Twenty-one

MAJOR DESPARD

“Quelle femme,” murmured Hercule Poirot. “Ce pauvre Despard! Ce qu’il a d? souffrir! Quelvoyage épouvantable!”

Suddenly he began to laugh.

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

“But yes, I have the time. In any case to wait will do him no harm. I can now attend to the otherlittle 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 tune¹, Hercule Poirot entered a sumptuous- looking shop mainlydevoted to the clothing and general embellishment of women and made his way to the stockingcounter.

Selecting a sympathetic-looking and not too haughty² 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 eloquent³ 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 texture⁴ in mind.”

“These are a hundred gauge⁵. Of course, we have some extra fine, but I’m afraid they come outat about thirty-five shillings a pair. And no durability⁶, of course. Just like cobwebs.”

“C’est ?a. C’est ?a, 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 envelope—the 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 justkept her erect⁷.

“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 stringinghim along good and proper. Stockings at thirty-seven and sixpence indeed!”

Unaware⁸ of the low estimate formed by the young ladies of Messrs Harvey Robinson’s upon hischaracter, Poirot was trotting⁹ homewards.

He had been in for about half an hour when he heard the doorbell ring. A few minutes laterMajor 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?” demandedDespard wrathfully.

“Eh bien, I did wonder now and then,” admitted Poirot.

“I should think you did. That woman’s crazy.”

Poirot demurred¹⁰.

“Not at all. She is a romantic woman, that is all.”

“Romantic be damned. She’s an out-and-out liar¹¹. I sometimes think she even believes her ownlies.”

“It is quite possible.”

“She’s an appalling¹² woman. I had the hell of a time with her out there.”

“That also I can well believe.”

Despard sat down abruptly¹³.

“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 drily:

“I quite realize that I can’t claim any merit in coming out with this now. I’m telling the truthbecause 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 mosses¹⁴ andplants and things. She was a—well, she was what you’ve no doubt observed her to be! That tripwas a nightmare. I didn’t care a damn for the woman—rather disliked her, as a matter of fact. Shewas the intense, soulful kind that always makes me feel prickly with embarrassment¹⁵. Everythingwent all right for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. OldLuxmore was pretty bad. One night—now you’ve got to listen to this carefully—I was sittingoutside my tent. Suddenly I saw Luxmore in the distance staggering off into the bush by the river.

He was absolutely delirious¹⁶ and quite unconscious of what he was doing. In another minute hewould be in the river—and at that particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance ofa rescue. There wasn’t time to rush after him—only one thing to be done. My rifle was beside meas usual. I snatched it up. I’m a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring the old boydown—get him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic¹⁷ fool of a woman flung herself fromsomewhere upon me, yelping¹⁸ out, ‘Don’t shoot. For God’s sake, don’t shoot.’ She caught my armand jerked it ever so slightly just as the rifle went off—with the result that the bullet got him in theback and killed him dead!

“I can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that damned fool of a woman still didn’tunderstand what she’d done. Instead of realizing that she’d been responsible for her husband’sdeath, she firmly believed that I’d been trying to shoot the old boy in cold blood—for the love ofher, if you please! We had the devil of a scene—she insisting that we should say he died of fever. Iwas sorry for her—especially as I saw she didn’t realize what she’d done. But she’d have torealize it if the truth came out! And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in lovewith her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she went about givingthat out. In the end I agreed to do what she wanted—partly for the sake of peace, I’ll admit. Afterall, it didn’t seem to matter much. Fever or accident. And I didn’t want to drag a woman through alot of unpleasantness—even if she was a damned fool. I gave it out next day that the professor wasdead of fever and we buried him. The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all devotedto me and I knew that what I said they’d swear to if need be. We buried poor old Luxmore and gotback to civilization. Since then I’ve spent a good deal of time dodging¹⁹ 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 sortof thing would have amused him.”

“It might have been a dangerous story—to you—in the hands of a man like Shaitana.”

Despard shrugged²⁰ 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 ofmotive 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 happenedexactly as you have described.”

Despard’s face lit up.

“Thanks,” he said laconically²¹.

And he clasped Poirot’s hand warmly.

 

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