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Foreword
Hercule Poirot’s flat was essentially modern in its furnishings. It gleamed with chromium. Its easy
chairs, though comfortably padded, were square and uncompromising in outline.
On one of these chairs sat Hercule Poirot, neatly—in the middle of the chair. Opposite him,
in another chair, sat Dr. Burton, Fellow of All Souls, sipping appreciatively at a glass of Poirot’s
Château Mouton Rothschild. There was no neatness about Dr. Burton. He was plump, untidy, and
beneath his thatch of white hair beamed a rubicund and benign countenance. He had a deep
wheezy chuckle and the habit of covering himself and everything round him with tobacco ash. In
vain did Poirot surround him with ashtrays.
Dr. Burton was asking a question.
“Tell me,” he said. “Why Hercule?”
“You mean, my Christian name?”
“Hardly a Christian name,” the other demurred. “Definitely pagan. But why? That’s what I
want to know. Father’s fancy? Mother’s whim? Family reasons? If I remember rightly—though
my memory isn’t what it was—you had a brother called Achille, did you not?”
Poirot’s mind raced back over the details of Achille Poirot’s career. Had all that really
happened?
“Only for a short space of time,” he replied.
Dr. Burton passed tactfully from the subject of Achille Poirot.
“People should be more careful how they name their children,” he ruminated. “I’ve got
godchildren. I know. Blanche, one of ’em is called—dark as a gypsy! Then there’s Deirdre,
Deirdre of the Sorrows—she’s turned out merry as a grig. As for young Patience, she might as
well have been named Impatience and be done with it! And Diana—well, Diana—” the old
classical scholar shuddered. “Weighs twelve stone now—and she’s only fifteen! They say it’s
puppy fat—but it doesn’t look that way to me. Diana! They wanted to call her Helen, but I did put
my foot down there. Knowing what her father and mother looked like! And her grandmother for
that matter! I tried hard for Martha or Dorcas or something sensible—but it was no good—waste
of breath. Rum people, parents. . . .”
He began to wheeze gently—his small fat face crinkled up.
Poirot looked at him inquiringly.
“Thinking of an imaginary conversation. Your mother and the late Mrs. Holmes, sitting
sewing little garments or knitting: ‘Achille, Hercule, Sherlock, Mycroft. . . .’ ”
Poirot failed to share his friend’s amusement.
“What I understand you to mean is, that in physical appearance I do not resemble a
Hercules?”
Dr. Burton’s eyes swept over Hercule Poirot, over his small neat person attired in striped
trousers, correct black jacket and natty bow tie, swept up from his patent leather shoes to his egg-
shaped head and the immense moustache that adorned his upper lip.
“Frankly, Poirot,” said Dr. Burton, “you don’t! I gather,” he added, “that you’ve never had
much time to study the Classics?”
“That is so.”
“Pity. Pity. You’ve missed a lot. Everyone should be made to study the Classics if I had my
way.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Eh bien, I have got on very well without them.”
“Got on! Got on! It’s not a question of getting on. That’s the wrong view altogether. The
Classics aren’t a ladder leading to quick success like a modern correspondence course! It’s not a
man’s working hours that are important—it’s his leisure hours. That’s the mistake we all make.
Take yourself now, you’re getting on, you’ll be wanting to get out of things, to take things easy—
what are you going to do then with your leisure hours?”
Poirot was ready with his reply.
“I am going to attend—seriously—to the cultivation of vegetable marrows.”
Dr. Burton was taken aback.
“Vegetable marrows? What d’yer mean? Those great swollen green things that taste of
water?”
“Ah,” Poirot spoke enthusiastically. “But that is the whole point of it. They need not taste of
water.”
“Oh! I know—sprinkle ’em with cheese, or minced onion or white sauce.”
“No, no—you are in error. It is my idea that the actual flavour of the marrow itself can be
improved. It can be given,” he screwed up his eyes, “a bouquet—”
“Good God, man, it’s not a claret.” The word bouquet reminded Dr. Burton of the glass at his
elbow. He sipped and savoured. “Very good wine, this. Very sound. Yes.” His head nodded in
approbation. “But this vegetable marrow business—you’re not serious? You don’t mean”—he
spoke in lively horror—“that you’re actually going to stoop”—his hands descended in sympathetic
horror on his own plump stomach—“stoop, and fork dung on the things, and feed ’em with strands
of wool dipped in water and all the rest of it?”
“You seem,” Poirot said, “to be well acquainted with the culture of the marrow?”
“Seen gardeners doing it when I’ve been staying in the country. But seriously, Poirot, what a
hobby! Compare that to”—his voice sank to an appreciative purr—“an easy chair in front of a
wood fire in a long, low room lined with books—must be a long room—not a square one. Books
all round one. A glass of port—and a book open in your hand. Time rolls back as you read:” he
quoted sonorously:
He translated:
“ ‘By skill again, the pilot on the wine-dark sea straightens
The swift ship buffeted by the winds.’
Of course you can never really get the spirit of the original.”
For the moment, in his enthusiasm, he had forgotten Poirot. And Poirot, watching him, felt
suddenly a doubt—an uncomfortable twinge. Was there, here, something that he had missed?
Some richness of the spirit? Sadness crept over him. Yes, he should have become acquainted with
the Classics . . . Long ago . . . Now, alas, it was too late. . . .
Dr. Burton interrupted his melancholy.
“Do you mean that you really are thinking of retiring?”
“Yes.”
The other chuckled.
“You won’t!”
“But I assure you—”
“You won’t be able to do it, man. You’re too interested in your work.”
“No—indeed—I make all the arrangements. A few more cases—specially selected ones—
not, you understand, everything that presents itself—just problems that have a personal appeal.”
Dr. Burton grinned.
“That’s the way of it. Just a case or two, just one case more—and so on. The Prima Donna’s
farewell performance won’t be in it with yours, Poirot!”
He chuckled and rose slowly to his feet, an amiable white-haired gnome.
“Yours aren’t the Labors of Hercules,” he said. “Yours are labors of love. You’ll see if I’m
not right. Bet you that in twelve months’ time you’ll still be here, and vegetable marrows will still
be”—he shuddered—“merely marrows.”
Taking leave of his host, Dr. Burton left the severe rectangular room.
He passes out of these pages not to return to them. We are concerned only with what he left
behind him, which was an Idea.
For after his departure Hercule Poirot sat down again slowly like a man in a dream and
murmured:
“The Labors of Hercules . . . Mais oui, c’est une idée, ça. . . .”
• • •
The following day saw Hercule Poirot perusing a large calf-bound volume and other slimmer
works, with occasional harried glances at various typewritten slips of paper.
His secretary, Miss Lemon, had been detailed to collect information on the subject of
Hercules and to place same before him.
Without interest (hers not the type to wonder why!) but with perfect efficiency, Miss Lemon
had fulfilled her task.
Hercule Poirot was plunged head first into a bewildering sea of classical lore with particular
reference to “Hercules, a celebrated hero who, after death, was ranked among the gods, and
received divine honours.”
So far, so good—but thereafter it was far from plain sailing. For two hours Poirot read
diligently, making notes, frowning, consulting his slips of paper and his other books of reference.
Finally he sank back in his chair and shook his head. His mood of the previous evening was
dispelled. What people!
Take this Hercules—this hero! Hero, indeed! What was he but a large muscular creature of
low intelligence and criminal tendencies! Poirot was reminded of one Adolfe Durand, a butcher,
who had been tried at Lyon in 1895—a creature of oxlike strength who had killed several children.
The defence had been epilepsy—from which he undoubtedly suffered—though whether grand mal
or petit mal had been an argument of several days’ discussion. This ancient Hercules probably
suffered from grand mal. No, Poirot shook his head, if that was the Greeks’ idea of a hero, then
measured by modern standards it certainly would not do. The whole classical pattern shocked him.
These gods and goddesses—they seemed to have as many different aliases as a modern criminal.
Indeed they seemed to be definitely criminal types. Drink, debauchery, incest, rape, loot, homicide
and chicanery—enough to keep a juge d’Instruction constantly busy. No decent family life. No
order, no method. Even in their crimes, no order or method!
“Hercules indeed!” said Hercule Poirot, rising to his feet, disillusioned.
He looked round him with approval. A square room, with good square modern furniture—
even a piece of good modern sculpture representing one cube placed on another cube and above it
a geometrical arrangement of copper wire. And in the midst of this shining and orderly room,
himself. He looked at himself in the glass. Here, then, was a modern Hercules—very distinct from
that unpleasant sketch of a naked figure with bulging muscles, brandishing a club. Instead, a small
compact figure attired in correct urban wear with a moustache—such a moustache as Hercules
never dreamed of cultivating—a moustache magnificent yet sophisticated.
Yet there was between this Hercule Poirot and the Hercules of Classical lore one point of
resemblance. Both of them, undoubtedly, had been instrumental in ridding the world of certain
pests . . . Each of them could be described as a benefactor to the Society he lived in. . . .
What had Dr. Burton said last night as he left: “Yours are not the Labors of Hercules. . . .”
Ah, but there he was wrong, the old fossil. There should be, once again, the Labors of
Hercules—a modern Hercules. An ingenious and amusing conceit! In the period before his final
retirement he would accept twelve cases, no more, no less. And those twelve cases should be
selected with special reference to the twelve Labors of ancient Hercules. Yes, that would not only
be amusing, it would be artistic, it would be spiritual.
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 Labors and the Labors only.
The first Labor, 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 Labors.
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