夜雨聆风I enjoyed my expedition enormously.
Not only was the weather fine – a really lovely summer’s day – but I en-joyed the companionship of the man.
Boyd Carrington had that personal magnetism, that wide experience oflife and of places that made him excellent company. He told me stories ofhis administrative days in India, some intriguing details of East Africantribal lore, and was altogether so interesting that I was quite taken out ofmyself and forgot my worries about Judith and the deep anxieties thatPoirot’s revelations had given me.
I liked, too, the way Boyd Carrington spoke of my friend. He had a deeprespect for him – both for his work and his character. Sad though hispresent condition of ill health was, Boyd Carrington uttered no facilewords of pity. He seemed to think that a lifetime spent as Poirot’s hadbeen was in itself a rich reward and that in his memories my friend couldfind satisfaction and self-respect.
‘Moreover,’ he said, ‘I’d wager his brain is as keen as ever it was.’
‘It is, indeed it is,’ I assented eagerly.
‘No greater mistake than to think that because a man’s tied by the leg itaffects his brain pan. Not a bit of it. Anno Domini affects head work muchless than you’d think. By Jove, I wouldn’t care to undertake to commit amurder under Hercule Poirot’s nose – even at this time of day.’
‘He’d get you if you did,’ I said grinning.
