CHAPTER 21 Major Despard

"Quelle femme," murmured Hercule Poirot. "Ce pauvre Despard! Ce qu'il a du souffrir! Quel voyage pouvantable!"
Suddenly he began to laugh.
He was now walking along the Brompton Road. He paused, took out his watch, and made a calculation.
"But yes, I have the time. 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 yearsforty years ago? 'A little piece of sugar for the bird.'"
Humming a long-forgotten tune¹, Hercule Poirot entered a sumptuous-looking shop mainly devoted² to the clothing and general embellishment of women and made his way to the stocking counter.
Selecting a sympathetic-looking and not too haughty³ damsel he made known his requirements.
"Silk stockings? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure silk."
Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent⁴ once more.
"French silk stockings? 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 texture⁵ still in mind."
"These are a hundred gauge⁶. Of course, we have some extra fine, but I'm afraid they come out at about thirty-five shillings a pair. And no durability⁷, of course. Just like cobwebs."
"C'est fa, exactement."
A prolonged absence of the young lady this time.
She returned at last.
"I'm afraid they are actually thirty-seven and sixpence a pair. But beautiful, aren't they?"
She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelopethe finest, gauziest wisps of stockings.
"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

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