'Drugs!'
'What!'
The word came in a roar.
Poirot said: 'An attempt is being made to induce your daughter Sheila to become a drug addict. The cocaine habit is very quickly formed. A week or two will suffice. Once the habit is formed, an addict will pay anything, do anything, to get a further supply of the drug. You can realise what a rich haul the person who peddles that drug can make.'
He listened in silence to the spluttering, wrathful blasphemies that poured from the old man's lips. Then, as the fires died down, with a final choice description of exactly what he, the General, would do to the blinkety-blinkety son of a blank when he got hold of him, Hercule Poirot said: 'We have first, as your so admirable Mrs Beeton says, to catch the hare. Once we have caught our drug pedlar, I will turn him over to you with the greatest pleasure, General.'
He got up, tripped over a heavily-carved, small table, regained his balance with a clutch at the General, murmured: 'A thousand pardons, and may I beg of you, General – you understand, beg of you – to say nothing whatever about all this to your daughters.'
'What? I'll have the truth out of them, that's what I'll have!'
'That is exactly what you will not have. All you will get is a lie.'
'But damme, sir -'
'I assure you. General Grant, you must hold your tongue. That is vital – you understand? Vital!'
'Oh well, have it your own way,' growled the old soldier.
He was mastered but not convinced.
Hercule Poirot picked his way carefully through the Benares brass and went out.
V
Mrs Larkin's room was full of people.
Mrs Larkin herself was mixing cocktails 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 sinister grace. She looked as though she were in the early thirties. Only a close scrutiny 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-aged woman, a friend of Lady Carmichael's. He found himself given a cocktail 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 abruptly: '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 kit and Sheila had a streak of mud on her cheek.
'Hullo, people, we've come in for a drink. Tony's flask 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 skilfully 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 mutual 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 vehemence 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 hex glance.
Hawker's head was close to that of his hostess. He appeared to be soothing 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 nervously pleating and repleating her tweed skirt.
Poirot murmured conversationally: '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: 'Have you ever taken cocaine, Miss Grant?'
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 entails. It is so easily done – so hard to undo. The person who deliberately profits from the degradation and misery of other people is a vampire preying on flesh and blood.'
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 good-bye to Mrs Larkin and went out into the hall. On the hall table was a hunting flask
