“Poirot,” I said, “a change of air would do you good.”
“You think so, _mon ami_?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Eh—eh?” said my friend, smiling. “It is all arranged, then?”
“You will come?”
“Where do you propose to take me?”
“Brighton. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine in the City put
me on to a very good thing, and—well, I have money to burn, as the
saying goes. I think a week-end at the _Grand Metropolitan_ would
do us all the good in the world.”
“Thank you, I accept most gratefully. You have the good heart to
think of an old man. And the good heart, it is in the end worth
all the little grey cells. Yes, yes, I who speak to you am in
danger of forgetting that sometimes.”
I did not quite relish the implication. I fancy that Poirot is
sometimes a little inclined to underestimate my mental capacities.
But his pleasure was so evident that I put my slight annoyance
aside.
“Then, that’s all right,” I said hastily.
Saturday evening saw us dining at the _Grand Metropolitan_ in the
midst of a gay throng. All the world and his wife seemed to be at
Brighton. The dresses were marvellous, and the jewels—worn sometimes
with more love of display than good taste—were something magnificent.
“_Hein_, it is a sight this!” murmured Poirot. “This is the home
of the Profiteer, is it not so, Hastings?”
“Supposed to be,” I replied. “But we’ll hope they aren’t all tarred
with the Profiteering brush.”
Poirot gazed round him placidly.
“The sight of so many jewels makes me wish I had turned my brains
to crime, instead of to its detection. What a magnificent
opportunity for some thief of distinction! Regard, Hastings, that
stout woman by the pillar. She is, as you would say, plastered with
gems.”