Ruth’s face lightened.
“Oh, I see. You know—I suppose it’s dreadful, but I feel rather sorry for that poor woman. After all, she did confess rather than let me be arrested—or at any rate, that is what she thought. That was—rather noble in a way. I hate to think of her going through a trial for murder.”
Poirot said gently:
“Do not distress yourself. It will not come to that. The doctor, he tells me that she has serious heart trouble. She will not live many weeks.”
“I’m glad of that.” Ruth picked an autumn crocus and pressed it idly against her cheek.
“Poor woman. I wonder why she did it. . . .”
TRIANGLE AT RHODES
One
Hercule Poirot sat on the white sand and looked out across the sparkling blue water. He was carefully dressed in a dandified fashion in white flannels and a large panama hat protected his head. He belonged to the old-fashioned generation which believed in covering itself carefully from the sun. Miss Pamela Lyall, who sat beside him and talked ceaselessly, represented the modern school of thought in that she was wearing the barest minimum of clothing on her sun-browned person.
Occasionally her flow of conversation stopped whilst she reanointed herself from a bottle of oily fluid which stood be-
side her.
On the farther side of Miss Pamela Lyall her great friend, Miss Sarah Blake, lay face downwards on a gaudily-striped towel. Miss Blake’s tanning was as perfect as possible and her friend cast dissatisfied glances at her more than once.
“I’m so patchy still,” she murmured regretfully. “M. Poirot—would you mind? Just below the right shoulder blade—I can’t reach to rub it in properly.”
M. Poirot obliged and then wiped his oily hand carefully on his handkerchief. Miss Lyall, whose principal interests in life were the observation of people round her and the sound of her own voice, continued to talk.
“I was right about that woman—the one in the Chanel model—it is Valentine Dacres—Chantry, I mean. I thought it was. I recognized her at once. She’s really rather marvellous, isn’t she? I mean I can understand how people go quite crazy about her. She just obviously expects them to! That’s half the battle. Those other people who came last night are called Gold. He’s terribly good-looking.”
“Honeymooners?” murmured Sarah in a stifled voice.
Miss Lyall shook her head in an experienced manner.
“Oh, no—her clothes aren’t new enough. You can always tell brides! Don’t you think it’s the most fascinating thing in the world to watch people, M. Poirot, and see what you can find out about them by just looking?”
“Not just looking, darling,” said Sarah sweetly. “You ask a lot of questions, too.”
“I haven’t even spoken to the Golds yet,” said Miss Lyall with dignity. “And anyway I don’t see why one shouldn’t be interested in one’s fellow creatures? Human nature is simply fascinating. Don’t you think so, M. Poirot?”
This time she paused long enough to allow her companion to reply.
Without taking his eyes off the blue water, M. Poirot replied:
“Ça depend.”
Pamela was shocked.
&n
bsp; “Oh, M. Poirot! I don’t think anything’s so interesting—so incalculable as a human being!”
“Incalculable? That, no.”
“Oh, but they are. Just as you think you’ve got them beautifully taped—they do something completely unexpected.”
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“No, no, that is not true. It is most rare that anyone does an action that is not dans son caractère. It is in the end monotonous.”