“No, no. It’s no trouble.” She rose. “I’d like to show you—”
“What is it, Mother?”
Rosalie was suddenly at her side.
“Nothing, dear. I was just going up to get a book for Monsieur Poirot.”
“The Fig Tree? I’ll get it.”
“You don’t know where it is, dear. I’ll go.”
“Yes, I do.”
The girl went swiftly across the terrace and into the hotel.
“Let me congratulate you, Madame, on a very lovely daughter,” said Poirot, with a bow.
“Rosalie? Yes, yes—she is good-looking. But she’s very hard, Monsieur Poirot. And no sympathy with illness. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myself—”
Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.
“A liqueur, Madame? A chartreuse? A crème de menthe?”
Mrs. Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.
“No, no. I am practically a teetotaller. You may have noticed I never drink anything but water—or perhaps lemonade. I cannot bear the taste of spirits.”
“Then may I order you a lemon squash, Madame?”
He gave the order—one lemon squash and one benedictine.
The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came towards them, a book in her hand.
“Here you are,” she said. Her voice was quite expressionless—almost remarkably so.
“Monsieur Poirot has just ordered me a lemon squash,” said her mother.
“And you, Mademoiselle, what will you take?”
“Nothing.” She added, suddenly conscious of the curtness: “Nothing, thank you.”
Poirot took the volume which Mrs. Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, a gaily coloured affair representing a lady, with smartly shingled hair and scarlet fingernails, sitting on a tiger skin, in the traditional costume of Eve. Above her was a tree with the leaves of an oak, bearing large and improbably coloured apples.
It was entitled Under the Fig Tree, by Salome Otterbourne. On the inside was a publisher’s blurb. It spoke enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modern woman’s love life. “Fearless, unconventional, realistic,” were the adjectives used.
Poirot bowed and murmured: “I am honoured, Madame.”
As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress’s daughter. Almost involuntarily he made a little movement. He was astonished and grieved at the eloquent pain they revealed.
It was at that moment that the drinks arrived and created a welcome diversion.
Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.
“A votre santé, Madame—Mademoiselle.”
Mrs. Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade, murmured, “So refreshing—delicious!”
Silence fell on the three of them. They looked down to the shining black rocks in the Nile. There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like vast prehistoric monsters lying half out of the water. A little breeze came up suddenly and as suddenly died away. There was a feeling in the air of hush—of expectancy.