Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [57]
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 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 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 the hell 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 drily:
‘I quite realize 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 damn for the woman—rather disliked her, as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind that always makes me feel prickly with embarrassment. Everything went all right 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 snatched 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 woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, “Don’t shoot. For God’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 damned fool of a woman still didn’t understand what she’d done. Instead of realizing that she’d been responsible for her husband’s death, she firmly believed