dead – shot through the heart.'
'A terrible moment for you, madame.'
'I shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused to hear of it. We argued all night. 'For my sake,' I kept saying. He saw that in the end. Naturally he couldn't let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Passions.
'I put it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy had been having a bout of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him there beside the Amazon.'
A deep tortured sigh shook her form.
'And then – back to civilization – and to part forever.'
'Was it necessary, madame?'
'Yes, yes. Timothy dead stood between us just as Timothy alive had done – more so. We said good-by to each other – forever. I meet John Despard sometimes, out in the world. We smile, we speak politely; no one would ever guess that there was anything between us. But I see in his eyes – and he in mine – that we will never forget.'
There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.
Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her nose. The spell was broken.
'What a tragedy,' said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.
'You can see, Monsieur Poirot,' said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, 'that the truth must never be told.'
'It would be painful -'
'It would be impossible. This friend, this writer – surely he would not wish to blight the life of a perfectly innocent woman?'
'Or even to hang a perfectly innocent man?' murmured Poirot.
'You see it like that? I am so glad. He was innocent. A crime passionnel is not really a crime. And in any case it was in self-defense. He had to shoot. So you do understand Monsieur Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?'
Poirot murmured, 'Writers are sometimes curiously callous.'
'Your friend is a woman hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that. I shall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say I shot Timothy.'
She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.
Poirot also rose. 'Madame,' he said as he took her hand 'such splendid self-sacrifice, is unnecessary. I will do my best so that the true facts shall never be known.'
A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore's face. She raised her hand slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it. 'An unhappy woman thanks you, Monsieur Poirot,' she said.
It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favored 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 epouvantable!' 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 years – forty 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 hosiery counter. Selecting a sympathetic- looking and not too haughty damsel he made known his requirements.
'Silk hose? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure silk.'
Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent once more.
'French silk hose? 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.'
'Of course, we have some extra fine, but they're very, very expensive. And no durability, of course. Just like cobwebs.'
'C'est ca. C'est ca exactement.'
A prolonged absence of the young lady this time.
She returned at last.
'Beautiful, aren't they?' She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelope – the finest, gauziest wisps of hose.
'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 colors, please.'
The girl sorted them out obediently, packed them up, and made out the sales check.
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. Hose at such a price, indeed!'
Unaware of the low estimate formed by the young ladies upon his character, Poirot was trotting homeward.
He had been in for about half an hour when he heard the doorbell 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 damned. 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 a hell of a time with her out there.'
'That also I can well believe.'
Despard sat down abruptly. 'Look here, Monsieur 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 realize that I can't claim any merit in coming out with this. I'll tell 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.