‘Jackie-’
‘You will?’
Linnet burst out laughing.
‘Ridiculous Jackie! Bring along your young man and let me have a look at him and we’ll talk it over.’
Jackie darted at her, kissing her exuberantly.
‘Darling Linnet – you’re a real friend! I knew you were. You wouldn’t let me down – ever. You’re just the loveliest thing in the world. Goodbye.’
‘But, Jackie, you’re staying.’
‘Me? No, I’m not. I’m going back to London and tomorrow I’ll come back and bring Simon and we’ll settle it all up. You’ll adore him. He really is a pet.’
‘But can’t you wait and just have tea?’
‘No, I can’t wait, Linnet. I’m too excited. I must get back and tell Simon. I know I’m mad, darling, but I can’t help it. Marriage will cure me, I expect. It always seems to have a very sobering effect on people.’ She turned at the door, stood a moment, then rushed back for a last quick birdlike embrace. ‘Dear Linnet – there’s no one like you.’
M. Gaston Blondin, the proprietor of that modish little restaurant Chez Ma Tante, was not a man who delighted to honour many of his clientele. The rich, the beautiful, the notorious and the well-born might wait in vain to be singled out and paid special attention. Only in the rarest cases did M. Blondin, with gracious condescension, greet a guest, accompany him to a privileged table, and exchange with him suitable and apposite remarks.
On this particular night, M. Blondin had exercised his royal prerogative three times – once for a Duchess, once for a famous racing peer, and once for a little man of comical appearance with immense black moustaches and who, a casual onlooker would have thought, could bestow no favour on Chez Ma Tante by his presence there.
M. Blondin, however, was positively fulsome in his attentions. Though clients had been told for the last half hour that a table was not to be had, one now mysteriously appeared, placed in a most favourable position. M. Blondin conducted the client to it with every appearance of empressement.
‘But naturally, for you there is always a table, Monsieur Poirot! How I wish that you would honour us oftener!’
Hercule Poirot smiled, remembering that past incident wherein a dead body, a waiter, M. Blondin, and a very lovely lady had played a part.
‘You are too amiable, Monsieur Blondin,’ he said.