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 no sympathy with illness. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health 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 remarkably 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 curtness: ‘Nothing, thank you.’
Poirot took the volume which Mrs Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, a gaily coloured affair representing a lady, with smartly shingled hair and 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. ‘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 he made a little movement. He was astonished and grieved at the eloquent pain they revealed.
It was at that moment that the drinks arrived and created a welcome diversion.
Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.
‘A votre santé, Madame–Mademoiselle.’
Mrs Otterbourne, sipping 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 prehistoric monsters 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 hush–of expectancy.
Hercule Poirot brought his gaze back to 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. This time it seemed as though they did so with a special air of importance. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking towards them.
A dark slender girl in a wine-coloured evening frock came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table. There was nothing flaunting, nothing out of the way about her demeanour, and yet it had somehow the studied effect of a stage entrance.
‘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, the picture of contented ease. 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 twisted 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 had been staring at the smooth shiny black rocks when the sound of his name recalled him to himself.
It was a well-bred, assured voice, a charming voice, although perhaps a trifle arrogant.
Hercule Poirot, rising quickly, looked into the commanding eyes of Linnet Doyle. She wore a wrap of rich 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 autocratic 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 deserted card room and motioned
