Hercule Poirot smiled.
'But fortunately, there was the school routine of unpacking trunks on arrival – and a present for you from Winnie – but not the same present that Winnie packed at Cranchester'
He came towards her.
'You have given this picture to me. Observe now, you must admit that it is not suitable for your select school!'
He held out the canvas.
As though by magic Cranchester Bridge had disappeared. Instead was a classical scene in rich, dim colourings.
Poirot said softly: 'The Girdle of Hyppolita. Hyppolita gives her girdle to Hercules – painted by Rubens. A great work of art – mais tout de meme not quite suitable for your drawing room.'
Miss Pope blushed slightly.
Hyppolita's hand was on her girdle – she was wearing nothing else… Hercules had a lion skin thrown lightly over one shoulder. The flesh of Rubens is rich, voluptuous flesh…
Miss Pope said, regaining her poise: 'A fine work of art… All the same – as you say – after all, one must consider the susceptibilities of parents. Some of them are inclined to be narrow… if you know what I mean…'
V
It was just as Poirot was leaving the house that the onslaught took place. He was surrounded, hemmed-in, overwhelmed by a crowd of girls, thick, thin, dark and fair.
'Mon Dieu!' he murmured. 'Here indeed is the attack by the Amazons!'
A tall fair girl was crying out: 'A rumour has gone round -'
They surged closer. Hercule Poirot was surrounded. He disappeared in a wave of young, vigorous femininity.
Twenty-five voices arose, pitched in various keys but all uttering the same momentous phrase.
'M. Poirot, will you write your name in my autograph book?'
Chapter 10
THE FLOCK OF GERYON
I
'I really do apologise for intruding like this, M. Poirot.'
Miss Carnaby clasped her hands fervently round her handbag and leaned forward, peering anxiously into Poirot's face. As usual, she sounded breathless.
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose.
She said anxiously: 'You do remember me, don't you?'
Hercule Poirot's eyes twinkled.
He said: 'I remember you as one of the most successful criminals that I have ever encountered!'
'Oh dear me, M. Poirot, must you really say such things? You were so kind to me. Emily and I often talk about you, and if we see anything about you in the paper we cut it out at once and paste it in a book. As for Augustus, we have taught him a new trick. We say, 'Die for Sherlock Holmes, die for Mr Fortune, die for Sir Henry Merrivale, and then die for M. Hercule Poirot' and he goes down and lies like a log – lies absolutely still without moving until we say the word!'
'I am gratified,' said Poirot. 'And how is ce cher Auguste?'
Miss Carnaby clasped her hands and became eloquent in praise of her Pekinese.
'Oh, M. Poirot, he's cleverer than ever. He knows everything. Do you know, the other day I was just admiring a baby in a pram and suddenly I felt a tug and there was Augustus trying his hardest to bite through his lead. Wasn't that clever?'
Poirot's eyes twinkled. He said: 'It looks to me as though Augustus shared these criminal tendencies we were speaking of just now!'
Miss Carnaby did not laugh. Instead, her nice plump face grew worried and sad.
She said in a kind of gasp: 'Oh, M. Poirot, I'm so worried!'
Poirot said kindly: 'What is it?'
'Do you know, M. Poirot, I'm afraid – I really am afraid – that I must be a hardened criminal – if I may use such a term. Ideas come to me!'
'What kind of ideas?'
'The most extraordinary ideas! For instance, yesterday, a really most practical scheme for robbing a post office came into my head. I wasn't thinking about it – it just came! And another very ingenious way for evading custom duties… I feel convinced – quite convinced – that it would work.'
'It probably would,' said Poirot dryly. 'That is the danger of your ideas.'
'It has worried me, M. Poirot, very much. Having been brought up with strict principles, as I have been, it is most disturbing that such lawless – such really wicked – ideas should come to me. The trouble is partly, I think, that I have a good deal of leisure time now. I have left Lady Hoggin and I am engaged by an old lady to read to her and to write her letters every day. The letters are soon done and the moment I begin reading she goes to sleep, so I am left just sitting there – with an idle mind – and we all know the use the devil has for idleness.'
'Tcha, tcha,' said Poirot.
'Recently I have read a book – a very modern book, translated from the German. It throws a most interesting light on criminal tendencies. One must, so I understand, sublimate one's impulses! That, really, is why I came to you.'
'Yes?' said Poirot.
'You see, M. Poirot. I think that it is really not so much wickedness as a craving for excitement! My life has unfortunately been very humdrum. The – er – campaign of the Pekinese dogs, I sometimes feel, was the only time I really lived. Very reprehensible, of course, but, as my book says, one must not turn one's back on the truth. I came to you, M. Poirot, because I hoped it might be possible to – to sublimate that craving for excitement by employing it, if I may put it that way, on the side of the angels.'
'Aha,' said Poirot. 'It is then as a colleague that you present yourself?'
Miss Carnaby blushed.
'It is very presumptuous of me, I know. But you were so kind -'
She stopped. Her eyes, faded blue eyes, had something in them of the pleading of a dog who hopes against hope that you will take him for a walk.
'It is an idea,' said Hercule Poirot slowly.
'I am, of course, not at all clever,' explained Miss Carnaby. 'But my powers of – of dissimulation are good. They have to be – otherwise one would be discharged from the post of companion immediately. And I have always found that to appear even stupider than one is, occasionally has good results.'
Hercule Poirot laughed. He said: 'You enchant me, Mademoiselle.'
'Oh dear, M. Poirot, what a very kind man you are. Then you do encourage me to hope? As it happens, I have just received a small legacy – a very small one, but it enables my sister and myself to keep and feed ourselves in a frugal manner so that I am not absolutely dependent on what I earn.'
'I must consider,' said Poirot, 'where your talents may best be employed. You have no idea yourself, I suppose?'
