M. Gaston Blondin, the proprietor of that little restaurant Chez Ma Tante, was not a man who honoured many of his clientele. Only in the rarest cases did M. Blondin greet a guest, accompany him to a privileged table, and exchange with him suitable remarks.
On this night, M. Blondin had greeted a little man of comical appearance with immense black moustaches. He conducted the client to the table in a most favourable position.
“But naturally, for you there is always a table, Monsieur Poirot! How I wish that you would honour us oftener.”
Hercule Poirot smiled,
“You are too amiable, Monsieur Blondin,” he said.
“And you are alone, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Yes, I am alone.”
“Oh, well, our chef here will compose for you a little meal that will be a poem – positively a poem! Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: they distract the mind from food! You will enjoy your dinner, Monsieur Poirot; I promise you that.”
Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially.
“You have grave affairs on hand?”[25]
Poirot shook his head.
“I am a man of leisure,” he said sadly. “I have made the economies in my time and I have now the means to enjoy a life of idleness.[26]”
“I envy you.”
“No, no, you would be unwise to do so. I can assure you, it is not so gay as it sounds.” He sighed. “How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the need to think.”
M. Blondin threw up his hands.[27]
“But there is so much! There is travel!”
“Yes, there is travel. Already I have done not so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think. The climate, they say, is superb! One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of the constantly falling rain.”
“Ah! Egypt,” sighed M. Blondin.
“One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel[28].”
Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters served the table.[29]
The Negro orchestra broke into an ecstasy of strange noises. London danced.
Hercule Poirot looked on, registering impressions in his mind.
How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying themselves. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant…
A good number of young people – some bored, some definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happiness – youth, the time of greatest vulnerability!
His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair – tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in a perfect rhythm of happiness.
The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore the couple returned to their table close by Poirot. The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face, laughing to her companion. There was something else beside laughter in her eyes.
Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
“She cares too much, that little one,” he said to himself.
“It is not safe. No, it is not safe.”
And then a word caught his ear, “Egypt.”
Their voices came to him clearly – the girl's young, fresh, arrogant, with just a trace of foreign R's[30], and the man's pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.
“I'm not counting my chickens before they're hatched[31], Simon. I tell you Linnet won't let us down!”
“I might let her down.”
“Nonsense – it's just the right job for you.”
“As a matter of fact I think it is… I haven't really any doubts as to my capability. And I want to make good – for your sake!”
The girl laughed softly, a laugh of pure happiness.
“We'll wait three months – to make sure you don't get the sack – and then we'll go to Egypt for our honeymoon. I've always wanted to go to Egypt all my life. The Nile and the pyramids and the sand.”
He said, his voice slightly indistinct: “We'll see it together, Jackie… together. Won't it be marvellous?”
“I wonder.[32] Will it be as marvellous to you as it is to me? Do you really care – as much as I do?”
Her voice was suddenly sharp – almost with fear.
The man's answer came quickly, “Don't be absurd, Jackie.”
Then she shrugged her shoulders.
“Let's dance.”
Hercule Poirot murmured to himself:
“Un qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer.[33] Yes, I wonder too.”
Joanna Southwood said, “And suppose he's a terrible tough?”[34]
Linnet shook her head. “Oh, he won't be. I can trust Jacqueline's taste.”
Then she changed the subject. “I must go and see Mr Pierce about those plans!”
“Plans?”
“Yes, some dreadful insanitary old cottages. I'm having them pulled down and the people moved.[35]”
“Do the people who lived in them like going?”
“Most of them are delighted. One or two are being rather stupid about it. They don't seem to realize how vastly improved their living conditions will be!”
Joanna laughed.
“You are a tyrant, admit it. A beneficent tyrant if you like!”
“I'm not the least bit a tyrant.”
“But you like your own way!”
Linnet said sharply, “You think I'm selfish?”
“No – just irresistible. The combined effect of money and charm. Everything goes down before you. What you can't buy with cash you buy with a smile. Result: Linnet Ridgeway, the Girl Who Has Everything.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Joanna!”
As Lord Windlesham joined them, Linnet said, turning to him, “Joanna is saying the nastiest things to me.”
Joanna got up from her seat. She made no apology for leaving them.
He was silent for a minute or two. Then he went straight to the point.[36]
“Have you come to a decision, Linnet?”
Linnet said slowly: “Am I being a brute? I suppose, if I'm not sure, I ought to say 'No' – ”
He interrupted her.
“Don't say it. You shall have time – as much time as you want. But I think, you know, we should be happy together.”
“You see,” Linnet's tone was apologetic, almost childish, “I'm enjoying myself so much – especially with all this.” She waved a hand. “I wanted to make Wode Hall into my real ideal of a country house, and I do think I've got it nice, don't you?”
“It's beautiful. Beautifully planned. Everything perfect. You're very clever, Linnet.”
He paused a minute and went on: “And you like Charltonbury, don't you? Of course it wants modernizing and all that – but you're so clever at that sort of thing. You'd enjoy it.”
“Why, of course, Charltonbury's divine.”
She spoke with enthusiasm, but inwardly she felt a sudden chill. But why? Charltonbury was modestly famous. Windlesham's ancestors had held it since the time of Elizabeth[37]. To be mistress of Charltonbury was a position in society. Windlesham was one of the most desirable parties in England.
Naturally he couldn't take Wode seriously… It was not in any way to be compared with Charltonbury.
Ah, but Wode was hers! She had seen it, acquired it, rebuilt and re-dressed it, lavished money on it. It was her own possession – her kingdom.
If she married Windlesham, Wode Hall would be given up.
She, Linnet Ridgeway, wouldn't exist any longer. She would be Countess of Windlesham, not queen any longer.
“I'm being ridiculous,” said Linnet to herself.
But it was curious how she did hate the idea of abandoning Wode.
And wasn't there something else nagging at her?
Jackie's voice with that note in it saying: “I shall die if I can't marry him! I shall die. I shall die.”
So positive, so earnest. Did she, Linnet, feel like that about Windlesham?
Assuredly she didn't. Perhaps she could never feel like that about anyone. It must be – rather wonderful – to feel like that.
The sound of a car came through the open window.
That must be Jackie and her young man. She'd go out and meet them.
She was standing in the open doorway as Jacqueline and Simon Doyle got out of the car.
“Linnet!” Jackie ran to her. “This is Simon. Simon, here's Linnet. She's just the most wonderful person in the world.”
Linnet saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with very dark blue eyes, curling brown hair, a square chin and a boyish, simple smile.
She stretched out a hand. The hand that clasped hers was firm and warm. She liked the way he looked at her, the genuine admiration.
Jackie had told him she was wonderful, and he clearly thought that she was wonderful.
A warm sweet feeling of intoxication ran through her veins.
“Isn't this all lovely?” she said. “Come in, Simon, and let me welcome my new land agent properly.”
And as she turned to lead the way she thought: “I'm frightfully – frightfully happy. I like Jackie's young man. I like him enormously. ”
And then with a sudden pang, “Lucky Jackie.”
Tim Allerton leant back in his wicker chair and yawned as he looked out over the sea. He shot a quick glance at his mother.
Mrs Allerton was a good-looking, white-haired woman of fifty, and she adored her son.
He said, “Do you really like Majorca[38], Mother?”
“Well,” Mrs Allerton considered, “it's cheap.”
“And cold,” said Tim with a slight shiver.
He was a tall, thin young man, with dark hair and a rather narrow chest. His eyes were sad and his chin was indecisive. He had long delicate hands.
He was supposed “to write,” but it was understood among his friends that he was not a success.
“What are you thinking of, Tim?”
Mrs Allerton was alert. Her bright, dark-brown eyes looked suspicious. Tim Allerton grinned at her.
“I was thinking of Egypt.”
“Egypt?”
Mrs Allerton sounded doubtful.
“Real warmth, darling. Lazy golden sands. The Nile. I'd like to go up the Nile, wouldn't you?”
“Oh, I'd like it.” Her tone was dry. “But Egypt's expensive, my dear. Not for those who have to count the pennies.”
Tim laughed. He rose, stretched himself. Suddenly he looked alive and eager. There was an excited note in his voice.
“The expense will be my affair.[39] Yes, darling. A little flutter on the Stock Exchange.[40] With satisfactory results. I heard this morning.”
“This morning?” said Mrs Allerton sharply. “You only had one letter and that – ” She stopped and bit her lip.
“And that was from Joanna,” he finished coolly. “Quite right, Mother. What a Queen of detectives you'd make! The famous Hercule Poirot would have to be careful if you were about.”
Mrs Allerton looked rather cross.[41]
“I just happened to see the handwriting – ”
“And knew it wasn't that of a stockbroker? Quite right. As a matter of fact it was yesterday I heard from them. Poor Joanna's handwriting is rather noticeable.”
“What does Joanna say? Any news?”
Mrs Allerton tried to make her voice sound casual and ordinary. The friendship between her son and his second cousin, Joanna Southwood, always irritated her. Not that there was “anything in it.” She was quite sure there wasn't. Tim had never manifested a sentimental interest in Joanna, nor she in him. They both liked people and discussing people. Joanna had an amusing though caustic tongue.
It was some feeling hard to define – perhaps jealousy in the pleasure Tim which always seemed to take in Joanna's society. He and his mother were such perfect companions that the sight of him interested in another woman always worried Mrs Allerton. She fancied, too, that her presence on these occasions set some barrier between the two members of the younger generation, when at sight of her, their talk had changed. Quite definitely, Mrs Allerton did not like Joanna Southwood. She thought her insincere, affected and superficial.
In answer to her question, Tim pulled the letter out of his pocket and glanced through it. It was quite a long letter, his mother noted.
“Nothing much,” he said. “The Devenishes are getting a divorce. Windlesham's gone to Canada. Seems he was pretty badly hit when Linnet Ridgeway turned him down[42]. She's definitely going to marry this land agent person.”
“How extraordinary! Is he very dreadful?”
“No, no, not at all. He's one of the Devonshire Doyles. No money, of course – and he was actually engaged to one of Linnet's best friends. Pretty thick, that.[43]”
“I don't think it's at all nice,” said Mrs Allerton.
Tim gave her a quick affectionate glance.
“I know, darling. You don't approve of snapping other people's husbands and all that sort of thing.”
“In my day we had our standards,” said Mrs Allerton. “Nowadays young people seem to think they can just go about doing anything they choose.”
Tim smiled.
“They don't only think it. They do it. Look at Linnet Ridgeway!”
“Well, I think it's horrid!”
Tim twinkled at her.
“Cheer up, you old die-hard[44]! Perhaps I agree with you. Anyway, I haven't helped myself to anyone's wife or fiancee yet.[45]”
“I'm sure you'd never do such a thing,” said Mrs Allerton. She added, “I've brought you up properly.”
He smiled teasingly at her as he folded the letter and put it away again.
Mrs Allerton let the thought just flash across her mind: “Most letters he shows to me. He only reads me snippets from Joanna's.”
But she put the thought away from her, and decided, as ever, to behave like a gentlewoman.
“Is Joanna enjoying life?” she asked.
“So so. Says she thinks of opening a delicatessen shop in Mayfair.”
“She always talks about being hard up[46],” said Mrs Allerton, “but she goes about everywhere and her clothes must cost her a lot. She's always beautifully dressed.”
“Ah, well,” said Tim, “she probably doesn't pay for them.
I just mean quite literally that she leaves her bills unpaid.”
Mrs Allerton sighed.
“I never know how people manage to do that.”
“It's a kind of special gift,” said Tim. “If only you have sufficiently extravagant tastes, and absolutely no sense of money values, people will give you any amount of credit.”
“Yes, but you come to the Bankruptcy Court[47] in the end.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, I'm for excitement and novelty. The joy of never knowing what may turn up from day to day. And the pleasure of making money for yourself – by your own brains and skill.”
“A successful deal on the Stock Exchange[48] in fact!”
He laughed. “Why not?”
“And what about an equal loss on the Stock Exchange?”
“That, dear, is rather tactless. And quite inappropriate today. What about this Egypt plan?”
“Well – ”
He cut in, smiling at her: “That's settled. We've both always wanted to see Egypt.”
“When do you suggest?”
“Oh, next month. January's about the best time there. We'll enjoy the delightful society in this hotel a few weeks longer.”
Mrs Allerton sighed and said, “I wish there were a few more young people for you here.”
Tim Allerton shook his head decidedly.
“I don't. You and I get along rather comfortably without outside distractions.”
“You'd like it if Joanna were here.”
“I wouldn't.” His tone was unexpectedly resolute. “You're all wrong there. Joanna amuses me, but I don't really like her, and to have her around much gets on my nerves. I'm thankful she isn't here.”
He added, almost below his breath, “There's only one woman in the world I've got a real respect and admiration for, and I think, Mrs Allerton, you know very well who that woman is.”
His mother blushed and looked quite confused.
Tim said gravely: “ There aren't very many really nice women in the world. You happen to be one of them.”
In an apartment overlooking Central Park in New York, Mrs Robson exclaimed: “You really are the luckiest girl, Cornelia.”
Cornelia Robson flushed. She was a big clumsy-looking girl with brown doglike eyes.
“Oh, it will be wonderful!” she gasped.
Old Miss Van Schuyler was satisfied with this correct attitude of poor relations.
“I've always dreamed of a trip to Europe,” sighed Cornelia, “but I just didn't feel I'd ever get there.”
“Miss Bowers will come with me as usual, of course,” said Miss Van Schuyler, “but as a social companion I find her limited – very limited. There are many little things that Cornelia can do for me.”
“I'd just love to, Cousin Marie,” said Cornelia eagerly.
“Well, well, then that's settled,” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Just run and find Miss Bowers, my dear. It's time for my eggnog.”
Cornelia left. Her mother said: “My dear Marie, I'm really most grateful to you! You know I think Cornelia suffers a lot from not being a social success. If I could afford to take her to places – but you know how it's been since Ned died.”
“I'm very glad to take her,” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Cornelia has always been a nice handy girl, willing to run errands, and not so selfish as some of these young people nowadays.”
Mrs Robson rose and kissed her rich relative's wrinkled face.
“I'm just ever so grateful,” she declared.
On the stairs she met a tall capable looking woman who was carrying a glass containing a yellow foamy liquid.
“Well, Miss Bowers, so you're off to Europe?”
“Why, yes, Mrs Robson.”
“What a lovely trip!”
“Why, yes, I should think it would be very enjoyable.”
“But you've been abroad before?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs Robson. I went over to Paris with Miss Van Schuyler last fall. But I've never been to Egypt before.”
Mrs Robson hesitated.
“I do hope – there won't be any – trouble.”
She had lowered her voice. Miss Bowers, however, replied in her usual tone:
“Oh, no, Mrs Robson; I shall take good care of that. I keep a very sharp look-out always.[49]”
But there was still a faint shadow on Mrs Robson's face as she slowly continued down the stairs.
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