“Of course—how stupid of me! You’re Tim Allerton. This is my husband”—a faint tremor in the voice, pride, shyness?—“and this is my American trustee, Mr. Pennington.”
Tim said: “You must meet my mother.”
A few minutes later they were sitting together in a party—Linnet in the corner, Tim and Pennington each side of her, both talking to her, vying for her attention. Mrs. Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.
The swing doors revolved. A sudden tension came into the beautiful upright figure sitting in the corner between the two men. Then it relaxed as a small man came out and walked across the terrace.
Mrs. Allerton said: “You’re not the only celebrity here, my dear. That funny little man is Hercule Poirot.”
She had spoken lightly, just out of instinctive social tact to bridge an awkward pause, but Linnet seemed struck by the information.
“Hercule Poirot? Of course—I’ve heard of him….”
She seemed to sink into a fit of abstraction. The two men on either side of her were momentarily at a loss.
Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace, but his attention was immediately solicited.
“Sit down, Monsieur Poirot. What a lovely night!”
He obeyed.
“Mais oui, Madame, it is indeed beautiful.”
He smiled politely at Mrs. Otterbourne. What draperies of black ninon and that ridiculous turban effect! Mrs. Otterbourne went on in her high complaining voice:
“Quite a lot of notabilities here now, aren’t there? I expect we shall see a paragraph about it in the papers soon. Society beauties, famous novelists—”
She paused with a slight mock-modest laugh.
Poirot felt, rather than saw, the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch and set her mouth in a sulkier line than before.
“You have a novel on the way at present, Madame?” he inquired.
Mrs. Otterbourne g
ave her little self-conscious laugh again.
“I’m being dreadfully lazy. I really must set to. My public is getting terribly impatient—and my publisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables!”
Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.
“I don’t mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot, I am partly here for local colour. Snow on the Desert’s Face—that is the title of my new book. Powerful—suggestive. Snow—on the desert—melted in the first flaming breath of passion.”
Rosalie got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.
“One must be strong,” went on Mrs. Otterbourne, wagging the turban emphatically. “Strong meat—that is what my books are—all important. Libraries banned—no matter! I speak the truth. Sex—ah! Monsieur Poirot—why is everyone so afraid of sex? The pivot of the universe! You have read my books?”
“Alas, Madame! You comprehend, I do not read many novels. My work—”
Mrs. Otterbourne said firmly: “I must give you a copy of Under the Fig Tree. I think you will find it significant. It is outspoken—but it is real!”
“That is most kind of you, Madame. I will read it with pleasure.”
Mrs. Otterbourne was silent a minute or two. She fidgeted with a long chain of beads that was wound twice round her neck. She looked swiftly from side to side.
“Perhaps—I’ll just slip up and get it for you now.”
“Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself. Later—”