One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (Hercule Poirot 23)
Page 79
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: