Poirot sat down at the table, bowing to Mrs. Allerton.
“I am a little late,” he said.
“I expect you have been busy,” Mrs. Allerton replied.
“Yes, I have been much occupied.”
He ordered a fresh bottle of wine from the waiter.
“We’re very catholic in our tastes,” said Mrs. Allerton. “You drink wine always; Tim drinks whisky and soda, and I try all the different brands of mineral water in turn.”
“Tiens!” said Poirot. He stared at her for a moment. He murmured to himself: “It is an idea, that….”
Then, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, he dismissed the sudden preoccupation that had distracted him and began to chat lightly of other matters.
“Is Mr. Doyle badly hurt?” asked Mrs. Allerton.
>
“Yes, it is a fairly serious injury. Dr. Bessner is anxious to reach Assuan so that his leg can be X-rayed and the bullet removed. But he hopes there will be no permanent lameness.”
“Poor Simon,” said Mrs. Allerton. “Only yesterday he looked such a happy boy, with everything in the world he wanted. And now his beautiful wife killed and he himself laid up and helpless. I do hope, though—”
“What do you hope, Madame?” asked Poirot as Mrs. Allerton paused.
“I hope he’s not too angry with that poor child.”
“With Mademoiselle Jacqueline? Quite the contrary. He was full of anxiety on her behalf.”
He turned to Tim.
“You know, it is a pretty little problem of psychology, that. All the time that Mademoiselle Jacqueline was following them from place to place, he was absolutely furious; but now, when she has actually shot him, and wounded him dangerously—perhaps made him lame for life—all his anger seems to have evaporated. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” said Tim thoughtfully, “I think I can. The first thing made him feel a fool—”
Poirot nodded. “You are right. It offended his male dignity.”
“But now—if you look at it a certain way, it’s she who’s made a fool of herself. Everyone’s down on her, and so—”
“He can be generously forgiving,” finished Mrs. Allerton. “What children men are!”
“A profoundly untrue statement that women always make,” murmured Tim.
Poirot smiled. Then he said to Tim: “Tell me, Madame Doyle’s cousin, Miss Joanna Southwood, did she resemble Madame Doyle?”
“You’ve got it a little wrong, Monsieur Poirot. She was our cousin and Linnet’s friend.”
“Ah, pardon—I was confused. She is a young lady much in the news, that. I have been interested in her for some time.”
“Why?” asked Tim sharply.
Poirot half rose to bow to Jacqueline de Bellefort, who had just come in and passed their table on the way to her own. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and her breath came a little unevenly. As he resumed his seat Poirot seemed to have forgotten Tim’s question. He murmured vaguely: “I wonder if all young ladies with valuable jewels are as careless as Madame Doyle was?”
“It is true, then, that they were stolen?” asked Mrs. Allerton.
“Who told you so, Madame?”
“Ferguson said so,” Tim volunteered.