“It’s—necessary?”
“In my opinion,” said Mr. Carmichael, “it’s absolutely vital.”
XII
Mrs. Otterbourne, readjusting the turban of native material that she wore draped round her head, said fretfully:
“I really don’t see why we shouldn’t go on to Egypt. I’m sick and tired of Jerusalem.”
As her daughter made no reply, she said, “You might at least answer when you’re spoken to.”
Rosalie Otterbourne was looking at a newspaper reproduction of a face. Below it was printed:
Mrs. Simon Doyle, who before her m
arriage was the well-known society beauty, Miss Linnet Ridgeway. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle are spending their holiday in Egypt. Rosalie said, “You’d like to move on to Egypt, Mother?”
“Yes, I would,” Mrs. Otterbourne snapped. “I consider they’ve treated us in a most cavalier fashion here. My being here is an advertisement—I ought to get a special reduction in terms. When I hinted as much, I consider they were most impertinent—most impertinent. I told them exactly what I thought of them.”
The girl sighed. She said: “One place is very like another. I wish we could get right away.”
“And this morning,” went on Mrs. Otterbourne, “the manager actually had the impertinence to tell me that all the rooms had been booked in advance and that he would require ours in two days’ time.”
“So we’ve got to go somewhere.”
“Not at all. I’m quite prepared to fight for my rights.”
Rosalie murmured: “I suppose we might as well go on to Egypt. It doesn’t make any difference.”
“It’s certainly not a matter of life or death,” agreed Mrs. Otterbourne.
But there she was quite wrong—for a matter of life and death was exactly what it was.
Two
“That’s Hercule Poirot, the detective,” said Mrs. Allerton.
She and her son were sitting in brightly painted scarlet basket chairs outside the Cataract Hotel in Assuan. They were watching the retreating figures of two people—a short man dressed in a white silk suit and a tall slim girl.
Tim Allerton sat up in an unusually alert fashion.
“That funny little man?” he asked incredulously.
“That funny little man!”
“What on earth’s he doing here?” Tim asked.
His mother laughed. “Darling, you sound quite excited. Why do men enjoy crime so much? I hate detective stories and never read them. But I don’t think Monsieur Poirot is here with any ulterior motive. He’s made a good deal of money and he’s seeing life, I fancy.”
“Seems to have an eye for the best-looking girl in the place.”
Mrs. Allerton tilted her head a little on one side as she considered the retreating backs of M. Poirot and his companion.
The girl by his side overtopped him by some three inches. She walked well, neither stiffly nor sloughingly.
“I suppose she is quite good-looking,” said Mrs. Allerton. She shot a little glance sideways at Tim. Somewhat to her amusement the fish rose at once.
“She’s more than quite. Pity she looks so bad-tempered and sulky.”