with an apparent quickening of interest:
“Apples?”
“The emeralds are particularly fine, so are the
rubies16 in the serpent, but of course the real
value of the cup is its historical associations. It was put up for sale by the Marchese di San
Veratrino in 1929. Collectors bid against each other and I secured it finally for a sum equalling (at
the then rate of exchange) thirty thousand pounds.”
“Indeed a princely sum! The Marchese di San Veratrino was fortunate.”
Emery Power said:
“When I really want a thing, I am willing to pay for it, M. Poirot.”
Hercule Poirot said softly:
“You have no doubt heard the Spanish proverb: ‘Take what you want—and pay for it, says
God.’ ”
For a moment the financier frowned—a swift light of anger showed in his eyes. He said
coldly:
“You are by way of being a philosopher, M. Poirot.”
“I have arrived at the age of reflection, Monsieur.”
“Doubtless. But it is not reflection that will restore my goblet to me.”
“You think not?”
“I fancy action will be necessary.”
“A lot of people make the same mistake. But I demand your pardon, Mr. Power, we have
digressed from the matter in hand. You were saying that you had bought the cup from the
Marchese di San Veratrino?”
“Exactly. What I have now to tell you is that it was stolen before it actually came into my
possession.”
“How did that happen?”
“The Marchese’s Palace was broken into on the night of the sale and eight or ten pieces of
considerable value were stolen, including the goblet.”
“What was done in the matter?”
“The police, of course, took the matter in hand. The robbery was recognized to be the work
of a well-known international gang of thieves. Two of their number, a Frenchman called Dublay
and an Italian called Riccovetti, were caught and tried—some of the stolen goods were found in
their possession.”
“But not the Borgia goblet?”
“But not the Borgia goblet. There were, as far as the police could
ascertain20, three men
actually engaged in the robbery—the two I have just mentioned and a third, an Irishman named
Patrick Casey. This last was an expert cat burglar. It was he who is said to have actually stolen the
things. Dublay was the brains of the group and planned their
coups21; Riccovetti drove the car and
waited below for the goods to be lowered down to him.”
“And the stolen goods? Were they split up into three parts?”
“Possibly. On the other hand, the articles that were recovered were those of least value. It
seems possible that the more noteworthy and spectacular pieces had been hastily
smuggled22 out of
the country.”
“What about the third man, Casey? Was he never brought to justice?”
“Not in the sense you mean. He was not a very young man. His muscles were stiffer than
formerly23. Two weeks later he fell from the fifth floor of a building and was killed instantly.”
“Where was this?”
“In Paris. He was attempting to rob the house of the millionaire banker, Duvauglier.”
“And the goblet has never been seen since?”
“Exactly.”
“It has never been offered for sale?”
“I am quite sure it has not. I may say that not only the police, but also private
inquiry24 agents,
“What about the money you had paid over?”
stolen from his house.”
“But you did not accept?”
“No.”
“Why was that?”
“Shall we say because I preferred to keep the matter in my own hands?”
“You mean that if you had accepted the Marchese’s offer, the goblet, if recovered, would be
his property, whereas now it is legally yours?”
“Exactly.”
“What was there behind that attitude of yours?”
Emery Power said with a smile:
“You appreciate that point, I see. Well, M. Poirot, it is quite simple. I thought I knew who was
actually in possession of the goblet.”
“Very interesting. And who was it?”
“Sir Reuben Rosenthal. He was not only a fellow collector but he was at the time a personal
enemy. We had been rivals in several business deals—and on the whole I had come out the better.
possess it. It was more or less a point of honour. Our appointed representatives bid against each
other at the sale.”
“And your representative’s final bid secured the treasure?”
“Not
precisely31. I took the precaution of having a second agent—ostensibly the representative
of a Paris
dealer32. Neither of us, you understand, would have been willing to yield to the other, but
to allow a third party to acquire the cup, with the possibility of approaching that third party quietly
afterwards—that was a very different matter.”
“In fact, une petite déception.”
“Exactly.”
“Which was successful—and immediately afterwards Sir Reuben discovered how he had
been tricked?”
Power smiled.
It was a revealing smile.
Poirot said: “I see the position now. You believed that Sir Reuben, determined not to be
Emery Power raised a hand.
“Oh no, no! It would not be so crude as that. It amounted to this—shortly afterwards Sir
Reuben would have purchased a Renaissance goblet,
provenance34 unspecified.”
“The description of which would have been circulated by the police?”
“The goblet would not have been placed openly on view.”
“You think it would have been sufficient for Sir Reuben to know that he
possessed35 it?”
“Yes. Moreover, if I had accepted the Marchese’s offer—it would have been possible for Sir
Reuben to conclude a private arrangement with him later, thus allowing the goblet to pass legally
into his possession.”
He paused a minute and then said:
“But my retaining the legal ownership, there were still possibilities left open to me of
recovering my property.”
“You mean,” said Poirot bluntly, “that you could arrange for it to be stolen from Sir Reuben.”
“Not stolen, M. Poirot. I should have been merely recovering my own property.”
“But I gather that you were not successful?”
“For a very good reason. Rosenthal has never had the goblet in his possession!”
“How do you know?”
“Recently there has been a
merger36 of oil interests. Rosenthal’s interests and mine now
coincide. We are allies and not enemies. I
spoke37 to him
frankly38 on the subject and he at once
assured me that the cup had never been in his possession.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“Then for nearly ten years you have been, as they say in this country, barking up the mistaken
tree?”
The financier said bitterly:
“Yes, that is exactly what I have been doing!”
“And now—it is all to start again from the beginning?”
The other nodded.
“And that is where I come in? I am the dog that you set upon the cold
scent39—a very cold
scent.”
Emery Power said drily:
“If the affair were easy it would not have been necessary for me to send for you. Of course, if
you think it impossible—”
He had found the right word. Hercule Poirot drew himself up. He said coldly:
“I do not recognize the word impossible, Monsieur! I ask myself only—is this affair
Emery Power smiled again. He said:
“It has this interest—you may name your own fee.”
The small man looked at the big man. He said softly:
“Do you then desire this work of art so much? Surely not!”
Emery Power said:
“Put it that I, like yourself, do not accept defeat.”
Hercule Poirot bowed his head. He said:
“Yes—put that way—I understand. . . .”
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