remarked.
The infantile riff-raffran alongside murmuring plaintively: ‘Bakshish? Bakshish? Hip hip hurrah–very good, very nice…’
Their gaily coloured rags trailed picturesquely, and the flies lay in clusters on their eyelids. They were the most persistent. The others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next corner.
Now Poirot and Rosalie only ran the gauntlet of the shops–suave, persuasive accents here…
‘You visit my shop today, sir?’ ‘You want that ivory crocodile, sir?’ ‘You not been in my shop yet, sir? I show you very beautiful things.’
They turned into the fifth shop and Rosalie handed over several rolls of film–the object of the walk.
Then they came out again and walked towards the river’s edge.
One of the Nile steamers was just mooring. Poirot and Rosalie looked interestedly at the passengers.
‘Quite a lot, aren’t there?’ commented Rosalie.
She turned her head as Tim Allerton came up and joined them. He was a little out of breath as though he had been walking fast.
They stood there for a moment or two, and then Tim spoke.
‘An awful crowd as usual, I suppose,’ he remarked disparagingly, indicating the disembarking passengers.
‘They’re usually quite terrible,’ agreed Rosalie.
All three wore the air of superiority assumed by people who are already in a place when studying new arrivals.
‘Hullo!’ exclaimed Tim, his voice suddenly excited. ‘I’m damned if that isn’t Linnet Ridgeway.’
If the information left Poirot unmoved, it stirred Rosalie’s interest. She leaned forward and her sulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked: ‘Where? That one in white?’
‘Yes, there with the tall man. They’re coming ashore now. He’s the new husband, I suppose. Can’t remember his name now.’
‘Doyle,’ said Rosalie. ‘Simon Doyle. It was in all the newspapers. She’s simply rolling, isn’t she?’
‘Only about the richest girl in England,’ replied Tim cheerfully.
The three lookers-on were silent watching the passengers come ashore. Poirot gazed with interest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. He murmured: ‘She is beautiful.’
‘Some people have got everything,’ said Rosalie bitterly.
There was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the gangplank.
Linnet Doyle was looking as perfectly turned out as if she were stepping on to the centre of the stage of a revue. She had something too of the assurance of a famous actress. She was used to being looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.
She was aware of the keen glances bent upon her–and at the same time almost unaware of them; such tributes were part of her life.
She came ashore playing a role, even though she played it unconsciously. The rich beautiful society bride on her honeymoon. She turned, with a little smile and a light remark, to the tall man by her side. He answered, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest Hercule Poirot. His eyes lit up and he drew his brows together.
The couple passed close to him. He heard Simon Doyle say:
‘We’ll try and make time for it, darling. We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here.’
His face was turned towards her, eager, adoring, a little humble.
Poirot’s eyes ran over him thoughtfully–the square shoulders, the bronzed face, the dark blue eyes, the rather childlike simplicity of the smile.
‘Lucky devil,’ said Tim after they had passed. ‘Fancy finding an heiress who hasn’t got adenoids and flat feet!’
‘They look frightfully happy,’ said Rosalie with a note of envy in her voice. She added suddenly, but so low that Tim did not catch the words, ‘It isn’t fair.’
Poirot heard, however. He had been frowning somewhat perplexedly, but now he flashed a quick glance towards her.
Tim said: ‘I must collect some stuff for my mother now.’
He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie retraced their steps slowly in the direction of the hotel, waving aside fresh proffers of donkeys.
‘So it is not fair, Mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot gently.
The girl flushed angrily.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I am repeating what you said just now under your breath. Oh, yes, you did.’
Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged her shoulders.
‘It really seems a little too much for one person. Money, good looks, marvellous figure and–’
She paused and Poirot said:
‘And love? Eh? And love? But you do not know–she may have been married for her money!’
‘Didn’t you see the way he looked at her?’
‘Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. I saw all there was to see–indeed I saw something that you did not.’
‘What was that?’
Poirot said slowly: ‘I saw, Mademoiselle, dark lines below a woman’s eyes. I saw a hand that clutched a sun-shade so tight that the knuckles were white…’
Rosalie was staring at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that all is not the gold that glitters. I mean that, though this lady is rich and beautiful and beloved, there is all the same something that is not right. And I know something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘I know,’ said Poirot, frowning, ‘that somewhere, at some time, I have heard that voice before–the voice of Monsieur Doyle–and I wish I could remember where.’
But Rosalie was not listening. She had stopped dead. With the point of her sunshade she was tracing patterns in the loose sand. Suddenly she broke out fiercely:
‘I’m odious. I’m quite odious. I’m just a beast through and through. I’d like to tear the clothes off her back and stamp on her lovely, arrogant, self-confident face. I’m just a jealous cat–but that’s what I feel like. She’s so horribly successful and poised and assured.’
Hercule Poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. He took her by the arm and gave her a friendly little shake.
‘Tenez–you will feel better for having said that!’
‘I
