to follow.
Was the Countess patronising the Bakerloo or the Piccadilly line? Poirot visited each platform in turn. He was swept about amongst surging crowds boarding or leaving trains, but nowhere did he espy that flamboyant Russian figure, the Countess Vera Rossakoff.
Weary, battered, and infinitely chagrined, Hercule Poirot once more ascended to ground level and stepped out into the hubbub of Piccadilly Circus. He reached home in a mood of pleasurable excitement.
It is the misfortune of small precise men to hanker after large and flamboyant women. Poirot had never been able to rid himself of the fatal fascination the Countess held for him. Though it was something like twenty years since he had seen her last the magic still held. Granted that her makeup now resembled a scene-painter's sunset, with the woman under the make-up well hidden from sight, to Hercule Poirot she still represented the sumptuous and the alluring. The little bourgeois was still thrilled by the aristocrat. The memory of the adroit way she stole jewellery roused the old admiration. He remembered the magnificent aplomb with which she had admitted the fact when taxed with it. A woman in a thousand – in a million! And he had met her again – and lost her!
'In Hell,' she had said. Surely his ears had not deceived him? She had said that?
But what had she meant by it? Had she meant London 's Underground Railways? Or were her words to be taken in a religious sense? Surely, even if her own way of life made Hell the most plausible destination for her after this life, surely – surely her Russian courtesy would not suggest that Hercule Poirot was necessarily bound for the same place?
No, she must have meant something quite different. She must have meant – Hercule Poirot was brought up short against bewilderment. What an intriguing, what an unpredictable woman! A lesser woman might have shrieked 'The Ritz' or 'Claridge.' But Vera Rossakoff had cried poignantly and impossibly: 'Hell!'
Poirot sighed. But he was not defeated. In his perplexity he took the simplest and most straightforward course on the following morning, he asked his secretary, Miss Lemon.
Miss Lemon was unbelievably ugly and incredibly efficient. To her Poirot was nobody in particular – he was merely her employer. She gave him excellent service. Her private thoughts and dreams were concentrated on a new filing system which she was slowly perfecting in the recesses of her mind.
'Miss Lemon, may I ask you a question?'
'Of course, M. Poirot.' Miss Lemon took her fingers off the typewriter keys and waited attentively.
'If a friend asked you to meet her – or him – in Hell, what would you do?'
Miss Lemon, as usual, did not pause. She knew, as the saying goes, all the answers.
'It would be advisable, I think, to ring up for a table,' she said.
Hercule Poirot stared at her in a stupefied fashion.
He said, staccato: 'You – would – ring – up – for – a table?'
Miss Lemon nodded and drew the telephone towards her.
'Tonight?' she asked, and taking assent for granted since he did not speak, she dialled briskly.
' Temple Bar 14578? Is that Hell? Will you please reserve a table for two. M. Hercule Poirot. Eleven o'clock.'
She replaced the receiver and her fingers hovered over the keys of her typewriter. A slight – a very slight look of impatience was discernible upon her face. She had done her part, the look seemed to say, surely her employer could now leave her to get on with what she was doing?
But Hercule Poirot required explanations.
'What is it, then, this Hell?' he demanded.
Miss Lemon looked slightly surprised.
'Oh didn't you know, M. Poirot? It's a night club – quite new and very much the rage at present – run by some Russian woman, I believe. I can fix up for you to become a member before this evening quite easily.'
Whereupon, having wasted (as she made obvious) quite time enough. Miss Lemon broke into a perfect fusillade of efficient typing.
At eleven that evening Hercule Poirot passed through a doorway over which a Neon sign discreetly showed one letter at a time. A gentleman in red tails received him and took from him his coat.
A gesture directed him to a flight of wide shallow stairs leading downwards. On each step a phrase was written.
The first one ran: 'I meant well.'
The second: 'Wipe the slate clean and start afresh.'
The third: 'I can give it up any time I like.'
'The good intentions that pave the way to Hell,' Hercule Poirot murmured appreciatively. 'C'est bien imagine, ca!'
He descended the stairs. At the foot was a tank of water with scarlet lilies. Spanning it was a bridge shaped like a boat. Poirot crossed by it.
On his left in a kind of marble grotto sat the largest and ugliest and blackest dog Poirot had ever seen! It sat up very straight and gaunt and immovable. It was perhaps, he thought, (and hoped!) not real. But at that moment the dog turned its ferocious and ugly head and from the depths of its black body a low, rumbling growl was emitted. It was a terrifying sound.
And then Poirot noticed a decorative basket of small round dog biscuits. They were labelled, 'A sop for Cerberus!'
It was on them that the dog's eyes were fixed. Once again the low, rumbling growl was heard. Hastily Poirot picked up a biscuit and tossed it towards the great hound.
A cavernous red mouth yawned, then came a snap as the powerful jaws closed again. Cerberus had accepted his sop! Poirot moved on through an open doorway.
The room was not a big one. It was dotted with little tables, a space of dancing floor in the middle. It was lighted with small red lamps, there were frescoes on the walls, and at the far end was a vast grill at which officiated chefs dressed as devils with tails and horns.
All this Poirot took in before, with all the impulsiveness of her Russian nature, Countess Vera Rossakoff, resplendent in scarlet evening dress, bore down upon him with outstretched hands.
'Ah, you have come! My dear – my very dear friend! what a joy to see you again! After such years – so many – how many? – No, we will not say how many! To me it seems but as yesterday. You have not changed – not in the least have you changed!'
'Nor you, chere amie,' Poirot exclaimed, bowing over her hand.
Nevertheless he was fully conscious now that twenty years is twenty years. Countess Rossakoff might not uncharitably have been described as a ruin. But she was at least a spectacular ruin. The exuberance, the full- blooded enjoyment of life was still there, and she knew, none better, how to flatter a man.
She drew Poirot with her to a table at which two other people were sitting.
'My friend, my celebrated friend, M. Hercule Poirot,' she announced. 'He who is the terror of evildoers! I was once afraid of him myself, but now I lead a life of the extreme, the most virtuous dullness. Is it not so?'
The tall thin elderly man to whom she spoke said, 'Never say dull, Countess.'
'The Professor Liskeard,' the Countess announced. 'He who knows everything about the past and who gave me the valuable hints for the decorations here.'
The Archaeologist shuddered slightly.
'If I'd known what you meant to do!' he murmured. 'The result is so appalling.'
Poirot observed the frescoes more closely. On the wall facing him Orpheus and his jazz band played, while Eurydice looked hopefully towards the grill. On the opposite wall Osiris and Isis seemed to be throwing an Egyptian underworld boating party. On the third wall some bright young people were enjoying mixed bathing in a state of Nature.
'The Country of the Young,' explained the Countess and added in the same breath, completing her introductions: 'And this is my little Alice.'
Poirot bowed to the second occupant of the table, a severe-looking girl in a check coat and skirt. She wore horned-rimmed glasses.
'She is very, very clever,' said Countess Rossakoff. 'She has a degree and she is a psychologist and she knows all the reasons why lunatics are lunatics! It is not, as you might think, because they are mad! No, there are all sorts of other reasons! I find that very peculiar.'
