“Who told you she was one of the richest women in England?”
Mr. Ferguson cast a belligerent eye at him.
“A man you wouldn’t be seen speaking to! A man who works with his hands and isn’t ashamed of it! Not one of your dressed-up, foppish good-for-nothings.”
His eye rested unfavourably on the bow tie and pink shirt.
“Me, I work with my brains and am not ashamed of it,” said Poirot, answering the glance.
Mr. Ferguson merely snorted.
“Ought to be shot—the lot of them!” he asserted.
“My dear young man,” said Poirot, “what a passion you have for violence!”
“Can you tell me of any good that can be done without it? You’ve got to break down and destroy before you can build up.”
“It is certainly much easier and much noisier and much more spectacular.”
“What do you do for a living? Nothing at all, I bet. Probably call yourself a middle man.”
“I am not a middle man. I am a top man,” declared Hercule Poirot with a slight arrogance.
“What are you?”
“I am a detective,” said Hercule Poirot with the modest air of one who says “I am a king.”
“Good God!” The young man seemed seriously taken aback. “Do you mean that girl actually totes about a dumb dick? Is she as careful of her precious skin as that?”
“I have no connection whatever with Monsieur and Madame Doyle,” said Poirot stiffly. “I am on holiday.”
“Enjoying a vacation—eh?”
“And you? Is it not that you are on holiday also?”
“Holiday!” Mr. Ferguson snorted. Then he added cryptically: “I’m studying conditions.”
“Very interesting,” murmured Poirot and moved gently out on to the deck.
Miss Van Schuyler was established in the best corner. Cornelia knelt in front of her, her arms outstretched with a skein of grey wool upon them. Miss Bowers was sitting very upright reading the Saturday Evening Post.
Poirot wandered gently onward down the starboard deck. As he passed round the stern of the boat he almost ran into a woman who turned a startled face towards him—a dark, piquant, Latin face
. She was neatly dressed in black and had been standing talking to a big burly man in uniform—one of the engineers, by the look of him. There was a queer expression on both their faces—guilt and alarm. Poirot wondered what they had been talking about.
He rounded the stern and continued his walk along the port side. A cabin door opened and Mrs. Otterbourne emerged and nearly fell into his arms. She was wearing a scarlet satin dressing-gown.
“So sorry,” she apologized. “Dear Mr. Poirot—so very sorry. The motion—just the motion, you know. Never did have any sea legs. If the boat would only keep still…” She clutched at his arm. “It’s the pitching I can’t stand…Never really happy at sea…And left all alone here hour after hour. That girl of mine—no sympathy—no understanding of her poor old mother who’s done everything for her…” Mrs. Otterbourne began to weep. “Slaved for her I have—worn myself to the bone—to the bone. A grande amoureuse—that’s what I might have been—a grande amoureuse—sacrificed everything—everything…And nobody cares! But I’ll tell everyone—I’ll tell them now—how she neglects me—how hard she is—making me come on this journey—bored to death…I’ll go and tell them now—”
She surged forward. Poirot gently repressed the action.
“I will send her to you, Madame. Re-enter your cabin. It is best that way—”
“No. I want to tell everyone—everyone on the boat—”
“It is too dangerous, Madame. The sea is too rough. You might be swept overboard.”
Mrs. Otterbourne looked at him doubtfully.