vi
George, Poirot’s invaluable manservant, came softly in.
He inquired in a low deferential voice:
‘Will there be any more gentlemen coming, sir?’
‘No, Georges, that was the last of them.’
Hercule Poirot looked tired. He had been very busy since he had returned from Bavaria the week before. He leaned back in his chair and shaded his eyes with his hand. He said:
‘When all this is over, I shall go for a long rest.’
‘Yes, sir. I think it would be advisable, sir.’
Poirot murmured:
‘The Last Labour of Hercules.’ Do you know, Georges, what that was?’
‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir. I don’t vote Labour myself.’
Poirot said:
‘Those young men that you have seen here today—I have sent them on a special mission—they have gone to the place of departed spirits. In this Labour there can be no force employed. All must be done by guile.’
‘They seemed very competent looking gentlemen, if I may say so, sir.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘I chose them very carefully.’
He sighed and shook his head. He said:
‘The world is very sick.’
George said:
‘It looks like war whichever way you turn. Everybody's very depressed sir. And as for trade it’s just awful. We can’t go on like this.’
Hercule Poirot murmured:
‘We sit in the Twilight of the Gods.’
vii
Dr Schultz paused before a property’ surrounded by a high wall. It was situated about eight miles from Strasbourg. He rang the gate bell. In the distance he heard the deep baying of a dog and the rattle of a chain.
The gate-keeper appeared and Dr Otto Schultz presented his card.
‘I wish to see the Herr Doktor Weingartner.’
‘Alas, Monsieur, the doctor has been called away only an hour ago by telegram.’
Schultz frowned.
‘Can I then see his second in command?’
‘Dr Neumann? But certainly.’
Dr Neumann was a pleasant-faced young man, with an ingenuous open countenance.
Dr Schultz produced his credentials—a letter of introduction from one of the leading alienists in Berlin. He himself, he explained, was the author of a publication dealing with certain aspects of lunacy and mental degeneracy.
The other’s face lighted up and he replied that he knew Dr Schultz’s publications and was very much interested in his theories. What a regrettable thing that Dr Weingartner should be absent!
The two men began to talk shop, comparing conditions in America and Europe and finally becoming technical. They discussed individual patients. Schultz recounted some recent results of a new treatment for paranoia.
He said with a laugh:
‘By that means we have cured three Hertzleins, four Bondolinis, five President Roosevelts and seven Supreme Deities.’
Neumann laughed.
Presently the two men went upstairs and visited the wards. It was a small mental home for private patients. There were only about twelve occupants.
Schultz said:
‘You understand I’m principally interested in your paranoiac cases. I believe you have a case admitted quite recently which has some peculiarly interesting features.’
viii
Poirot looked from the telegram lying on his desk to the face of his visitor.
The telegram consisted simply of an address. Villa Eugenie Strasbourg. It was followed by the words ‘Beware of the Dog’.
The visitor was an odoriferous gentleman of middle-age with a red and swollen nose, an unshaven chin and a deep husky voice which seemed to rise from his unprepossessing looking boots.[9]
He said hoarsely:
‘You can trust me, guv’nor. Do anything with dogs, I can.’
‘So I have been told. It will be necessary for you to travel to France—to Alsace.’
Mr Higgs looked interested.
‘That where them Alsatian dogs come from? Never been out of England I ‘aven’t. England’s good enough for me, that’s what I say.’
Poirot said:
‘You will need a passport.’
He produced a form.
‘Now fill this up. I will assist you.’
They went laboriously through it. Mr Higgs said:
‘I had my photo took, as you said. Not that I liked the idea of that much—might be dangerous in my profession.’
Mr Higgs’ profession was that of a dog stealer, but that fact was glossed over in the conversation.
‘Your photograph,’ said Poirot, ‘will be signed on the back by a magistrate, a clergyman, or a public official who will vouch for you as being a proper person to have a passport.’
A grin overspread Mr Higgs’ face.
‘That’s rare, that is,’ he said. ‘That’s rare. A beak saying as I’m a fit and proper person to have a passport.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘In desperate times, one must use desperate means!’
‘Meaning me?’ said Mr Higgs.
‘You and your colleague.’
They started for France two days later. Poirot, Mr Higgs, and a slim young man, in a checked suit and a bright pink shirt, who was a highly successful cat burglar.
ix
It was not Hercule Poirot’s custom to indulge in activities in his proper person, but for once he broke through his rule. It was past one in the morning when, shivering slightly in spite of his overcoat, he was laboriously hoisted to the top of a wall by the help of his two assistants.
Mr Higgs prepared to drop from the wall into the grounds inside. There was a violent baying of a dog and suddenly an enormous creature rushed out from under the trees.[10]
Hercule Poirot ejaculated:
‘Mon Dieu, but it is a monster! Are you sure—?’
Mr Higgs patted his pocket with complete assurance.
‘Don’t you worn’, guv’nor. What I’ve got here is the right stuff. Any dog’ll follow me to hell for it.’
‘In this case,’ murmured Hercule Poirot, ‘he has to follow you out of hell.’
‘Same thing,’ said Mr Higgs, and dropped off the wall into the garden.
They heard his voice.
‘Here you are, Fido. Have a sniff of this…That’s right. You come along of me…’
His voice died away into the night. The garden was dark and peaceful. The slim young man assisted Poirot down from the wall.[11] They came to the house. Poirot said:
‘That is the window there, the second to the left.’
The young man nodded. He examined the wall first, smiled in satisfaction over a convenient pipe, and then easily and seemingly without effort he disappeared up the wall. Presently, very faintly, Poirot heard the sound of a file being used on the barred window.
Time passed. Then something dropped at Poirot’s feet. It was the end of a silk ladder. Someone was coming down the ladder. A short man with a bullet head and a little dark moustache.
He came down slowly and clumsily. At last he reached the ground. Hercule Poirot stepped forward into the moonlight.
He said politely:
‘Herr Hertzlein, I presume.’
x
Hertzlein said:
‘How did you find me?’
They were in the compartment of a second class sleeper bound for Paris.
Poirot, as was his fashion, answered the question meticulously.
He said:
‘At Geneva, I became acquainted with a gentleman called Lutzmann. It was his son who was supposed to have fired the shot that killed you and as a result young Lutzmann was torn to death by the crowd. His father, however, was firmly cominced that his son had never fired that shot. It seemed therefore as though Herr Hertzlein had been shot by one of the two men who were on either side of Lutzmann and that the pistol was forced into his hand and those two men had fallen upon him at once crying out that he was the murderer. But there was another point. Lutzmann assured me that in these mass meetings the front ranks were always packed with ardent supporters—that is to say by thoroughly trustworthy persons.
9
The dog handler is called Mr Higgs, and described as ‘odorifer-ous’ in both versions of the story.
10
Such is the political flavour, the eponymous Hound is almost forgotten and he plays a much smaller role than his counterpart in the collected story.
11
In the course of this story we see a different Poirot, one who longs for the company of a woman, drinks vodka and now climbs over a wall, although this is a feat he has already performed in the course of the eleventh Labour, ‘The Apples of the Hesperides’. Indeed, the tracking down and eventual discover,’ of August Hertzlein is reminiscent of a similar procedure involving the Cellini chalice in that story.