Nearly every woman, whether conscious of innocence or not, was anxious to have a look at a private detective and find out what he wanted.
Left ignominiously on the mat, Poirot studied the door knocker with intense disgust at its unpolished condition.
"Ah! for some brasso and a rag," he murmured to himself.
Breathing excitedly, the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.
He was shown into a room on the first floor - a rather dark room smelling of stale flowers and unemptied ash trays.
There were large quantities of silk cushions of exotic colors, all in need of cleaning.
The walls were emerald green and the ceiling was of pseudo copper.
A tall, rather handsome woman was standing by the mantelpiece.
She came forward and spoke in a deep husky voice.
"Monsieur Hercule Poirot?"
Poirot bowed.
His manner was not quite his own.
He was not only foreign but ornately foreign.
His gestures were positively baroque.
Faintly, very faintly, it was the manner of the late Mr. Shaitana.
"What did you want to see me about?"
Again Poirot bowed.
"If I might be seated?
It will take a little time -"
She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a sofa.
"Yes?
Well?"
"It is, madame, that I make the inquiries - the private inquiries, you understand?"
The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.
"Yes - yes?"
"I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore."
She gave a gasp.
Her dismay was evident.
"But why?
What do you mean?
What has it got to do with you?"
Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.
"There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent husband.
The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact.
As to your husband's death, for instance -"
She broke in at once.
"My husband died of fever - on the Amazon -"
Poirot leaned back in his chair.
Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to and fro - a maddening, monotonous motion.
"Madame, madame -" he protested.
"But I know!
I was there at the time."
"Ah, yes, certainly.
You were there.
Yes, my information says so."
She cried out, "What information?"
Eyeing her closely, Poirot said,
"Information supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana."
She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.
"Shaitana?" she muttered.