Labours Of Hercules By Agatha Christie

Question was where were they getting the dope from

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Unformatted text preview: train stopped at a station, people surged out, forcing Poirot back on to the points of knitting pins, surged in, squeezing him into even more sardine-like proximity with his fellow passengers. The train started off again with a jerk, Poirot was 420 thrown against a stout woman with knobbly parcels, said ^Pardon/w bounced off again into a long angular man whose attachecase caught him in the small of the back. He said c<Pardon.lw again. He felt his moustaches becoming limp and uncurled. Quel enfer! Fortunately the next station was his! It was also the station of what seemed to be about a hundred and fifty other people, since it happened to be Piccadilly Circus. Like a great tidal wave they flowed out on to the platform. Presently Poirot was again jammed tightly on an escalator being carried upwards towards the surface of the earth. Up, thought Poirot, from the Infernal Regions.... How exquisitely painful was a suit-case rammed into one's knees from behind on an ascending escalator! At that moment, a voice cried his name. Startled, he raised his eyes. On the opposite escalator, the one descending, his unbelieving eyes saw a vision from the past. A woman of full and flamboyant form; her luxuriant henna red hair crowned with a small plastron of straw to which was attached a positive platoon of brilliantly 421 feathered little birds. Exotic-looking furs dripped from her shoulders. Her crimson mouth opened wide, her rich, foreign voice echoed resoundingly. She had good lungs. "It is!" she screamed. "But it is! Mon cher Hercule Poirot! We must meet again! I insist V But Fate itself is not more inexorable than the behaviour of two escalators moving in an inverse direction. Steadily, remorselessly, Hercule Poirot was borne upward, and the Countess Vera Rossakoff was borne downwards. Twisting himself sideways, leaning over the balustrade, Poirot cried despairingly: "Chere Madame--where can I find you ?" Her reply came to him faintly from the depths. It was unexpected, yet seemed at the moment strangely apposite. "Zw Hell...." Hercule Poirot blinked. He blinked again. Suddenly he rocked on his feet. Unawares he had reached the top--and had neglected to step off properly. The crowd spread out round him. A little to one side a dense crowd was pressing on 422 to the downward escalator. Should he join them? Had that been the Countess's meaning ? No doubt that travelling in the bowels of the earth at the rush hour was Hell. If that had been the Countess's meaning, he could not agree with her more. . . . Resolutely Poirot crossed over, sandwiched himself into the descending crowd and was borne back into the depths. At the foot of the escalator no sign of the Countess. Poirot was left with a choice of blue, amber, etc. lights 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 Cou...
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