Tim turned round in his chair. Linnet and her husband and Andrew Pennington had been given a table in the corner. Linnet was wearing a white dress and pearls.
‘It looks frightfully simple to me,’ said Tim. ‘Just a length of stuff with a kind of cord round the middle.’
‘Yes, darling,’ said his mother. ‘A very nice manly description of an eighty-guinea model.’
‘I can’t think why women pay so much for their clothes,’ Tim said. ‘It seems absurd to me.’
Mrs Allerton proceeded with her study of her fellow passengers.
‘Mr Fanthorp must be the intensely quiet young man who never speaks, at the same table as the German. Rather a nice face, cautious but intelligent.’
Poirot agreed.
‘He is intelligent – yes. He does not talk, but he listens very attentively and he also watches. Yes, he makes good use of his eyes Not quite the type you would expect to find travelling for pleasure in this part of the world. I wonder what he is doing here.’
‘Mr Ferguson,’ read Mrs Allerton. ‘I feel that Ferguson must be our anti-capitalist friend. Mrs Otterbourne, Miss Otterbourne. We know all about them. Mr Pennington? Alias Uncle Andrew. He’s a good-looking man, I think-’
‘Now, Mother,’ said Tim.
‘I think he’s very good-looking in a dry sort of way,’ said Mrs Allerton. ‘Rather a ruthless jaw. Probably the kind of man one reads about in the paper, who operates on Wall Street – or is it in Wall Street? I’m sure he must be extremely rich. Next – Monsieur Hercule Poirot – whose talents are really being wasted. Can’t you get up a crime for Monsieur Poirot, Tim?’
But her well-meant banter only seemed to annoy her son anew. He scowled and Mrs Allerton hurried on.
‘Mr Richetti. Our Italian archaeological friend. Then Miss Robson and last of all Miss Van Schuyler. The last’s easy. The very ugly old American lady who obviously feels herself the queen of the boat and who is clearly going to be very exclusive and speak to nobody who doesn’t come up to the most exacting standards! She’s rather marvellous, isn’t she, really? A kind of period piece. The two women with her must be Miss Bowers and Miss Robson – perhaps a secretary, the thin one with pince-nez, and a poor relation, the rather pathetic young woman who is obviously enjoying herself in spite of being treated like a slave. I think Robson’s the secretary woman and Bowers is the poor relation.’
‘Wrong, Mother,’ said Tim, grinning. He had suddenly recovered his good humour.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I was in the lounge before dinner and the old bean said to the companion woman: “Where’s Miss Bowers? Fetch her at once, Cornelia.” And away trotted Cornelia like an obedient dog.’
‘I shall have to talk to Miss Van Schuyler,’ mused Mrs Allerton.
Tim grinned again.
‘She’ll snub you, Mother.’
‘Not at all. I shall pave the way by sitting near her and conversing in low (but penetrating) well-bred tones about any titled relations and friends I can remember. I think a casual mention of your second cousin once removed, the Duke of Glasgow, would probably do the trick.’
‘How unscrupulous you are, Mother!’
Events after dinner were not without their amusing side to a student of human nature.
The socialistic young man (who turned out to be Mr Ferguson as deduced) retired to the smoking room, scorning the assemblage of passengers in the observation saloon on the top deck.
Miss Van Schuyler duly secured the best and most undraughty position there by advancing firmly on a table at which Mrs Otterbourne was sitting and saying:
‘You’ll excuse me, I am sure, but I think my knitting was left here!’
Fixed by a hypnotic eye, the turban rose and gave ground. Miss Van Schuyler established herself and her suite. Mrs Otterbourne sat down nearby and hazarded various remarks, which were met with such chilling politeness that she soon gave up. Miss Van Schuyler then sat in glorious isolation. The Doyles sat with the Allertons. Dr Bessner retained the quiet Mr Fanthorp as a companion. Jacqueline de Bellefort sat by herself with a book. Rosalie Otterbourne was restless. Mrs Allerton spoke to her once or twice and tried to draw her into their group, but the girl responded ungraciously.
M. Hercule Poirot spent his evening listening to an account of Mrs Otterbourne’s mission as a writer.
On his way to his cabin that night he encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was leaning over the rail and as she turned her head he was struck by the look of acute misery on her face. There was now no insouciance, no malicious defiance, no dark flaming triumph.
‘Good night, Mademoiselle.’
‘Good night, Monsieur Poirot.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘You were surprised to find me here?’
‘I was not so much surprised as sorry – very sorry…’ He spoke gravely.
‘You mean sorry – for me?’
‘That is what I meant. You have chosen, Mademoiselle, the dangerous course… As we here in this boat have embarked on a journey, so you too have embarked on your own private journey – a journey on a swiftmoving river, between dangerous rocks, and heading for who knows what currents of disaster…’
‘Why do you say this?’
‘Because it is true… You have cut the bonds that moored you to safety. I doubt now if you could turn back if you would.’
She said very slowly: ‘That is true…’ Then she flung her head back. ‘Ah, well – one must follow one’s star – wherever it leads.’
‘Beware, Mademoiselle, that it is not a false star…’
She laughed and mimicked the parrot cry of the donkey boys:
‘That very bad star, sir! That star fall down…’
He was just dropping off to sleep when the murmur of voices awoke him. It was Simon Doyle’s voice he heard, repeating the same words he had used when the steamer left Shellal.
‘We’ve got to go through with it now…’
‘Yes,’ thought Hercule Poirot to himself, ‘we have got to go through with it now…’
He was not happy.
Chapter 8
The steamer arrived early next morning at Ez-Zebua. Cornelia Robson, her face beaming, a large flapping hat on her head, was one of the first to hurry on shore. Cornelia was not good at snubbing people. She was of an amiable disposition and disposed to like all her fellow creatures. The sight of Hercule Poirot, in a white suit, pink shirt, large black bow tie and a white topee, did not make her wince as the aristocratic Miss Van Schuyler would assuredly have winced. As they walked together up an avenue of sphinxes, she responded readily to his conventional opening,
‘Your companions are not coming ashore to view the temple?’
‘Well, you see, Cousin Marie – that’s Miss Van Schuyler – never gets up very early. She has to be very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers, that’s her hospital nurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isn’t one of the best temples – but she was frightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.’
‘That was very gracious of her,’ said Poirot dryly.
The ingenuous Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.
‘Oh, she’s very kind. It’s simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel I’m a lucky girl. I just could hardly believe it when she