Twenty

THE EVIDENCE OF MRS. LUXMORE

The maid who opened the door at Mrs. Luxmore’s South Kensington address looked at HerculePoirot with deep disapproval¹. She showed no disposition² to admit him into the house.

Unperturbed, Poirot gave her a card.

“Give that to your mistress. I think she will see me.”

It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words “Private Detective” were printed in onecorner. He had had them specially³ engraved⁴ for the purpose of obtaining interviews with the so-called fair sex. Nearly every woman, whether conscious of innocence⁵ or not, was anxious to havea look at a private detective and find out what he wanted.

Left ignominiously⁶ on the mat, Poirot studied the doorknocker with intense disgust at itsunpolished 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 andunemptied ashtrays⁷. There were large quantities of silk cushions of exotic colours all in need ofcleaning. The walls were emerald green and the ceiling was of pseudo copper⁸.

A tall, rather handsome woman was standing⁹ by the mantelpiece. She came forward and spokein a deep husky voice.

“M. Hercule Poirot?”

Poirot bowed. His manner was not quite his own. He was not only foreign but ornately foreign.

His gestures were positively¹⁰ 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 inquiries¹²—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 gasp¹³. Her dismay was evident.

“But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?”

Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding¹⁴.

“There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent¹⁵ 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—amaddening, monotonous¹⁶ 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 flicked¹⁷ with a whip.

“Shaitana?” she muttered.

“A man,” said Poirot, “possessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable¹⁸ man. That manknew many secrets.”

“I suppose he did,” she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.

Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.

“He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever.”

She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate.

He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.

She pulled herself together with an effort.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.”

It was very unconvincingly said.

“Madame,” said Poirot, “I will come out into the open. I will,” he smiled, “place my cards uponthe table. Your husband did not die of fever. He died of a bullet!”

“Oh!” she cried.

She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in terrible distress¹⁹.

But somewhere, in some remote fibre of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions. Poirotwas quite sure of that.

“And therefore,” said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, “you might just as well tell me the wholestory.”

She uncovered her face and said:

“It wasn’t in the least way you think.”

Again Poirot leaned forward—again he tapped her knee.

“You misunderstand me—you misunderstand me utterly,” he said. “I know very well that it wasnot you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were the cause.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a sort of fatalitythat pursues me.”

“Ah, how true that is,” cried Poirot. “How often have I not seen it? There are some women likethat. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not their fault. These things happen inspite of themselves.”

Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.

“You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally.”

“You travelled together into the interior, did you not?”

“Yes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard was introduced tous as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition. My husbandliked him very much. We started.”

There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and thenmurmured as though to himself.

“Yes, one can picture it. The winding²⁰ river—the tropical night—the hum of the insects—thestrong soldierly man—the beautiful woman….”

Mrs. Luxmore sighed.

“My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere²¹ child before I knewwhat I was doing….”

Poirot shook his head sadly.

“I know. I know. How often does that not occur?”

“Neither of us would admit what was happening,” went on Mrs. Luxmore. “John Despard neversaid anything. He was the soul of honour.”

“But a woman always knows,” prompted Poirot.

“How right you are … Yes, a woman knows … But I never showed him that I knew. We wereMajor Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end … We were both determinedto play the game.”

She was silent, lost in admiration²³ of that noble attitude.

“True,” murmured Poirot. “One must play the cricket. As one of your poets so finely says, ‘Icould not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.’”

“Honour,” corrected Mrs. Luxmore with a slight frown.

“Of course—of course—honour. ‘Loved I not honour more.’”

“Those words might have been written for us,” murmured Mrs. Luxmore. “No matter what itcost us, we were both determined²² never to say the fatal word. And then—”

“And then—” prompted Poirot.

“That ghastly night.” Mrs. Luxmore shuddered²⁴.

“Yes?”

“I suppose they must have quarrelled—John and Timothy, I mean. I came out of my tent … Icame out of my tent….”

“Yes—yes?”

Mrs. Luxmore’s eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though it were beingrepeated in front of her.

“I came out of my tent,” she repeated. “John and Timothy were—Oh!” she shuddered. “I can’tremember it all clearly. I came between them … I said ‘No—no, it isn’t true!’ Timothy wouldn’tlisten. He was threatening John. John had to fire—in self-defence. Ah!” she gave a cry andcovered her face with her hands. “He was dead—stone dead—shot through the heart.”

“A terrible moment for you, madame.”

“I shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused to hear of it.

We argued all night. ‘For my sake,’ I kept saying. He saw that in the end. Naturally he couldn’t letme suffer. The awful publicity²⁵. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle.

Primeval Passions.

“I put it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy hadbeen having a bout¹¹ of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him there beside the Amazon.”

A deep, tortured sigh shook her form.

“And then—back to civilization—and to part forever.”

“Was it necessary, madame?”

“Yes, yes. Timothy dead stood between us just as Timothy alive had done—more so. We saidgood-bye to each other—forever. I meet John Despard sometimes—out in the world. We smile,we speak politely—no one would ever guess that there was anything between us. But I see in hiseyes—and he in mine—that we will never forget….”

There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.

Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her nose—the spell was broken.

“What a tragedy,” said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.

“You can see, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, “that the truth must never be told.”

“It would be painful—”

“It would be impossible. This friend, this writer—surely he would not wish to blight²⁶ the life of aperfectly innocent woman?”

“Or even to hang a perfectly²⁷ innocent man?” murmured Poirot.

“You see it like that? I am glad. He was innocent. A crime passionnel is not really a crime. Andin any case it was self-defence. He had to shoot. So you do understand, M. Poirot, that the worldmust continue to think Timothy died of fever?”

Poirot murmured.

“Writers are sometimes curiously²⁸ callous²⁹.”

“Your friend is a woman-hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that. Ishall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say I shot Timothy.

She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.

Poirot also rose.

“Madame,” he said as he took her hand, “such splendid self-sacrifice is unnecessary. I will domy best so that the true facts shall never be known.”

A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore’s face. She raised her hand slightly, so thatPoirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it.

“An unhappy woman thanks you, M. Poirot,” she said.

It was the last word of a persecuted³⁰ queen to a favoured courtier—clearly an exit line. Poirotduly made his exit.

Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.

 

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