iii
these meditations had occupied hercule poirot on his homeward way until reaching regent’s
park. he decided to traverse a part of the park before taking a taxi on. by experience, he knew to a
nicety the moment when his smart patent leather shoes began to press painfully on his feet.
it was a lovely summer’s day and poirot looked indulgently on courting nursemaids and their
swains, laughing and giggling while their chubby charges profited by nurse’s inattention.
dogs barked and romped.
little boys sailed boats.
and under nearly every tree was a couple sitting close together….
“ah! jeunesse, jeunesse,” murmured hercule poirot, pleasurably affected by the sight.
they were chic, these little london girls. they wore their tawdry clothes with an air.
their figures, however, he considered lamentably deficient. where were the rich curves, the
voluptuous lines that had formerly delighted the eye of an admirer?
he, hercule poirot, remembered women … one woman, in particular—what a sumptuous
creature—bird of paradise—a venus …
what woman was there amongst these pretty chits nowadays, who could hold a candle to
countess vera rossakoff? a genuine russian aristocrat, an aristocrat to her fingertips! and also,
he remembered, a most accomplished thief … one of those natural geniuses …
with a sigh, poirot wrenched his thoughts away from the flamboyant creature of his dreams.
it was not only, he noted, the little nursemaids and their like who were being wooed under the
trees of regent’s park.
that was a schiaparelli creation there, under that lime tree, with the young man who bent his
head so close to hers, who was pleading so earnestly.
one must not yield too soon! he hoped the girl understood that. the pleasure of the chase must
be extended as long as possible….
his beneficent eye still on them, he became suddenly aware of a familiarity in those two figures.
so jane olivera had come to regent’s park to meet her young american revolutionary?
his face grew suddenly sad and rather stern.
after only a brief hesitation he crossed the grass to them. sweeping off his hat with a flourish,
he said:
“bonjour, mademoiselle.”
jane olivera, he thought, was not entirely displeased to see him.
howard raikes, on the other hand, was a good deal annoyed at the interruption.
he growled: “oh, so it’s you again!”
“good afternoon, m. poirot,” said jane. “how unexpectedly you always pop up, don’t you?”
“kind of a jack in the box,” said raikes, still eyeing poirot with a considerable coldness.
“i do not intrude?” poirot asked anxiously.
jane olivera said kindly:
“not at all.”
howard raikes said nothing.
“it is a pleasant spot you have found here,” said poirot.
“it was,” said mr. raikes.
jane said:
“be quiet, howard. you need to learn manners!”
howard raikes snorted and asked:
“what’s the good of manners?”
“you’ll find they kind of help you along,” said jane. “i haven’t got any myself, but that doesn’t
matter so much. to begin with i’m rich, and i’m moderately good-looking, and i’ve got a lot of
influential friends—and none of those unfortunate disabilities they talk about so freely in the
advertisements nowadays. i can get along all right without manners.”
raikes said:
“i’m not in the mood for small talk, jane. i guess i’ll take myself off.”
he got up, nodded curtly to poirot and strode away.
jane olivera stared after him, her chin cupped in her palm.
poirot said with a sigh:
“alas, the proverb is true. when you are courting, two is company, is it not, three is none?”
jane said:
“courting? what a word!”
“but yes, it is the right word, is it not? for a young man who pays attention to a young lady
before asking her hand in marriage? they say, do they not, a courting couple?”
“your friends seem to say some very funny things.”
hercule poirot chanted softly:
“thirteen, fourteen, maids are courting. see, all around us they are doing it.”
jane said sharply:
“yes—i’m just one of the crowd, i suppose….”
she turned suddenly to poirot.
“i want to apologize to you. i made a mistake the other day. i thought you had wormed your
way in and come down to exsham just to spy on howard. but afterwards uncle alistair told me
that he had definitely asked you because he wanted you to clear up this business of that missing
woman—sainsbury seale. that’s right, isn’t it?”
“absolutely.”
“so i’m sorry for what i said to you that evening. but it did look like it, you know. i mean—as
though you were just following howard and spying on us both.”
“even if it were true, mademoiselle—i was an excellent witness to the fact that mr. raikes
bravely saved your uncle’s life by springing on his assailant and preventing him from firing
another shot.”
“you’ve got a funny way of saying things, m. poirot. i never know whether you’re serious or
not.”
poirot said gravely:
“at the moment i am very serious, miss olivera.”
jane said with a slight break in her voice:
“why do you look at me like that? as though—as though you were sorry for me?”
“perhaps because i am sorry, mademoiselle, for the things that i shall have to do so soon….”
“well, then—don’t do them!”
“alas, mademoiselle, but i must….”
she stared at him for a minute or two, then she said:
“have you—found that woman?”
poirot said:
“let us say—that i know where she is.”
“is she dead?”
“i have not said so.”
“she’s alive, then?”
“i have not said that either.”
jane looked at him with irritation. she exclaimed:
“well, she’s got to be one or the other, hasn’t she?”
“actually, it’s not quite so simple.”
“i believe you just like making things difficult!”
“it has been said of me,” admitted hercule poirot.
jane shivered. she said:
“isn’t it funny? it’s a lovely warm day—and yet i suddenly feel cold….”
“perhaps you had better walk on, mademoiselle.”
jane rose to her feet. she stood a minute irresolute. she said abruptly:
“howard wants me to marry him. at once. without letting anyone know. he says—he says it’s
the only way i’ll ever do it—that i’m weak—” she broke off, then with one hand she gripped
poirot’s arm with surprising strength. “what shall i do about it, m. poirot?”
“why ask me to advise you? there are those who are nearer!”
“mother? she’d scream the house down at the bare idea! uncle alistair? he’d be cautious and
prosy. plenty of time, my dear. got to make quite sure, you know. bit of an odd fish—this young
man of yours. no sense in rushing things—”
“your friends?” suggested poirot.
“i haven’t got any friends. only a silly crowd i drink and dance and talk inane catchwords with!
howard’s the only real person i’ve ever come up against.”
“still—why ask me, miss olivera?”
jane said:
“because you’ve got a queer look on your face—as though you were sorry about something—
as though you knew something that—that—was—coming. …”
she stopped.
“well?” she demanded. “what do you say?”
hercule poirot slowly shook his head.
