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 зa.
C'est зa 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.