of leaving the coach at Monkhampton?’
‘I don’t think I did. As a matter of fact …’
‘You were observing the pretty young lady who booked No. 5, the next seat to ours. Ah! Yes, my friend, I saw you. And that is why when I was on the point of taking seats No. 13 and 14 – which are in the middle and as well sheltered as it is possible to be – you rudely pushed yourself forward and said that 3 and 4 would be better.’
‘Really, Poirot,’ I said, blushing.
‘Auburn hair – always the auburn hair!’
‘At any rate, she was more worth looking at than an odd young man.’
‘That depends upon the point of view. To me, the young man was interesting.’
Something rather significant in Poirot’s tone made me look at him quickly. ‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, do not excite yourself. Shall I say that he interested me because he was trying to grow a moustache and as yet the result is poor.’ Poirot stroked his own magnificent moustache tenderly. ‘It is an art,’ he murmured, ‘the growing of the moustache! I have sympathy for all who attempt it.’
It is always difficult with Poirot to know when he is serious and when he is merely amusing himself at one’s expense. I judged it safest to say no more.
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