Two

“That’s Hercule Poirot, the detective,” said Mrs. Allerton.

She and her son were sitting in brightly painted scarlet¹ basket chairs outside the Cataract² Hotelin Assuan. They were watching the retreating figures of two people—a short man dressed in awhite silk suit and a tall slim girl.

Tim Allerton sat up in an unusually alert fashion.

“That funny little man?” he asked incredulously.

“That funny little man!”

“What on earth’s he doing here?” Tim asked.

His mother laughed. “Darling, you sound quite excited. Why do men enjoy crime so much? Ihate detective stories and never read them. But I don’t think Monsieur Poirot is here with anyulterior motive³. He’s made a good deal of money and he’s seeing life, I fancy.”

“Seems to have an eye for the best-looking girl in the place.”

Mrs. Allerton tilted⁴ her head a little on one side as she considered the retreating backs of M.

Poirot and his companion.

The girl by his side overtopped him by some three inches. She walked well, neither stiffly norsloughingly.

“I suppose she is quite good-looking,” said Mrs. Allerton. She shot a little glance sideways atTim. Somewhat to her amusement the fish rose at once.

“She’s more than quite. Pity she looks so bad-tempered⁵ and sulky.”

“Perhaps that’s just expression, dear.”

“Unpleasant young devil, I think. But she’s pretty enough.”

The subject of these remarks was walking slowly by Poirot’s side. Rosalie Otterbourne wastwirling an unopened parasol, and her expression certainly bore out what Tim had just said. Shelooked both sulky and bad-tempered. Her eyebrows⁶ were drawn⁷ together in a frown, and thescarlet line of her mouth was drawn downward.

They turned to the left out of the hotel gate and entered the cool shade of the public gardens.

Hercule Poirot was prattling⁸ gently, his expression that of beatific⁹ good humour. He wore awhite silk suit, carefully pressed, and a panama hat, and carried a highly ornamental¹⁰ fly whisk witha sham¹¹ amber¹² handle.

“—it enchants¹³ me,” he was saying. “The black rocks of Elephantine, and the sun, and the littleboats on the river. Yes, it is good to be alive.”

He paused and then added: “You do not find it so, Mademoiselle?”

Rosalie Otterbourne said shortly: “It’s all right, I suppose. I think Assuan’s a gloomy sort ofplace. The hotel’s half empty, and everyone’s about a hundred—”

She stopped—biting her lip.

Hercule Poirot’s eyes twinkled.

“It is true, yes, I have one leg in the grave.”

“I—I wasn’t thinking of you,” said the girl.

“I’m sorry. That sounded rude.”

“Not at all. It is natural you should wish for companions of your own age. Ah, well, there is oneyoung man, at least.”

“The one who sits with his mother all the time? I like her—but I think he looks dreadful—soconceited!”

Poirot smiled.

“And I—am I conceited¹⁴?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

She was obviously uninterested — but the fact did not seem to annoy Poirot. He merelyremarked with placid¹⁵ satisfaction:

“My best friend says that I am very conceited.”

“Oh, well,” said Rosalie vaguely¹⁶, “I suppose you have something to be conceited about.

Unfortunately crime doesn’t interest me in the least.”

Poirot said solemnly, “I am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide.”

Just for a moment the sulky mask of her face was transformed as she shot him a swiftquestioning glance. Poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on:

“Madame, your mother, was not at lunch today. She is not indisposed, I trust?”

“This place doesn’t suit her,” said Rosalie briefly¹⁷. “I shall be glad when we leave.”

“We are fellow passengers, are we not? We both make the excursion up to Wadi Halfa and theSecond Cataract?”

“Yes.”

They came out from the shade of the gardens on to a dusty stretch of road bordered by the river.

Five watchful¹⁸ bead-sellers, two vendors¹⁹ of postcards, three sellers of plaster scarabs, a couple ofdonkey boys and some detached but hopeful infantile riff-raff closed in upon them.

“You want beads²⁰, sir? Very good, sir. Very cheap….”

“Lady, you want scarab? Look—great queen—very lucky….”

“You look, sir—real lapis. Very good, very cheap….”

“You want ride donkey, sir? This very good donkey. This donkey Whiskey and Soda²¹, sir….”

“You want to go granite²² quarries²³, sir? This very good donkey. Other donkey very bad, sir, thatdonkey fall down….”

“You want postcard—very cheap—very nice….”

“Look, lady…Only ten piastres—very cheap—lapis—this ivory….”

“This very good fly whisk—this all-amber….”

“You go out in boat, sir? I got very good boat, sir….”

“You go back to hotel, lady? This first-class donkey….”

Hercule Poirot made vague gestures to rid himself of this human cluster of flies. Rosalie stalkedthrough them like a sleepwalker.

“It’s best to pretend to be deaf and blind,” she remarked.

The infantile riff- raff ran alongside murmuring plaintively²⁴: “Bakshish? Bakshish? Hip²⁵ hiphurrah—very good, very nice….”

Their gaily²⁶ coloured rags trailed picturesquely²⁷, and the flies lay in clusters on their eyelids²⁸.

They were the most persistent²⁹. The others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next corner.

Now Poirot and Rosalie only ran the gauntlet of the shops—suave, persuasive³⁰ accents here….

“You visit my shop today, sir?” “You want that ivory crocodile, sir?” “You not been in my shopyet, sir? I show you very beautiful things.”

They turned into the fifth shop and Rosalie handed over several rolls of film—the object of thewalk.

Then they came out again and walked towards the river’s edge.

One of the Nile steamers was just mooring³¹. Poirot and Rosalie looked interestedly at thepassengers.

“Quite a lot, aren’t there?” commented Rosalie.

She turned her head as Tim Allerton came up and joined them. He was a little out of breath asthough he had been walking fast.

They stood there for a moment or two, and then Tim spoke³².

“An awful crowd as usual, I suppose,” he remarked disparagingly³³, indicating the disembarkingpassengers.

“They’re usually quite terrible,” agreed Rosalie.

All three wore the air of superiority assumed by people who are already in a place whenstudying new arrivals.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Tim, his voice suddenly excited. “I’m damned if that isn’t LinnetRidgeway.”

If the information left Poirot unmoved, it stirred Rosalie’s interest. She leaned forward and hersulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked: “Where? That one in white?”

“Yes, there with the tall man. They’re coming ashore³⁴ now. He’s the new husband, I suppose.

Can’t remember his name now.”

“Doyle,” said Rosalie. “Simon Doyle. It was in all the newspapers. She’s simply rolling, isn’tshe?”

“Only about the richest girl in England,” replied Tim cheerfully.

The three lookers- on were silent watching the passengers come ashore. Poirot gazed withinterest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. He murmured: “She is beautiful.”

“Some people have got everything,” said Rosalie bitterly.

There was a queer grudging³⁵ expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up thegangplank.

Linnet Doyle was looking as perfectly³⁶ turned out as if she were stepping on to the centre of thestage of a revue. She had something too of the assurance of a famous actress. She was used tobeing looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.

She was aware of the keen glances bent³⁷ upon her—and at the same time almost unaware³⁸ ofthem; such tributes were part of her life.

She came ashore playing a role, even though she played it unconsciously. The rich beautifulsociety bride on her honeymoon³⁹. She turned, with a little smile and a light remark, to the tall manby her side. He answered, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest Hercule Poirot. His eyeslit up and he drew his brows together.

The couple passed close to him. He heard Simon Doyle say:

“We’ll try and make time for it, darling. We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here.”

His face was turned towards her, eager, adoring, a little humble⁴⁰.

Poirot’s eyes ran over him thoughtfully—the square shoulders, the bronzed face, the dark blueeyes, the rather childlike simplicity⁴¹ of the smile.

“Lucky devil,” said Tim after they had passed. “Fancy finding an heiress who hasn’t gotadenoids and flat feet!”

“They look frightfully happy,” said Rosalie with a note of envy in her voice. She addedsuddenly, but so low that Tim did not catch the words, “It isn’t fair.”

Poirot heard, however. He had been frowning somewhat perplexedly, but now he flashed aquick glance towards her.

Tim said: “I must collect some stuff for my mother now.”

He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie retraced⁴² their steps slowly in the directionof the hotel, waving aside fresh proffers⁴³ of donkeys.

“So it is not fair, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot gently.

The girl flushed angrily.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I am repeating what you said just now under your breath. Oh, yes, you did.”

Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged⁴⁴ her shoulders.

“It really seems a little too much for one person. Money, good looks, marvellous figure and—”

She paused and Poirot said:

“And love? Eh? And love? But you do not know—she may have been married for her money!”

“Didn’t you see the way he looked at her?”

“Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. I saw all there was to see—indeed I saw something that you did not.”

“What was that?”

Poirot said slowly: “I saw, Mademoiselle, dark lines below a woman’s eyes. I saw a hand thatclutched a sunshade so tight that the knuckles⁴⁵ were white….”

Rosalie was staring at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that all is not the gold that glitters. I mean that, though this lady is rich and beautifuland beloved, there is all the same something that is not right. And I know something else.”

“Yes?”

“I know,” said Poirot, frowning, “that somewhere, at some time, I have heard that voice before—the voice of Monsieur Doyle—and I wish I could remember where.”

But Rosalie was not listening. She had stopped dead. With the point of her sunshade she wastracing patterns in the loose sand. Suddenly she broke out fiercely:

“I’m odious⁴⁶. I’m quite odious. I’m just a beast through and through. I’d like to tear the clothesoff her back and stamp on her lovely, arrogant⁴⁷, self-confident face. I’m just a jealous cat—butthat’s what I feel like. She’s so horribly successful and poised⁴⁸ and assured.”

Hercule Poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. He took her by the arm and gave her afriendly little shake.

“Tenez—you will feel better for having said that!”

“I just hate her! I’ve never hated anyone so much at first sight.”

“Magnificent!”

Rosalie looked at him doubtfully. Then her mouth twitched⁴⁹ and she laughed.

“Bien,” said Poirot, and laughed too.

They proceeded amicably⁵⁰ back to the hotel.

“I must find Mother,” said Rosalie, as they came into the cool dim hall.

Poirot passed out on the other side on to the terrace overlooking the Nile. Here were little tablesset for tea, but it was early still. He stood for a few moments looking at the river, then strolleddown through the garden.

Some people were playing tennis in the hot sun. He paused to watch them for a while, then wenton down the steep path. It was here, sitting on a bench overlooking the Nile, that he came upon thegirl of Chez Ma Tante. He recognized her at once. Her face, as he had seen it that night, wassecurely etched upon his memory. The expression on it now was very different. She was paler,thinner, and there were lines that told of a great weariness and misery⁵¹ of spirit.

He drew back a little. She had not seen him, and he watched her for a while without hersuspecting his presence. Her small foot tapped impatiently on the ground. Her eyes, dark with akind of smouldering fire, had a queer kind of suffering dark triumph in them. She was looking outacross the Nile where the white-sailed boats glided⁵² up and down the river.

A face—and a voice. He remembered them both. This girl’s face and the voice he had heard justnow, the voice of a newly made bridegroom….

And even as he stood there considering the unconscious girl, the next scene in the drama wasplayed.

Voices sounded above. The girl on the seat started to her feet. Linnet Doyle and her husbandcame down the path. Linnet’s voice was happy and confident. The look of strain and tenseness ofmuscle had quite disappeared, Linnet was happy.

The girl who was standing⁵³ there took a step or two forward. The other two stopped dead.

“Hullo, Linnet,” said Jacqueline de Bellefort. “So here you are! We never seem to stop runninginto each other. Hullo, Simon, how are you?”

Linnet Doyle had shrunk back against the rock with a little cry. Simon Doyle’s good-lookingface was suddenly convulsed with rage. He moved forward as though he would have liked tostrike the slim girlish figure.

With a quick birdlike turn of her head she signalled her realization⁵⁴ of a stranger’s presence.

Simon turned his head and noticed Poirot. He said awkwardly: “Hullo, Jacqueline; we didn’texpect to see you here.”

The words were unconvincing in the extreme.

The girl flashed white teeth at them.

“Quite a surprise?” she asked. Then, with a little nod, she walked up the path.

Poirot moved delicately in the opposite direction. As he went, he heard Linnet Doyle say:

“Simon—for God’s sake! Simon—what can we do?”

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