‘Langton would never…’
‘At what time?’
‘At nine o’clock. But I tell you, you’re all wrong. Langton would never…’
‘These English!’ cried Poirot in a passion. He caught up his hat and stick and moved down the path, pausing to speak over his shoulder. ‘I do not stay to argue with you. I should only enrage myself. But you understand, I return at nine o’clock?’
Harrison opened his mouth to speak, but Poirot did not give him the chance. ‘I know what you would say: “Langton would never”, et cetera. Ah, Langton would never! But all the same I return at nine o’clock. But, yes, it will amuse me—put it like that—it will amuse me to see the taking of a wasps’ nest. Another of your English sports!’
He waited for no reply but passed rapidly down the path and out through the door that creaked. Once outside on the road, his pace slackened. His vivacity died down, his face became grave and troubled. Once he drew his watch from his pocket and consulted it. The hands pointed to ten minutes past eight. ‘Over three quarters of an hour,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder if I should have waited.’
His footsteps slackened; he almost seemed on the point of returning. Some vague foreboding seemed to assail him. He shook it off resolutely, however, and continued to walk in the direction of the village. But his face was still troubled, and once or twice he shook his head like a man only partly satisfied.
It was still some minutes off nine when he once more approached the garden door. It was a clear, still evening; hardly a breeze stirred the leaves. There was, perhaps, something a little sinister in the stillness, like the lull before a storm.
Poirot’s footsteps quickened ever so slightly. He was suddenly alarmed—and uncertain. He feared he knew not what.
And at that moment the garden door opened and Claude Langton stepped quickly out into the road. He started when he saw Poirot.
‘Oh—er—good evening.’
‘Good evening, Monsieur Langton. You are early.’
Langton stared at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You have taken the wasps’ nest?’
‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t.’
‘Oh,’ said Poirot softly. ‘So you did not take the wasps’ nest. What did you do then?’
‘Oh, just sat and yarned a bit with old Harrison. I really must hurry along now, Monsieur Poirot. I’d no idea you were remaining in this part of the world.’
‘I had business here, you see.’
‘Oh! Well, you’ll find Harrison on the terrace. Sorry I can’t stop.’
He hurried away. Poirot looked after him. A nervous young fellow, good-looking with a weak mouth!
‘So I shall find Harrison on the terrace,’ murmured Poirot. ‘I wonder.’ He went in through the garden door and up the path. Harrison was sitting in a chair by the table. He sat motionless and did not even turn his head as Poirot came up to him.
‘Ah! Mon ami,’ said Poirot. ‘You are all right, eh?’
There was a long pause and then Harrison said in a queer, dazed voice, ‘What did you say?’
‘I said—are you all right?’
‘All right? Yes, I’m all right. Why not?’
‘You feel no ill effects? That is good.’
‘Ill effects? From what?’
‘Washing soda.’
Harrison roused himself suddenly. ‘Washing soda? What do you mean?’
Poirot made an apologetic gesture. ‘I infinitely regret the necessity, but I put some in your pocket.’
‘You put some in my pocket? What on earth for?’
Harrison stared at him. Poirot spoke quietly and impersonally like a lecturer coming down to the level of a small child.
‘You see, one of the advantages, or disadvantages, of being a detective is that it brings you into contact with the criminal classes. And the criminal classes, they can teach you some very interesting and curious things. There was a pickpocket once—I interested myself in him because for once in a way he had not done what they say he has done—and so I get him off. And because he is grateful he pays me in the only way he can think of—which is to show me the tricks of his trade.