He added:
‘I have a present for you, if you will deign to accept it.’
‘A present for me? But how charming.’
‘Excuse me a moment.’
Hercule Poirot went into the hotel. He came back a few seconds later. He brought with him an enormous dog of singular ugliness.
The Countess clapped her hands.
‘What a monster! How adorable! I like everything large—immense! Never have I seen such a big dog! And he is for me?’
‘If it pleases you to accept him.’
‘I shall adore him.’ She snapped her fingers. The large hound laid a trusting muzzle in her hand. ‘See, he is as gentle as a lamb with me! He is like the big fierce dogs we had in Russia in my father’s house.’
Poirot stood back a little. His head went on one side. Artistically he was pleased. The savage dog, the flamboyant woman—yes, the tableau was perfect.
The Countess inquired:
‘What’s his name?’
Hercule Poirot replied, with the sigh of one whose labours are completed: ‘Call him Cerberus.’