the door from the bar
with the purposeful air of a woman who has always
been able to pay top price for anything she
needed.
She said: "John--? Oh! Good-morning, M.
Poirot--have you seen John?"
"He's on the starboard deck, Madame. Shall
She arrested him with a gesture. "I'll sit here
a minute." She sat down in a regal fashion in the
chair opposite him. From the distance she had
looked a possible twenty-eight. Now, in spite of
her exquisitely made-up face, her delicately
plucked eyebrows, she looked not her actual forty-nine
years, but a possible fifty-five. Her eyes were
a hard pale blue with tiny pupils.
"I was sorry not to have seen you at dinner last
night," she said. "It was just a shade choppy, of
course--"
"Prcisment," said Poirot with feeling.
"Luckily, I am an excellent sailor," said Mrs.
Clapperton. "I say luckily, because, with my weak
heart, seasickness would probably be the death of
me."
"You have the weak heart, Madame?"
"Yes, I have to be most careful. I must not overtire myself! All the specialists say so!" Mrs.
Clapperton had embarked on the--to her--ever-fascinating
topic of her health. "John, poor dar-
198
Agatha Christie
ling, wears himself out trying to prevent me from