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One
THE NEMEAN LION
“Anything of interest this morning, Miss Lemon?” he asked as he entered the room the following
morning.
He trusted Miss Lemon. She was a woman without imagination, but she had an instinct.
Anything that she mentioned as worth consideration usually was worth consideration. She was a
born secretary.
“Nothing much, M. Poirot. There is just one letter that I thought might interest you. I have
put it on the top of the pile.”
“And what is that?” He took an interested step forward.
“It’s from a man who wants you to investigate the disappearance of his wife’s Pekinese dog.”
Poirot paused with his foot still in the air. He threw a glance of deep reproach at Miss Lemon.
She did not notice it. She had begun to type. She typed with the speed and precision of a quick-
firing tank.
Poirot was shaken; shaken and embittered. Miss Lemon, the efficient Miss Lemon, had let
him down! A Pekinese dog. A Pekinese dog! And after the dream he had had last night. He had
been leaving Buckingham Palace after being personally thanked when his valet had come in with
his morning chocolate!
Words trembled on his lips—witty caustic words. He did not utter them because Miss Lemon,
owing to the speed and efficiency of her typing, would not have heard them.
With a grunt of disgust he picked up the topmost letter from the little pile on the side of his
desk.
Yes, it was exactly as Miss Lemon had said. A city address—a curt businesslike unrefined
demand. The subject—the kidnapping of a Pekinese dog. One of those bulging-eyed,
overpampered pets of a rich woman. Hercule Poirot’s lip curled as he read it.
Nothing unusual about this. Nothing out of the way or—But yes, yes, in one small detail,
Miss Lemon was right. In one small detail there was something unusual.
Hercule Poirot sat down. He read the letter slowly and carefully. It was not the kind of case
he wanted, it was not the kind of case he had promised himself. It was not in any sense an
important case, it was supremely unimportant. It was not—and here was the crux of his objection
—it was not a proper Labor of Hercules.
But unfortunately he was curious. . . .
Yes, he was curious. . . .
He raised his voice so as to be heard by Miss Lemon above the noise of her typing.
“Ring up this Sir Joseph Hoggin,” he ordered, “and make an appointment for me to see him
at his office as he suggests.”
As usual, Miss Lemon had been right.
• • •
“I’m a plain man, Mr. Poirot,” said Sir Joseph Hoggin.
Hercule Poirot made a noncommittal gesture with his right hand. It expressed (if you chose to
take it so) admiration for the solid worth of Sir Joseph’s career and an appreciation of his modesty
in so describing himself. It could also have conveyed a graceful deprecation of the statement. In
any case it gave no clue to the thought then uppermost in Hercule Poirot’s mind, which was that
Sir Joseph certainly was (using the term in its more colloquial sense) a very plain man indeed.
Hercule Poirot’s eyes rested critically on the swelling jowl, the small pig eyes, the bulbous nose
and the close-lipped mouth. The whole general effect reminded him of someone or something—
but for the moment he could not recollect who or what it was. A memory stirred dimly. A long
time ago . . . in Belgium . . . something, surely, to do with soap. . . .
Sir Joseph was continuing.
“No frills about me. I don’t beat about the bush. Most people, Mr. Poirot, would let this
business go. Write it off as a bad debt and forget about it. But that’s not Joseph Hoggin’s way. I’m
a rich man—and in a manner of speaking two hundred pounds is neither here nor there to me—”
Poirot interpolated swiftly:
“I congratulate you.”
“Eh?”
Sir Joseph paused a minute. His small eyes narrowed themselves still more. He said sharply:
“That’s not to say that I’m in the habit of throwing my money about. What I want I pay for.
But I pay the market price—no more.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“You realize that my fees are high?”
“Yes, yes. But this,” Sir Joseph looked at him cunningly, “is a very small matter.”
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
“I do not bargain. I am an expert. For the services of an expert you have to pay.”
Sir Joseph said frankly:
“I know you’re a tip-top man at this sort of thing. I made inquiries and I was told that you
were the best man available. I mean to get to the bottom of this business and I don’t grudge the
expense. That’s why I got you to come here.”
“You were fortunate,” said Hercule Poirot.
Sir Joseph said “Eh?” again.
“Exceedingly fortunate,” said Hercule Poirot firmly. “I am, I may say so without undue
modesty, at the apex of my career. Very shortly I intend to retire—to live in the country, to travel
occasionally to see the world—also, it may be, to cultivate my garden—with particular attention to
improving the strain of vegetable marrows. Magnificent vegetables—but they lack flavour. That,
however, is not the point. I wished merely to explain that before retiring I had imposed upon
myself a certain task. I have decided to accept twelve cases—no more, no less. A self-imposed
‘Labors of Hercules’ if I may so describe it. Your case, Sir Joseph, is the first of the twelve. I was
attracted to it,” he sighed, “by its striking unimportance.”
“Importance?” said Sir Joseph.
“Unimportance was what I said. I have been called in for varying causes—to investigate
murders, unexplained deaths, robberies, thefts of jewellery. This is the first time that I have been
asked to turn my talents to elucidate the kidnapping of a Pekinese dog.”
Sir Joseph grunted. He said:
“You surprise me! I should have said you’d have had no end of women pestering you about
their pet dogs.”
“That, certainly. But it is the first time that I am summoned by the husband in the case.”
Sir Joseph’s little eyes narrowed appreciatively.
He said:
“I begin to see why they recommended you to me. You’re a shrewd fellow, Mr. Poirot.”
Poirot murmured:
“If you will now tell me the facts of the case. The dog disappeared, when?”
“Exactly a week ago.”
“And your wife is by now quite frantic, I presume?”
Sir Joseph stared. He said:
“You don’t understand. The dog has been returned.”
“Returned? Then, permit me to ask, where do I enter the matter?”
Sir Joseph went crimson in the face.
“Because I’m damned if I’ll be swindled! Now then, Mr. Poirot, I’m going to tell you the
whole thing. The dog was stolen a week ago—nipped in Kensington Gardens where he was out
with my wife’s companion. The next day my wife got a demand for two hundred pounds. I ask
you—two hundred pounds! For a damned yapping little brute that’s always getting under your feet
anyway!”
Poirot murmured:
“You did not approve of paying such a sum, naturally?”
“Of course I didn’t—or wouldn’t have if I’d known anything about it! Milly (my wife) knew
that well enough. She didn’t say anything to me. Just sent off the money—in one pound notes as
stipulated—to the address given.”
“And the dog was returned?”
“Yes. That evening the bell rang and there was the little brute sitting on the doorstep. And not
a soul to be seen.”
“Perfectly. Continue.”
“Then, of course, Milly confessed what she’d done and I lost my temper a bit. However, I
calmed down after a while—after all, the thing was done and you can’t expect a woman to behave
with any sense—and I daresay I should have let the whole thing go if it hadn’t been for meeting
old Samuelson at the Club.”
“Yes?”
“Damn it all, this thing must be a positive racket! Exactly the same thing had happened to
him. Three hundred pounds they’d rooked his wife of! Well, that was a bit too much. I decided the
thing had got to be stopped. I sent for you.”
“But surely, Sir Joseph, the proper thing (and a very much more inexpensive thing) would
have been to send for the police?”
Sir Joseph rubbed his nose.
He said:
“Are you married, Mr. Poirot?”
“Alas,” said Poirot, “I have not that felicity.”
“H’m,” said Sir Joseph. “Don’t know about felicity, but if you were, you’d know that women
are funny creatures. My wife went into hysterics at the mere mention of the police—she’d got it
into her head that something would happen to her precious Shan Tung if I went to them. She
wouldn’t hear of the idea—and I may say she doesn’t take very kindly to the idea of your being
called in. But I stood firm there and at last she gave way. But, mind you, she doesn’t like it.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“The position is, I perceive, a delicate one. It would be as well, perhaps, if I were to interview
Madame your wife and gain further particulars from her whilst at the same time reassuring her as
to the future safety of her dog?”
Sir Joseph nodded and rose to his feet. He said:
“I’ll take you along in the car right away.”
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