Hercule Poirot brought his gaze back to the terrace and its occupants. Was he wrong, or was there the same hush of expectancy there? It was like a moment on the stage when one is waiting for the entrance of the leading lady.
And just at that moment the swing doors began to revolve once more. This time it seemed as though they did so with a special air of importance. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking towards them.
A dark slender girl in a wine-coloured evening frock came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table. There was nothing flaunting, nothing out of the way about her demeanour, and yet it had somehow the studied effect of a stage entrance.
“Well,” said Mrs. Otterbourne. She tossed her turbaned head. “She seems to think she is somebody, that girl!”
Poirot did not answer. He was watching. The girl had sat down in a place where she could look deliberately across at Linnet Doyle. Presently, Poirot noticed, Linnet Doyle leant forward and said something and a moment later got up and changed her seat. She was now sitting facing in the opposite direction.
Poirot nodded thoughtfully to himself.
It was about five minutes later that the other girl changed her seat to the opposite side of the terrace. She sat smoking and smiling quietly, the picture of contented ease. But always, as though unconsciously, her meditative gaze was on Simon Doyle’s wife.
After a quarter of an hour Linnet Doyle got up abruptly and went into the hotel. Her husband followed her almost immediately.
Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and twisted her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.
Four
“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.