Three

Dinner was over. The terrace outside the Cataract¹ Hotel was softly lit. Most of the guests stayingat the hotel were sitting at little tables.

Simon and Linnet Doyle came out, a tall, distinguished² looking grey-haired man, with a keen,clean- shaven American face, beside them. As the little group hesitated in the doorway³, TimAllerton rose from his chair nearby and came forward.

“You don’t remember me I’m sure,” he said pleasantly to Linnet, “but I’m Joanna Southwood’scousin.”

“Of course—how stupid of me! You’re Tim Allerton. This is my husband”—a faint tremor⁴ inthe voice, pride, shyness?—“and this is my American trustee, Mr. Pennington.”

Tim said: “You must meet my mother.”

A few minutes later they were sitting together in a party — Linnet in the corner, Tim andPennington each side of her, both talking to her, vying⁵ for her attention. Mrs. Allerton talked toSimon Doyle.

The swing doors revolved⁷. A sudden tension came into the beautiful upright figure sitting in thecorner between the two men. Then it relaxed as a small man came out and walked across theterrace.

Mrs. Allerton said: “You’re not the only celebrity⁹ here, my dear. That funny little man isHercule Poirot.”

She had spoken lightly, just out of instinctive¹¹ social tact¹² to bridge an awkward pause, but Linnetseemed struck by the information.

“Hercule Poirot? Of course—I’ve heard of him….”

She seemed to sink into a fit of abstraction. The two men on either side of her were momentarilyat a loss.

Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace, but his attention was immediately solicited¹³.

“Sit down, Monsieur Poirot. What a lovely night!”

He obeyed.

“Mais oui, Madame, it is indeed beautiful.”

He smiled politely at Mrs. Otterbourne. What draperies of black ninon and that ridiculousturban effect! Mrs. Otterbourne went on in her high complaining voice:

“Quite a lot of notabilities here now, aren’t there? I expect we shall see a paragraph about it inthe papers soon. Society beauties, famous novelists—”

She paused with a slight mock-modest laugh.

Poirot felt, rather than saw, the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch¹⁴ and set her mouth in asulkier line than before.

“You have a novel on the way at present, Madame?” he inquired.

Mrs. Otterbourne gave her little self-conscious laugh again.

“I’m being dreadfully lazy. I really must set to. My public is getting terribly impatient—and mypublisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables!”

Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.

“I don’t mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot, I am partly here for local colour. Snow on theDesert’s Face—that is the title of my new book. Powerful—suggestive. Snow—on the desert—melted in the first flaming breath of passion.”

Rosalie got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.

“One must be strong,” went on Mrs. Otterbourne, wagging the turban emphatically. “Strongmeat—that is what my books are—all important. Libraries banned—no matter! I speak the truth.

Sex—ah! Monsieur Poirot—why is everyone so afraid of sex? The pivot¹⁵ of the universe! Youhave read my books?”

“Alas, Madame! You comprehend, I do not read many novels. My work—”

Mrs. Otterbourne said firmly: “I must give you a copy of Under the Fig⁸ Tree. I think you willfind it significant. It is outspoken—but it is real!”

“That is most kind of you, Madame. I will read it with pleasure.”

Mrs. Otterbourne was silent a minute or two. She fidgeted with a long chain of beads¹⁶ that waswound twice round her neck. She looked swiftly from side to side.

“Perhaps—I’ll just slip up and get it for you now.”

“Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself. Later—”

“No, no. It’s no trouble.” She rose. “I’d like to show you—”

“What is it, Mother?”

Rosalie was suddenly at her side.

“Nothing, dear. I was just going up to get a book for Monsieur Poirot.”

“The Fig Tree? I’ll get it.”

“You don’t know where it is, dear. I’ll go.”

“Yes, I do.”

The girl went swiftly across the terrace and into the hotel.

“Let me congratulate you, Madame, on a very lovely daughter,” said Poirot, with a bow.

“Rosalie? Yes, yes — she is good- looking. But she’s very hard, Monsieur Poirot. And nosympathy with illness. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about myhealth than I do myself—”

Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.

“A liqueur, Madame? A chartreuse? A crème de menthe?”

Mrs. Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.

“No, no. I am practically a teetotaller. You may have noticed I never drink anything but water—or perhaps lemonade. I cannot bear the taste of spirits.”

“Then may I order you a lemon squash, Madame?”

He gave the order—one lemon squash and one benedictine.

The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came towards them, a book in her hand.

“Here you are,” she said. Her voice was quite expressionless—almost remarkably¹⁷ so.

“Monsieur Poirot has just ordered me a lemon squash,” said her mother.

“And you, Mademoiselle, what will you take?”

“Nothing.” She added, suddenly conscious of the curtness¹⁸: “Nothing, thank you.”

Poirot took the volume which Mrs. Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, agaily coloured affair representing a lady, with smartly shingled¹⁹ hair and scarlet²⁰ fingernails, sittingon a tiger skin, in the traditional costume of Eve. Above her was a tree with the leaves of an oak,bearing large and improbably coloured apples.

It was entitled Under the Fig Tree, by Salome Otterbourne. On the inside was a publisher’sblurb. It spoke¹⁰ enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modernwoman’s love life. “Fearless, unconventional, realistic,” were the adjectives used.

Poirot bowed and murmured: “I am honoured, Madame.”

As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress’s daughter. Almost involuntarily hemade a little movement. He was astonished and grieved at the eloquent²¹ pain they revealed.

It was at that moment that the drinks arrived and created a welcome diversion.

Poirot lifted his glass gallantly²².

“A votre santé, Madame—Mademoiselle.”

Mrs. Otterbourne, sipping²³ her lemonade, murmured, “So refreshing—delicious!”

Silence fell on the three of them. They looked down to the shining black rocks in the Nile.

There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like vast prehistoricmonsters lying half out of the water. A little breeze came up suddenly and as suddenly died away.

There was a feeling in the air of hush²⁴—of expectancy²⁵.

Hercule Poirot brought his gaze back to the terrace and its occupants. Was he wrong, or wasthere the same hush of expectancy there? It was like a moment on the stage when one is waitingfor the entrance of the leading lady.

And just at that moment the swing doors began to revolve⁶ once more. This time it seemed asthough they did so with a special air of importance. Everyone had stopped talking and was lookingtowards them.

A dark slender girl in a wine-coloured evening frock came through. She paused for a minute,then walked deliberately²⁶ across the terrace and sat down at an empty table. There was nothingflaunting, nothing out of the way about her demeanour, and yet it had somehow the studied effectof a stage entrance.

“Well,” said Mrs. Otterbourne. She tossed her turbaned head. “She seems to think she issomebody, that girl!”

Poirot did not answer. He was watching. The girl had sat down in a place where she could lookdeliberately across at Linnet Doyle. Presently, Poirot noticed, Linnet Doyle leant forward and saidsomething and a moment later got up and changed her seat. She was now sitting facing in theopposite direction.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully to himself.

It was about five minutes later that the other girl changed her seat to the opposite side of theterrace. She sat smoking and smiling quietly, the picture of contented²⁷ ease. But always, as thoughunconsciously, her meditative²⁸ gaze was on Simon Doyle’s wife.

After a quarter of an hour Linnet Doyle got up abruptly²⁹ and went into the hotel. Her husbandfollowed her almost immediately.

Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and twisted her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared outover the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.

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