Dinner was over. The terrace outside the Cataract Hotel was softly lit. Most of the guests staying at the hotel were there sitting at little tables.
Simon and Linnet Doyle came out, a tall, distinguished looking grey-haired man, with a keen, clean-shaven American face, beside them.
As the little group hesitated for a moment in the doorway, Tim Allerton rose from his chair near by and came forward.
“You don't remember me, I'm sure,” he said pleasantly to Linnet, “but I'm Joanna Southwood's cousin.”
“Of course – how stupid of me! You're Tim Allerton. This is my husband 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 and Pennington each side of her, both talking to her. Mrs Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.
The swing doors revolved. A small man came out and walked across the terrace.
Mrs Allerton said: “You're not the only celebrity here, my dear. That funny little man is Hercule Poirot.”
She had spoken lightly, just to bridge an awkward pause[73], but Linnet seemed struck by the information.
“Hercule Poirot? Of course – I've heard of him.”
Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace when he heard Mrs Otterbourne say,
“Sit down, Monsieur Poirot. What a lovely night.”
He obeyed.
“Mais oui,[74] Madame, it is indeed beautiful.”
He smiled politely at her. 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 in the papers soon. Society beauties, famous novelists – ” She paused with a slight laugh.
Poirot saw the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch.
“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.[75] My public is getting terribly impatient – and my publisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables![76]” Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.
“I don't mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot[77], I am partly here for local colour. Snow on the Desert's Face – that is the title of my new book. Snow – on the desert – melted in the first flaming breath of passion.” Rosalie, her daughter, got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.
“One must be strong,” went on Mrs Otterbourne. “I speak the truth. Sex – ah! Monsieur Poirot – why is everyone so afraid of sex? The pivot of the universe! You have read my books?”
“Alas, Madame! You see, I do not read many novels. My work – ”
Mrs Otterbourne said firmly: “I must give you a copy of Under the Fig Tree. I think you will find 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 looked swiftly from side to side. “Perhaps – I'll just slip up and get it for you now.”[78]
“Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself 1. 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. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myself – ”
Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.
Mrs Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.
“No, no. I am practically a tee-totaller. 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[79][80].
The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came toward them, a book in her hand.
“Here you are,” she said. Her voice was quite expressionless.
“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 curtness, “Nothing, thank you.”
Poirot took the volume which Mrs Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, representing a lady with scarlet fingernails, sitting on 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's blurb. It spoke enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modern woman's love life.
Poirot bowed and murmured, “I am honoured, Madame[81].”
As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress's daughter. He was astonished at the pain in them.
It was at that moment that the drinks arrived. Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.
“A votre sante[82], Madame – Mademoiselle.”
Mrs Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade, murmured, “So refreshing – delicious!”
Silence fell on the three of them.[83] They looked down to the black rocks in the Nile. There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like prehistoric monsters lying half out of the water. There was a feeling in the air of hush – of expectancy.[84]
Hercule Poirot looked around the terrace and its occupants. Was he wrong, or was there the same hush of expectancy there? It was like a moment on the stage when one is waiting for the entrance of the leading lady. And just at that moment the swing doors began to revolve once more. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking toward them.
A dark slender girl in a wine coloured evening dress came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table.
“Well,” said Mrs Otterbourne. She tossed her turbaned head. “She seems to think she is somebody, that girl!”
Poirot did not answer. He was watching. The girl had sat down in a place where she could look deliberately across at Linnet Doyle. Presently, Poirot noticed, Linnet Doyle leant forward and said something and a moment later got up and changed her seat. She was now sitting facing in the opposite direction.
Poirot nodded thoughtfully to himself.
It was about five minutes later that the other girl changed her seat to the opposite side of the terrace. She sat smoking and smiling quietly. But always, as though unconsciously, her meditative gaze was on Simon Doyle's wife.
After a quarter of an hour Linnet Doyle got up abruptly and went into the hotel. Her husband followed her almost immediately.
Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and turned her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.
“Monsieur Poirot.”
Poirot got hastily to his feet. He had remained sitting out on the terrace alone after everyone else had left. Lost in meditation, he startled when he heard his name. It was an assured, charming voice, although perhaps a little arrogant.
Hercule Poirot, rising quickly, looked into the eyes of Linnet Doyle. She wore a wrap of purple velvet over her white satin gown and she looked more lovely and more regal than 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 manner: “Will you come with me into the card room, Monsieur Poirot? I am very anxious to speak to you.”
“Certainly, Madame.”
She led the way into the hotel. He followed. She led him into the card room and asked him to close the door. Then she sank down on a chair at one of the tables and he sat down opposite her. She went straight to the point.[85]
“I have heard a great deal about you[86], Monsieur Poirot, and I know that you are a very clever man. I am in need of someone to help me – and I think that you are the man who could do it.”
Poirot inclined his head.
“You are very amiable, Madame, but you see, I am on holiday, and when I am on holiday I do not take cases.”
“That could be arranged.”[87]
It was said with the quiet confidence of a young woman who had always been able to arrange matters to her satisfaction.
Linnet Doyle went on: “I am the subject, Monsieur Poirot, of an intolerable persecution. That persecution has got to stop! My own idea was to go to the police about it, but my – my husband seems to think that the police would be powerless to do anything.”
“Perhaps – if you would explain a little further?”[88] murmured Poirot politely.
“Oh, yes, I will do so. The matter is perfectly simple.”
There was still no hesitation. Linnet Doyle had a clear-cut businesslike mind. She only paused a minute to present the facts as clear as possible.
“Before I met my husband, he was engaged to a Miss de Bellefort[89]. She was also a friend of mine. My husband broke off his engagement to her – they were not suited in any way[90]. She, I am sorry 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, she has not attempted to carry out. But instead she has taken the extraordinary course of following us about wherever we go.” Poirot raised his eyebrows.
“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 honey-moon?”
“Yes. It happened – the first time – at Venice. I thought it just an embarrassing coincidence – that was all. Then we found her on board the boat at Brindisi[91]. We've understood that she was going on to Palestine. We left her, as we thought, on the boat. But when we got to the hotel she was there – waiting for us.”
Poirot nodded.
“And now?”
“We came up the Nile by boat. I was half expecting to find her on board. When she wasn't there I thought she had stopped being so childish. But when we got here she was here – waiting.”
Poirot eyed her for a moment. She was still perfectly quiet, but the knuckles of the hand that was gripping the table were white.
He said, “And you are afraid this state of things may continue?”
“Yes.” She paused. “Of course the whole thing is idiotic! Jacqueline is making herself ridiculous. I am surprised she hasn't got more pride – more dignity.”
Poirot made a slight gesture.
“There are times, Madame, when pride and dignity go by the board[92]! There are other – stronger emotions.”
Something in his tone didn't please Linnet. She flushed and said quickly: “Perhaps. But the crux of the matter is that this has got to be stopped.”
“And how do you propose that that should be done, Madame?” Poirot asked.
“Well – naturally – my husband and I cannot continue being persecuted. There must be some kind of legal way to stop such a thing.”
She spoke impatiently. Poirot looked at her thoughtfully as he asked:
“Has she threatened you in actual words in public? Used insulting language? Attempted any bodily harm?[93]”
“No.”
“Then, frankly, Madame, I do not see what you can do. If it is a young lady's pleasure to travel in certain places, and those places are the same where you and your husband find yourselves – what of it? The air is free to all! 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 quietly: “Nothing at all as far as I can see. Mademoiselle de Bellefort is within her rights[94].”
“But it is maddening! It is intolerable that I should have to put up with this!”
Poirot said drily, “I sympathize with you, Madame.”
Linnet was frowning.
“There must be some way of stopping it,” she murmured.
Poirot shrugged 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?[95]”
Linnet lifted her head and stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
Poirot altered his tone. He leant forward; his voice was confidential, appealing. He said very gently, “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 and folded his arms.
“Ecoutez[96], Madame. I will tell you a little history. One day, a month or two ago, I am dining in a restaurant in London. At the table next to me are two people, a man and a girl. They are very happy, very much in love. They talk with confidence of the future. 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 clearly the life and the death. They are engaged to be married, and they talk 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 I shall remember if I see it again. And I remember too the man's voice. And you can guess, Madame, when I see the one and hear the other again. It is here in Egypt. The man is on his honeymoon, 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?”[97]
Poirot said slowly: “The girl in the restaurant mentioned a friend – a friend who, she was very positive, would not let her down. That friend, I think, was you, Madame.”
Linnet flushed.
“Yes. I told you we had been friends.”
“And she trusted you?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip impatiently; then 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[98] I think?”
“Yes.” Linnet looked slightly bewildered.
“Then you have heard the Bible read aloud in church. You have heard of King David and of the rich man who had many flocks and herds and the poor man who had one ewe lamb[99] – and of how the rich man took the poor man's one ewe lamb. That was something that happened, Madame.”
Linnet sat up. Her eyes flashed angrily.
“I see perfectly what you are driving at[100], Monsieur Poirot! You think that I stole my friend's young man. Looking at the matter sentimentally that is possibly true. But the real hard truth is different. I don't deny that Jackie was passionately in love with Simon, but I don't think you take into account[101] that he may not have been equally devoted 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. Look at it clearly, Monsieur Poirot. Simon discovers that it is I he loves, not Jackie. What should he do? Be heroically noble and marry a woman he does not care for and thereby probably ruin three lives? If he were actually married to her when he met me I agree that it might be his duty to stick to her. If one person is unhappy the other suffers too. But an engagement is not really binding. If a mistake has been made, then surely it is better to face the fact before it is too late. I admit that it was very hard on Jackie, and I'm terribly sorry about it – but there it is. It was inevitable.”
“I wonder.”[102]
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. You say this persecution is intolerable – and why? It can be for one reason only – that you feel a sense of guilt.”
Linnet sprang to her feet.[103]
“How dare you? Really, Monsieur Poirot, this is going too far.”[104]
“But I do dare, Madame! I am going to speak to you quite frankly. I suggest that you felt strongly attracted to him at once. But I suggest that there was a moment when you hesitated, when you realized that there was a choice – that you could stop or go on. I suggest that the initiative rested with you – not with Monsieur Doyle. You are beautiful, Madame; you are rich; you are clever, intelligent – and you have charm. You had everything, Madame, that life can offer. Your friend's life was tied to one person. You knew that, but, though you hesitated, you did not hold your hand[105]. And like the rich man 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 is quite beside the point!”[106]
“No, it is not beside the point. I am explaining to you just why the unexpected appearances of Mademoiselle de Bellefort have upset you so much. It is because you feel 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 been generous and kindly in your attitude toward others.”
“I have tried to be,” said Linnet. The anger left her.
“And that is why the feeling that you have deliberately injured someone upsets you so much. Pardon me if I have been impertinent, but the psychology is the most important fact in a case.”
Linnet said slowly: “Even supposing what you say were true, what can 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 as they are and accept the consequences of one's past deeds.”
“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 much result. And by the way, what is your husband's 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 achieve 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 threats were?”
Linnet shrugged her shoulders.
“She threatened to – well – kill us both. Jackie can be rather – dangerous sometimes.”
“I see.”
Poirot's tone was grave.
Linnet turned to him appealingly.
“You will act for me?”[107]
“No, Madame.” His tone was firm. “I will do what I can in the interests of humanity. That, yes. The situation is full of difficulty and danger. I will do what I can to clear it up – but I am not very sure as to my chance of success.”
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