“Your simile interested me, that is all.”
Again flushing, Simon said: “I suppose Jackie told you that I’d only married Linnet for her money? Well, that’s a damned lie! I wouldn’t marry any woman for money! What Jackie doesn’t understand is that it’s difficult for a fellow when—when—a woman cares for him as she cared for me.”
“Ah?”
Poirot looked up sharply.
Simon blundered on: “It—it—sounds a caddish thing to say, but Jackie was too fond of me!”
“Une qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer,” murmured Poirot.
“Eh? What’s that you say? You see, a man doesn’t want to feel that a woman cares more for him than he does for her.” His voice grew warm as he went on. “He doesn’t want to feel owned, body and soul. It’s the damned possessive attitude! This man is mine—he belongs to me! That’s the sort of thing I can’t stick—no man could stick! He wants to get away—to get free. He wants to own his woman; he doesn’t want her to own him.”
He broke off, and with fingers that trembled slightly he lit a cigarette.
Poirot said: “And it is like that that you felt with Mademoiselle Jacqueline?”
“Eh?” Simon stared and then admitted: “Er—yes—well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. She doesn’t realize that, of course. And it’s not the sort of thing I could ever tell her. But I was feeling restless—and then I met Linnet, and she just swept me off my feet! I’d never seen anything so lovely. It was all so amazing. Everyone kowtowing to her—and then her singling out a poor chump like me.”
His tone held boyish awe and astonishment.
“I see,” said Poirot. He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes—I see.”
“Why can’t Jackie take it like a man?” demanded Simon resentfully.
A very faint smile twitched Poirot’s upper lip.
“Well, you see, Monsieur Doyle, to begin with she is not a man.”
“No, no—but I meant take it like a good sport! After all, you’ve got to take your medicine when it comes to you. The fault’s mine, I admit. But there it is! If you no longer care for a girl, it’s simply madness to marry her. And, now that I see what Jackie’s really like and the lengths she is likely to go to, I feel I’ve had rather a lucky escape.”
“The lengths she is likely to go to,” Poirot repeated thoughtfully. “Have you an idea, Monsieur Doyle, what those lengths are?”
Simon looked at him rather startled.
“No—at least, what do you mean?”
“You know she carries a pistol about with her?”
Simon frowned, then shook his head.
“I don’t believe she’ll use that—now. She might have done so earlier. But I believe it’s got past that. She’s just spiteful now—trying to take it out on us both.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“It may be so,” he said doubtfully.
“It’s Linnet I’m worrying about,” declared Simon, somewhat unnecessarily.
“I quite realize that,” said Poirot.
“I’m not really afraid of Jackie doing any melodramatic shooting stuff, but this spying and following business has absolutely got Linnet on the raw. I’ll tell you the plan I’ve made, and perhaps you can suggest improvements on it. To begin with, I’ve announced fairly openly that we’re going to stay here ten days. But tomorrow the steamer Karnak starts from Shellal to Wadi Halfa. I propose to book passages on that under an assumed name. Tomorrow we’ll go on an excursion to Philae. Linnet’s maid can take the luggage. We’ll join the Karnak at Shellal. When Jackie finds we don’t come back, it will be too late—we shall be well on our way. She’ll assume we have given her the slip and gone back to Cairo. In fact I might even bribe the porter to say so. Inquiry at the tourist offices won’t help her, because our names won’t appear. How does that strike you?”
“It is well imagined, yes. And suppose she waits here till you return?”
“We may not return. We would go on to Khartoum and then perhaps by air to Kenya. She can’t follow us all over the globe.”
“No; there must come a time when financial reasons forbid. She has very little money, I understand.”