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 Labours of Hercules,’ he said. ‘Yours are labours 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 Labours 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 Labours of Hercules…’
Ah, but there he was wrong, the old fossil. There should be, once again, the Labours 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 labours 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 Labours and the Labours only.
The first Labour, 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 Labours.
Chapter 1
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