Despard smiled.
“I see you belong to the well-wrapped-up school, M. Poirot.”
Poirot was indeed well equipped against any treachery of an autumn day. He wore a greatcoat and a muffler.
“Rather odd, running into you like this,” said Despard.
He did not see the smile that the muffler concealed. There was nothing odd in this encounter. Having ascertained a likely hour for Despard to leave his rooms, Poirot had been waiting for him. He had prudently not risked leaping on the bus, but he had trotted after it to its next stopping place and boarded it there.
“True. We have not seen each other since the evening at Mr. Shaitana’s,” he replied.
“Aren’t you taking a hand in the business?” asked Despard.
Poirot scratched his ear delicately.
“I reflect,” he said. “I reflect a good deal. To run to and fro, to make the investigations, that, no. It does not suit my age, my temperament, or my figure.”
Despard said unexpectedly:
“Reflect, eh? Well, you might do worse. There’s too much rushing about nowadays. If people sat tight and thought about a thing before they tackled it, there’d be less mess-ups than there are.”
“Is that your procedure in life, Major Despard?”
“Usually,” said the other simply. “Get your bearings, figure out your route, weigh up the pros and cons, make your decision—stick to it.”
His mouth set grimly.
“And, after that, nothing will turn you from your path, eh?” asked Poirot.
“Oh, I don’t say that. No use in being pigheaded over things. If you’ve made a mistake, admit it.”
“But I imagine that you do not often make a mistake, Major Despard.”
“We all make mistakes, M. Poirot.”
“Some of us,” said Poirot with a certain coldness, possibly due to the pronoun the other had used, “make less than others.”
Despard looked at him, smiled slightly and said:
“Don’t you ever have a failure, M. Poirot?”
“The last time was twenty-eight years ago,” said Poirot with dignity. “And even then, there were circumstances—but no matter.”
“That seems a pretty good record,” said Despard.
He added: “What about Shaitana’s death? That doesn’t count, I suppose, since it isn’t officially your business.”
“It is not my business—no. But, all the same, it offends my amour propre. I consider it an impertinence, you comprehend, for a murder to be committed under my very nose—by someone who mocks himself at my ability to solve it!”
“Not under your nose only,” said Despard drily. “Under the nose of the Criminal Investigation Department also.”
“That was probably a bad mistake,” said Poirot gravely. “The good Superintendent Battle, he may look wooden, but he is not wooden in the head—not at all.”
“I agree,” said Despard. “That stolidity is a pose. He’s a very clever and able officer.”
“And I think he is very active in the case.”
“Oh, he’s active enough. See a nice quiet soldierly-looking fellow on one of the back seats?”