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 eyes 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 up–the lot of them!” he snorted.
“My dear young man,” said Poirot. “What a passion you have for violencel”
“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,” said Hercule Poirot with 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 Mr. and Mrs. Doyle,” said Poirot stiffly.
“I am on a holiday.”
“Enjoying a vacation–eh?” e’
“And you? Is it not that you are on a 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 dov 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 apologised. “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 YI1 tell every one I’ll tell them now–how she neglects me–how hard she is making me come on this journeybored 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 every one–every one on the boat–”
“It is too dangerous, Madame. The sea is too rough. You might be swept overboard.”
Mrs. Otterbourne looked at him doubtfully.
“You think so. You really think so?”
“I do.”
He was successful. Mrs. Otterbourne wavered, faltered and re-entered her cabin.
Poirot’s nostrils twitched once or twice. Then he nodded and walked on to where Rosalie Otterbourne was sitting between Mrs. Allerton and Tim.
“Your mother wants you, Mademoiselle.”
She had been laughing quite happily. Now her face clouded over. She shot a quick suspicious look at him and hurried along the deck.
“I can’t make that child out,” said Mrs. Allerton. “She varies so. One day she’s friendly–the next day she’s positively rude.”