Cards On The Table Part 35

slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it. "An unhappy woman thanks you, M. Poirot," she said.

It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favoured courtier--clearly an exit line. Poirot duly made his exit.

Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.

CHAPTER 21

Major Despard

"Quelle femme," murmured Hercule Poirot. "Ce pauvre Despard! Ce qu'il a du souffrir! Quel voyage pouvantable!"

Suddenly he began to laugh.

He was now walking along the Brompton Road. He paused, took out his watch, and made a calculation.

"But yes, I have the time. In any case to wait will do him no harm. I can now attend to the other little matter. What was it that my friend in the English police force used to sing--how many yearsforty years ago? 'A little piece of sugar for the bird.'"

Humming a long-forgotten tune, Hercule Poirot entered a sumptuous-looking shop mainly devoted to the clothing and general embellishment of women and made his way to the stocking counter.

Selecting a sympathetic-looking and not too haughty damsel he made known his requirements.

"Silk stockings? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure silk."

Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent once more.

"French silk stockings? With the duty, you know, they are very expensive." A fresh lot of boxes was produced.

"Very nice, mademoiselle, but I had something of a finer texture still in mind."

"These are a hundred gauge. Of course, we have some extra fine, but I'm afraid they come out at about thirty-five shillings a pair. And no durability, of course. Just like cobwebs."

"C'est fa, exactement."

A prolonged absence of the young lady this time.

She returned at last.

"I'm afraid they are actually thirty-seven and sixpence a pair. But beautiful, aren't they?"

She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelopethe finest, gauziest wisps of stockings.

"Enfin--that is it exactly!"

"Lovely, aren't they? How many pairs, sir?"

"I want let me see, nineteen pairs."

The young lady very nearly fell down behind the counter, but long training in scornfulness just kept her erect.

"There would be a reduction on two dozen," she said faintly.

"No, I want nineteen pairs. Of slightly different colours, please."

The girl sorted them out obediently, packed them up and made out the bill.

As Poirot departed with his purchase, the next girl at the counter said: "Wonder who the lucky girl is? Must be a nasty old man. Oh, well, she seems to be stringing him along good and proper. Stockings at thirty-seven and sixpence indeed!"

Unaware of the low estimate formed by the young ladies of Messrs. Harvey Robinson's upon his character, Poirot was trotting homewards.

He had been in for about half an hour when he heard the door-bell ring. A few minutes later Major Despard entered the room.

He was obviously keeping his temper with difficulty.

"What the devil did you want to go and see Mrs. Luxmore for?" he asked.

Poirot smiled.

"I wished, you see, for the true story of Professor Luxmore's death."

"True story? Do you think that woman's capable of telling the truth about anything?" demanded Despard wrathfully, "Eh bien, I did wonder now and then," admitted Poirot.

"I should think you did. That woman's crazy.'

Poirot demurred.

"Not at all. She is a romantic woman, that is all."

"Romantic be d.a.m.ned. She's an out-and-out liar. I sometimes think she even believes her own lies."

"It is quite possible."

"She's an appalling woman. I had the h.e.l.l of a time with her out there."

"That also I can well believe."

Despard sat down abruptly.

"Look here, M. Poirot, I'm going to tell you the truth."

"You mean you are going to give me your version of the story?" "My version will be the true version."

Poirot did not reply.

Despard went on dryly: "I quite realise that I can't claim any merit in coming out with this now. I'm telling the truth because it's the only thing to be done at this stage. Whether you believe me or not is up to you. I've no kind of proof that my story is the correct one."

He paused for a minute and then began.

"I arranged the trip for the Luxmores. He was a nice old boy quite batty about mosses and plants and things. She was a well, she was what you've no doubt observed her to be! That trip was a nightmare. I didn't care a d.a.m.n for the woman--rather disliked her, as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind that always makes me feel pfiekly with embarra.s.sment. Everything went all fight for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. Old Luxmore was pretty bad. One night--now you've got to listen to this carefully--I was sitting outside my tent. Suddenly I saw Luxmore in the distance staggering off into the bush by the river. He was absolutely delirious and quite unconscious of what he was doing. In another minute he would be in the river--and at that particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance of a rescue. There wasn't time to rush after him--only one thing to be done. My rifle was beside me as usual. I s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. I'm a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring the old boy down--get him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic fool of a

466

woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, 'Don't shoot. For G.o.d's sake, don't shoot.' She caught my arm and jerked it ever so slightly just as the rifle went off with the result that the bullet got him in the back and killed him dead!

"I can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that d.a.m.ned fool of a woman still didn't understand what she'd done. Instead ofrealising that she'd been responsible for her husband's death, she firmly believed that I'd been trying to shoot the old boy in cold blood--for love of her, ffyou please! We had the devil ora sceneshe insisting that we should say he'd died of fever. I was sorry fo, r her--especially as I saw she didn't realise what she'd done. But she'd have to realise it if the truth came out! And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in love with her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she went 'about giving that out. In the end I agreed to do what she wanted--partly for the sake of peace, I'll admit. After all, it didn't seem to matter much. Fever or accident. And I didn't want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantness--even if she was a d.a.m.nedfool. I gave it out next day that the professor was dead of fever and we buried him. The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all devoted to me and I knew that what I said they'd swear to if need be. We buried poor old Luxmore and got back to civilisation. Since then I've spent a good deal of time dodging the woman."

He paused, then said quietly: "That's my story, M. Poirot."

Poirot said slowly: "It was to that incident that Mr. Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at dinner that night?"

Despard nodded.

"He must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out of her. That sort of thing would have amused him."

"It might have been a dangerous story--to you--in the hands of a man like Shaitana."

Despard shrugged his shoulders. "I wasn't afraid of Shaitana."

Poirot didn't answer.

Despard said quietly: "That again you have to take my word for. It's true enough, I suppose, that I had a kind of motive for Shaitana's death. Well, the truth's out now--take it or leave it."

Poirot held out a hand.

"I will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South America happened exactly as you have described."

Despard's face lit up.

"Thanks," he said laconically.

And he clasped Poirot's hand warmly.