The pivot of the universe! You have read my books?”
“Alas, Madame! You comprehend, I do not read many novels. My work–” Mrs. Otterbourne said firmly:
“I must give you a copy of Under The Fig Tree. I think you will find it significant. It is outspoken–but it is real.t”
“That is most kind of you, Madame. I will read it with pleasure.”
Mrs. Otterbourne was silent a minute or two. She fidgeted with a long chain of beads that was wound twice round her neck.
She looked swiftly from side to side.
“Perhaps–I’ll just slip up and get it for you now.” “Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself. Later–”
“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 M. 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, M. 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 crbme 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.
“M. 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 Mis. 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 sant, Madame Mademoiselle.”
Mrs. Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade murmured:
“So refreshingl-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.
Hercule Poirot brought his gaze 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. Every one 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.