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VII
Atlas was turning over two new five pound notes.
He said hopefully:
“Maybe I’ll not remember in the morning the way I earned this. I’m after worrying that
Father O’Reilly will be after me.”
“Forget everything, my friend. Tomorrow the world is yours.”
Atlas murmured:
“And what’ll I put it on? There’s Working Lad, he’s a grand horse, a lovely horse he is! And
there’s Sheila Boyne. 7 to 1 I’d get on her.”
He paused:
“Was it my fancy now or did I hear you mention the name of a heathen god? Hercules, you
said, and glory be to God, there’s a Hercules running in the three-thirty tomorrow.”
“My friend,” said Hercule Poirot, “put your money on that horse. I tell you this, Hercules
cannot fail.”
And it is certainly true that on the following day Mr. Rosslyn’s Hercules very unexpectedly
won the Boynan Stakes, starting price 60 to 1.
VIII
Deftly Hercule Poirot unwrapped the neatly done-up parcel. First the brown paper, then the
wadding, lastly the tissue paper.
On the desk in front of Emery Power he placed a gleaming golden cup. Chased on it was a
tree bearing apples of green emeralds.
The financier drew a deep breath. He said:
“I congratulate you, M. Poirot.”
Hercule Poirot bowed.
Emery Power stretched out a hand. He touched the rim of the goblet, drawing his finger
round it. He said in a deep voice:
“Mine!”
Hercule Poirot agreed.
“Yours!”
The other gave a sigh. He leaned back in his chair. He said in a businesslike voice:
“Where did you find it?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I found it on an altar.”
Emery Power stared.
Poirot went on:
“Casey’s daughter was a nun. She was about to take her final vows at the time of her father’s
death. She was an ignorant but devout girl. The cup was hidden in her father’s house in Liverpool.
She took it to the Convent wanting, I think, to atone for her father’s sins. She gave it to be used to
the glory of God. I do not think that the nuns themselves ever realized its value. They took it,
probably, for a family heirloom. In their eyes it was a chalice and they used it as such.”
Emery Power said:
“An extraordinary story!” He added: “What made you think of going there?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps—a process of elimination. And then there was the extraordinary fact that no one
had ever tried to dispose of the cup. That looked, you see, as though it were in a place where
ordinary material values did not apply. I remembered that Patrick Casey’s daughter was a nun.”
Power said heartily:
“Well, as I said before, I congratulate you. Let me know your fee and I’ll write you a
cheque.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“There is no fee.”
The other stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you ever read fairy stories when you were a child? The King in them would say: ‘Ask
of me what you will?’ ”
“So you are asking something?”
“Yes, but not money. Merely a simple request.”
“Well, what is it? Do you want a tip for the markets?”
“That would be only money in another form. My request is much simpler than that.”
“What is it?”
Hercule Poirot laid his hands on the cup.
“Send this back to the Convent.”
There was a pause. Then Emery Power said:
“Are you quite mad?”
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“No, I am not mad. See, I will show you something.”
He picked up the goblet. With his fingernail, he pressed hard into the open jaws of the snake
that was coiled round the tree. Inside the cup a tiny portion of the gold chased interior slid aside
leaving an aperture into the hollow handle.
Poirot said:
“You see? This was the drinking cup of the Borgia Pope. Through this little hole the poison
passed into the drink. You have said yourself that the history of this cup is evil. Violence and
blood and evil passions have accompanied its possession. Evil will perhaps come to you in your
turn.”
“Superstition!”
“Possibly. But why were you so anxious to possess this thing? Not for its beauty. Not for its
value. You have a hundred—a thousand perhaps—beautiful and rare things. You wanted it to
sustain your pride. You were determined not to be beaten. Eh bien, you are not beaten. You win!
The goblet is in your possession. But now, why not make a great—a supreme gesture? Send it
back to where it has dwelt in peace for nearly ten years. Let the evil of it be purified there. It
belonged to the Church once—let it return to the Church. Let it stand once more on the altar,
purified and absolved as we hope that the souls of men shall be also purified and absolved from
their sins.”
He leaned forward.
“Let me describe for you the place where I found it—the Garden of Peace, looking out over
the Western Sea towards a forgotten Paradise of Youth and Eternal Beauty.”
He spoke on, describing in simple words the remote charm of Inishgowlen.
Emery Power sat back, one hand over his eyes. He said at last:
“I was born on the west coast of Ireland. I left there as a boy to go to America.”
Poirot said gently:
“I heard that.”
The financier sat up. His eyes were shrewd again. He said, and there was a faint smile on his
lips:
“You are a strange man, M. Poirot. You shall have your way. Take the goblet to the Convent
as a gift in my name. A pretty costly gift. Thirty thousand pounds—and what shall I get in
exchange?”
Poirot said gravely:
“The nuns will say Masses for your soul.”
The rich man’s smile widened—a rapacious, hungry smile. He said:
“So, after all, it may be an investment! Perhaps, the best one I ever made. . . .”
IX
In the little parlour of the Convent, Hercule Poirot told his story and restored the chalice to the
Mother Superior.
She murmured:
“Tell him we thank him and we will pray for him.”
Hercule Poirot said gently:
“He needs your prayers.”
“Is he then an unhappy man?”
Poirot said:
“So unhappy that he has forgotten what happiness means. So unhappy that he does not know
he is unhappy.”
The nun said softly:
“Ah, a rich man. . . .”
Hercule Poirot said nothing—for he knew there was nothing to say. . . .
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