‘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 him to close the door. Then she sank down on a chair at one of the tables and he sat down opposite her.
She plunged straightaway into what she wanted to say. There were no hesitations. Her speech came flowingly.
‘I have heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Poirot, and I know that you are a very clever man. It happens that I am urgently in need of someone to help me–and I think very possibly that you are the man who would 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.’
It was not offensively said–only 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?’ murmured Poirot politely.
‘Oh, yes, I will do so. The matter is perfectly simple.’
There was still no hesitation–no faltering. Linnet Doyle had a clear-cut businesslike mind. She only paused a minute so as to present the facts as concisely as possible.
‘Before I met my husband, he was engaged to a Miss de Bellefort. She was also a friend of mine. My husband broke off his engagement to her–they were not suited in any way. 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 adopted the extraordinary course of–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 honeymoon?’
‘Yes. It happened–the first time–at Venice. She was there–at Danielli’s. I thought it was just coincidence. Rather embarrassing, but that was all. Then we found her on board the boat at Brindisi. We–we understood that she was going on to Palestine. We left her, as we thought, on the 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’t there 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 knuckles of the hand 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 idiotic! Jacqueline is making herself utterly 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–they go by the board! There are other–stronger emotions.’
‘Yes, possibly.’ Linnet spoke 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 motives is beside the point. The crux of the matter is that this has got to be stopped.’
‘And how do you propose that that should be accomplished, Madame?’ Poirot asked.
‘Well–naturally–my husband and I cannot continue being subjected to this annoyance. There must be some kind of legal redress against 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?’
‘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 themselves–eh bien–what of it? The air is free to all! There is no question of her forcing herself upon your privacy? 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 placidly: ‘Nothing at all, as far as I can see. Mademoiselle de Bellefort is within her rights.’
‘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 have not often had to put up with things.’
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?’
Linnet lifted her head and stared at him.
‘What do you mean?’
Poirot