Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot 20)

‘I apologize, madame. I walk softly.’

She said:

‘I thought it was Horbury.’

Hercule Poirot nodded.

‘It is true, he steps softly, that one—like a cat—or a thief.’

He paused a minute, watching her.

Her face showed nothing, but she made a slight grimace of distate as she said:

‘I have never cared for that man. I shall be glad to get rid of him.’

‘I think you will be wise to do so, madame.’

She looked at him quickly. She said:

‘What do you mean? Do you know anything against him?’

Poirot said:

‘He is a man who collects secrets—and uses them to his advantage.’

She said sharply:

‘Do you think he knows anything—about the murder?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:

‘He has quiet feet and long ears. He may have overheard something that he is keeping to himself.’

Lydia said clearly:

‘Do you mean that he may try to blackmail one of us?’

‘It is within the bounds of possibility. But that is not what I came here to say.’

‘What did you come to say?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘I have been talking with M. Alfred Lee. He has made me a proposition, and I wished to discuss it with you before accepting or declining it. But I was so struck by the picture you made—the charming pattern of your jumper against the deep red of the curtains, that I paused to admire.’

Lydia said sharply:

‘Really, M. Poirot, must we waste time in compliments?’

‘I beg your pardon, madame. So few English ladies understand la toilette. The dress you were wearing the first night I saw you, its bold but simple pattern, it had grace—distinction.’

Lydia said impatiently:

‘What was it you wanted to see me about??

??

Poirot became grave.