“What the devil did you want to go and see Mrs. Luxmore for?” he asked.
Poirot smiled.
“I wished, you see, for the true story of Professor Luxmore’s death.”
“True story? Do you think that woman’s capable of telling the truth about anything?” demanded Despard wrathfully.
“Eh bien, I did wonder now and then,” admitted Poirot.
“I should think you did. That woman’s crazy.”
Poirot demurred.
“Not at all. She is a romantic woman, that is all.”
“Romantic be damned. She’s an out-and-out liar. I sometimes think she even believes her own lies.”
&n
bsp; “It is quite possible.”
“She’s an appalling woman. I had the hell of a time with her out there.”
“That also I can well believe.”
Despard sat down abruptly.
“Look here, M. Poirot, I’m going to tell you the truth.”
“You mean you are going to give me your version of the story?”
“My version will be the true version.”
Poirot did not reply.
Despard went on drily:
“I quite realize that I can’t claim any merit in coming out with this now. I’m telling the truth because it’s the only thing to be done at this stage. Whether you believe me or not is up to you. I’ve no kind of proof that my story is the correct one.”
He paused for a minute and then began.
“I arranged the trip for the Luxmores. He was a nice old boy quite batty about mosses and plants and things. She was a—well, she was what you’ve no doubt observed her to be! That trip was a nightmare. I didn’t care a damn for the woman—rather disliked her, as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind that always makes me feel prickly with embarrassment. Everything went all right for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. Old Luxmore was pretty bad. One night—now you’ve got to listen to this carefully—I was sitting outside my tent. Suddenly I saw Luxmore in the distance staggering off into the bush by the river. He was absolutely delirious and quite unconscious of what he was doing. In another minute he would be in the river—and at that particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance of a rescue. There wasn’t time to rush after him—only one thing to be done. My rifle was beside me as usual. I snatched it up. I’m a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring the old boy down—get him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic fool of a woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, ‘Don’t shoot. For God’s sake, don’t shoot.’ She caught my arm and jerked it ever so slightly just as the rifle went off—with the result that the bullet got him in the back and killed him dead!
“I can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that damned fool of a woman still didn’t understand what she’d done. Instead of realizing that she’d been responsible for her husband’s death, she firmly believed that I’d been trying to shoot the old boy in cold blood—for the love of her, if you please! We had the devil of a scene—she insisting that we should say he died of fever. I was sorry for her—especially as I saw she didn’t realize what she’d done. But she’d have to realize it if the truth came out! And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in love with her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she went about giving that out. In the end I agreed to do what she wanted—partly for the sake of peace, I’ll admit. After all, it didn’t seem to matter much. Fever or accident. And I didn’t want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantness—even if she was a damned fool. I gave it out next day that the professor was dead of fever and we buried him. The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all devoted to me and I knew that what I said they’d swear to if need be. We buried poor old Luxmore and got back to civilization. Since then I’ve spent a good deal of time dodging the woman.”
He paused, then said quietly:
“That’s my story, M. Poirot.”
Poirot said slowly:
“It was to that incident that Mr. Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at dinner that night?”
Despard nodded.
“He must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out of her. That sort of thing would have amused him.”
“It might have been a dangerous story—to you—in the hands of a man like Shaitana.”