He had hoped perhaps for something nearer to his own estimate of female attraction. The outworn phrase “beauty in distress” had occurred to him. He was disappointed when George returned ushering in the visitor; inwardly he shook his head and sighed. Here was no beauty — and no noticeable distress either. Mild perplexity would seem nearer the mark.
“Pah!” thought Poirot disgustedly.
“These girls’ Do they not even try to make something of themselves? Well made up, attractively dressed, hair that has been arranged by a good hairdresser, then perhaps she might pass. But now!” His visitor was a girl of perhaps twentyodd.
Long straggly hair of indeterminate colour strayed over her shoulders. Her eyes, which were large, bore a vacant expression and were of a greenish blue.
She wore what were presumably the chosen clothes of her generation. Black high leather boots, white openwork woollen stockings of doubtful cleanliness, a skimpy skirt, and a long and sloppy pullover of heavy wool. Anyone of Poirot’s age and generation would have had only one desire. To drop the girl into a bath as soon as possible. He had often felt this same reaction walking along the streets.
There were hundreds of girls looking exactly the same. They all looked dirty.
And yet — a contradiction in terms — this one had the look of having been recently drowned and pulled out of a river. Such girls, he reflected, were not perhaps really dirty. They merely took enormous care and pains to look so.
He rose with his usual politeness, shook hands, drew out a chair.
“You demanded to see me, mademoiselle ? Sit down, I pray of you.” “Oh,” said the girl, in a slightly breathless voice. She stared at him.
“Eh bien?” said Poirot.
She hesitated. “I think I’d—rather stand.” The large eyes continued to stare doubtfully.
“As you please.” Poirot resumed his seat and looked at her. He waited. The girl shuffled her feet. She looked down on them then up again at Poirot.
“You — you are Hercule Poirot?” “Assuredly. In what way can I be of use to you?” “Oh, well, it’s rather difficult. I mean — ” Poirot felt that she might need perhaps a little assistance. He said helpfully, “My manservant told me that you wanted to consult me because you thought you ‘might have committed a murder’. Is that correct?” The girl nodded. “That’s right.” “Surely that is not a matter that admits of any doubt. You must know yourself whether you have committed a murder or not.” “Well, I don’t know quite how to put it.
I mean — ” “Come now,” said Poirot kindly. “Sit down. Relax the muscles. Tell me all about it.” I don’t think — oh dear, I don’t know how to — You see, it’s all so difficult.
I’ve — I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be rude but — well, I think I’d better go.” “Come now. Courage.” “No, I can’t. I thought I could come and — and ask you, ask you what I ought to do — but I can’t, you see. It’s all so different from — ” “From what?” “I’m awfully sorry and I really don’t want to be rude, but — ” She breathed an enormous sigh, looked at Poirot, looked away, and suddenly blurted out, “You’re too old. Nobody told me you were so old. I really don’t want to be rude but — there it is. You’re too old.
I’m really very sorry.” She turned abruptly and blundered out of the room, rather like a desperate moth in lamplight.
Poirot, his mouth open, heard the bang of the front door.
He ejaculated: “Non (fun nom cfun nom…”
CHAPTER TWO
THE telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot did not even seem aware of the fact.
It rang with shrill and insistent persistence.
George entered the room and stepped towards it, turning a questioning glance towards Poirot.
Poirot gestured with his hand.
“Leave it,” he said.
George obeyed, leaving the room again.
The telephone contined to ring. The shrill irritating noise continued. Suddenly it stopped. After a minute or two, however, it commenced to ring again.
“Ah Sapristi\ That must be a woman — undoubtedly a woman.” He sighed, rose to his feet and came to the instrument.