Four

“Monsieur Poirot.”

Poirot got hastily to his feet. He had remained sitting out on the terrace alone after everyone elsehad left. Lost in meditation¹ he had been staring at the smooth shiny black rocks when the sound ofhis name recalled him to himself.

It was a well-bred, assured voice, a charming voice, although perhaps a trifle arrogant².

Hercule Poirot, rising quickly, looked into the commanding eyes of Linnet Doyle. She wore awrap of rich purple velvet³ over her white satin gown and she looked more lovely and more regalthan Poirot had imagined possible.

“You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” said Linnet.

It was hardly a question.

“At your service, Madame.”

“You know who I am, perhaps?”

“Yes, Madame. I have heard your name. I know exactly who you are.”

Linnet nodded. That was only what she had expected. She went on, in her charming autocraticmanner: “Will you come with me into the card room, Monsieur Poirot? I am very anxious to speakto you.”

“Certainly, Madame.”

She led the way into the hotel. He followed. She led him into the deserted⁴ card room andmotioned him to close the door. Then she sank down on a chair at one of the tables and he satdown opposite her.

She plunged⁵ straightaway into what she wanted to say. There were no hesitations⁶. Her speechcame flowingly.

“I have heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Poirot, and I know that you are a very cleverman. It happens that I am urgently in need of someone to help me—and I think very possibly thatyou are the man who would do it.”

Poirot inclined his head.

“You are very amiable⁷, Madame, but you see, I am on holiday, and when I am on holiday I donot take cases.”

“That could be arranged.”

It was not offensively said—only with the quiet confidence of a young woman who had alwaysbeen able to arrange matters to her satisfaction.

Linnet Doyle went on: “I am the subject, Monsieur Poirot, of an intolerable persecution⁸. Thatpersecution has got to stop! My own idea was to go to the police about it, but my—my husbandseems to think that the police would be powerless to do anything.”

“Perhaps—if you would explain a little further?” murmured Poirot politely.

“Oh, yes, I will do so. The matter is perfectly⁹ simple.”

There was still no hesitation—no faltering¹⁰. Linnet Doyle had a clear-cut businesslike mind. Sheonly paused a minute so as to present the facts as concisely¹¹ as possible.

“Before I met my husband, he was engaged to a Miss de Bellefort. She was also a friend ofmine. My husband broke off his engagement to her—they were not suited in any way. She, I amsorry to say, took it rather hard…I—am very sorry about that—but these things cannot be helped.

She made certain—well, threats—to which I paid very little attention, and which, I may say, shehas not attempted to carry out. But instead she has adopted the extraordinary course of—offollowing us about wherever we go.”

Poirot raised his eyebrows¹².

“Ah—rather an unusual—er—revenge.”

“Very unusual—and very ridiculous! But also—annoying.”

She bit her lip.

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, I can imagine that. You are, I understand, on your honeymoon¹³?”

“Yes. It happened—the first time—at Venice. She was there—at Danielli’s. I thought it was justcoincidence. Rather embarrassing, but that was all. Then we found her on board the boat atBrindisi. We—we understood that she was going on to Palestine. We left her, as we thought, onthe boat. But—but when we got to Mena House she was there—waiting for us.”

Poirot nodded.

“And now?”

“We came up the Nile by boat. I—I was half expecting to find her on board. When she wasn’tthere I thought she had stopped being so—so childish. But when we got here—she—she was here—waiting.”

Poirot eyed her keenly for a moment. She was still perfectly composed, but the knuckles¹⁴ of thehand that was gripping the table were white with the force of her grip.

He said: “And you are afraid this state of things may continue?”

“Yes.” She paused. “Of course the whole thing is idiotic¹⁵! Jacqueline is making herself utterlyridiculous. I am surprised she hasn’t got more pride—more dignity.”

Poirot made a slight gesture.

“There are times, Madame, when pride and dignity—they go by the board! There are other—stronger emotions.”

“Yes, possibly.” Linnet spoke¹⁶ impatiently. “But what on earth can she hope to gain by all this?”

“It is not always a question of gain, Madame.”

Something in his tone struck Linnet disagreeably. She flushed and said quickly: “You are right.

A discussion of motives¹⁷ is beside the point. The crux¹⁸ of the matter is that this has got to bestopped.”

“And how do you propose that that should be accomplished¹⁹, Madame?” Poirot asked.

“Well—naturally—my husband and I cannot continue being subjected to this annoyance²⁰. Theremust be some kind of legal redress²¹ against such a thing.”

She spoke impatiently. Poirot looked at her thoughtfully as he asked: “Has she threatened you inactual words in public? Used insulting language? Attempted any bodily harm?”

“No.”

“Then, frankly²², Madame, I do not see what you can do. If it is a young lady’s pleasure to travelin certain places, and those places are the same where you and your husband find themselves—ehbien—what of it? The air is free to all! There is no question of her forcing herself upon yourprivacy? It is always in public that these encounters take place?”

“You mean there is nothing that I can do about it?”

Linnet sounded incredulous.

Poirot said placidly²³: “Nothing at all, as far as I can see. Mademoiselle de Bellefort is within herrights.”

“But—but it is maddening! It is intolerable that I should have to put up with this!”

Poirot said dryly: “I must sympathize with you, Madame—especially as I imagine that you havenot often had to put up with things.”

Linnet was frowning.

“There must be some way of stopping it,” she murmured.

Poirot shrugged²⁴ his shoulders.

“You can always leave—move on somewhere else,” he suggested.

“Then she will follow!”

“Very possibly—yes.”

“It’s absurd!”

“Precisely.”

“Anyway, why should I—we—run away? As though—as though—”

She stopped.

“Exactly, Madame. As though—! It is all there, is it not?”

Linnet lifted her head and stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

Poirot altered his tone. He leant forward; his voice was confidential²⁵, appealing. He said verygently: “Why do you mind so much, Madame?”

“Why? But it’s maddening! Irritating to the last degree! I’ve told you why!”

Poirot shook his head.

“Not altogether.”

“What do you mean?” Linnet asked again.

Poirot leant back, folded his arms and spoke in a detached impersonal²⁶ manner.

“Ecoutez, Madame. I will recount to you a little history. It is that one day, a month or two ago, Iam dining in a restaurant in London. At the table next to me are two people, a man and a girl.

They are very happy, so it seems, very much in love. They talk with confidence of the future. It isnot that I listen to what is not meant for me; they are quite oblivious²⁷ of who hears them and whodoes not. The man’s back is to me, but I can watch the girl’s face. It is very intense. She is in love—heart, soul, and body—and she is not of those who love lightly and often. With her it is clearlythe life and the death. They are engaged to be married, these two; that is what I gather; and theytalk of where they shall pass the days of their honeymoon. They plan to go to Egypt.”

He paused. Linnet said sharply: “Well?”

Poirot went on: “That is a month or two ago, but the girl’s face—I do not forget it. I know that Ishall remember if I see it again. And I remember too the man’s voice. And I think you can guess,Madame, when it is I see the one and hear the other again. It is here in Egypt. The man is on hishoneymoon, yes—but he is on his honeymoon with another woman.”

Linnet said sharply: “What of it? I had already mentioned the facts.”

“The facts—yes.”

“Well then?”

Poirot said slowly: “The girl in the restaurant mentioned a friend—a friend who, she was verypositive, would not let her down. That friend, I think, was you, Madame.”

“Yes. I told you we had been friends.”

Linnet flushed.

“And she trusted you?”

“Yes.”

She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip impatiently; then, as Poirot did not seem disposed tospeak, she broke out:

“Of course the whole thing was very unfortunate. But these things happen, Monsieur Poirot.”

“Ah! Yes, they happen, Madame.” He paused. “You are of the Church of England, I presume?”

“Yes.” Linnet looked slightly bewildered.

“Then you have heard portions of the Bible read aloud in church. You have heard of KingDavid and of the rich man who had many flocks and herds²⁸ and the poor man who had one ewelamb—and of how the rich man took the poor man’s one ewe lamb. That was something thathappened, Madame.”

Linnet sat up. Her eyes flashed angrily.

“I see perfectly what you are driving at, Monsieur Poirot! You think, to put it vulgarly, that Istole my friend’s young man. Looking at the matter sentimentally—which is, I suppose, the waypeople of your generation cannot help looking at things—that is possibly true. But the real hardtruth is different. I don’t deny that Jackie was passionately²⁹ in love with Simon, but I don’t thinkyou take into account that he may not have been equally devoted³⁰ to her. He was very fond of her,but I think that even before he met me he was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake. Lookat it clearly, Monsieur Poirot. Simon discovers that it is I he loves, not Jackie. What is he to do?

Be heroically noble and marry a woman he does not care for—and thereby³¹ probably ruin threelives—for it is doubtful whether he could make Jackie happy under those circumstances? If hewere actually married to her when he met me I agree that it might be his duty to stick to her—though I’m not really sure of that. If one person is unhappy the other suffers too. But anengagement is not really binding³². If a mistake has been made, then surely it is better to face thefact before it is too late. I admit that it was very hard on Jackie, and I’m very sorry about it—butthere it is. It was inevitable³³.”

“I wonder.”

She stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

“It is very sensible, very logical—all that you say! But it does not explain one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Your own attitude, Madame. See you, this pursuit of you, you might take it in two ways, Itmight cause you annoyance—yes, or it might stir your pity—that your friend should have been sodeeply hurt as to throw all regard for the conventions aside. But that is not the way you react. No,to you this persecution is intolerable—and why? It can be for one reason only—that you feel asense of guilt³⁴.”

Linnet sprang to her feet.

“How dare you? Really, Monsieur Poirot, this is going too far.”

“But I do dare, Madame! I am going to speak to you quite frankly. I suggest to you that,although you may have endeavoured to gloss³⁵ over the fact to yourself, you did deliberately³⁶ setabout taking your husband from your friend. I suggest that you felt strongly attracted to him atonce. But I suggest that there was a moment when you hesitated, when you realized that there wasa choice—that you could refrain or go on. I suggest that the initiative rested with you—not withMonsieur Doyle. You are beautiful, Madame; you are rich; you are clever; intelligent—and youhave charm. You could have exercised that charm or you could have restrained it. You hadeverything, Madame, that life can offer. Your friend’s life was bound up in one person. You knewthat, but, though you hesitated, you did not hold your hand. You stretched it out and, like the richman in the Bible, you took the poor man’s one ewe lamb.”

There was a silence. Linnet controlled herself with an effort and said in a cold voice: “All this isquite beside the point!”

“No, it is not beside the point. I am explaining to you just why the unexpected appearances ofMademoiselle de Bellefort have upset you so much. It is because though she may be unwomanlyand undignified in what she is doing, you have the inner conviction that she has right on her side.”

“That’s not true.”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“You refuse to be honest with yourself.”

“Not at all.”

Poirot said gently: “I should say, Madame, that you have had a happy life, that you have beengenerous and kindly³⁷ in your attitude towards others.”

“I have tried to be,” said Linnet. The impatient anger died out of her face. She spoke simply—almost forlornly.

“And that is why the feeling that you have deliberately caused injury to someone upsets you somuch, and why you are so reluctant to admit the fact. Pardon me if I have been impertinent, butthe psychology³⁸, it is the most important fact in a case.”

Linnet said slowly: “Even supposing what you say were true—and I don’t admit it, mind—whatcan be done about it now? One can’t alter the past; one must deal with things as they are.”

Poirot nodded.

“You have the clear brain. Yes, one cannot go back over the past. One must accept things asthey are. And sometimes, Madame, that is all one can do—accept the consequences of one’s pastdeeds.”

“You mean,” asked Linnet incredulously, “that I can do nothing—nothing?”

“You must have courage, Madame; that is what it seems like to me.”

Linnet said slowly:

“Couldn’t you—talk to Jackie—to Miss de Bellefort? Reason with her?”

“Yes, I could do that. I will do that if you would like me to do so. But do not expect muchresult. I fancy that Mademoiselle de Bellefort is so much in the grip of a fixed³⁹ idea that nothingwill turn her from it.”

“But surely we can do something to extricate⁴⁰ ourselves?”

“You could, of course, return to England and establish yourselves in your own house.”

“Even then, I suppose, Jacqueline is capable of planting herself in the village, so that I shouldsee her everytime I went out of the grounds.”

“True.”

“Besides,” said Linnet slowly, “I don’t think that Simon would agree to run away.”

“What is his attitude in this?”

“He’s furious—simply furious.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Linnet said appealingly, “You will—talk to her?”

“Yes, I will do that. But it is my opinion that I shall not be able to accomplish anything.”

Linnet said violently: “Jackie is extraordinary! One can’t tell what she will do!”

“You spoke just now of certain threats she had made. Would you tell me what those threatswere?”

Linnet shrugged her shoulders.

“She threatened to—well—kill us both. Jackie can be rather—Latin sometimes.”

“I see.” Poirot’s tone was grave.

Linnet turned to him appealingly.

“You will act for me?”

“No, Madame.” His tone was firm. “I will not accept a commission from you. I will do what Ican in the interests of humanity. That, yes. There is here a situation that is full of difficulty anddanger. I will do what I can to clear it up—but I am not very sanguine⁴¹ as to my chance ofsuccess.”

Linnet Doyle said slowly: “But you will not act for me?”

“No, Madame,” said Hercule Poirot.

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