“Perhaps that’s just expression, dear.”
“Unpleasant young devil, I think. But she’s pretty enough.”
The subject of these remarks was walking slowly by Poirot’s side. Rosalie Otterbourne was twirling an unopened parasol, and her expression certainly bore out what Tim had just said. She looked both sulky and bad-tempered. Her eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, and the scarlet line of her mouth was drawn downward.
They turned to the left out of the hotel gate and entered the cool shade of the public gardens.
Hercule Poirot was prattling gently, his expression that of beatific good humour. He wore a white silk suit, carefully pressed, and a panama hat, and carried a highly ornamental fly whisk with a sham amber handle.
“—it enchants me,” he was saying. “The black rocks of Elephantine, and the sun, and the little boats on the river. Yes, it is good to be alive.”
He paused and then added: “You do not find it so, Mademoiselle?”
Rosalie Otterbourne said shortly: “It’s all right, I suppose. I think Assuan’s a gloomy sort of place. The hotel’s half empty, and everyone’s about a hundred—”
She stopped—biting her lip.
Hercule Poirot’s eyes twinkled.
“It is true, yes, I have one leg in the grave.”
“I—I wasn’t thinking of you,” said the girl.
“I’m sorry. That sounded rude.”
“Not at all. It is natural you should wish for companions of your own age. Ah, well, there is one young man, at least.”
“The one who sits with his mother all the time? I like her—but I think he looks dreadful—so conceited!”
Poirot smiled.
“And I—am I conceited?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
She was obviously uninterested—but the fact did not seem to annoy Poirot. He merely remarked with placid satisfaction:
“My best friend says that I am very conceited.”
“Oh, well,” said Rosalie vaguely, “I suppose you have something to be conceited about. Unfortunately crime doesn’t interest me in the least.”
Poirot said solemnly, “I am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide.”
Just for a moment the sulky mask of her face was transformed as she shot him a swift questioning glance. Poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on:
“Madame, your mother, was not at lunch today. She is not indisposed, I trust?”
“This place doesn’t suit her,” said Rosalie briefly. “I shall be glad when we leave.”
“We are fellow passengers, are we not? We both make the excursion up to Wadi Halfa and the Second Cataract?”
“Yes.”
They came out from the shade of the gardens on to a dusty stretch of road bordered by the river. Five watchful bead-sellers, two vendors of postcards, three sellers of plaster scarabs, a couple of donkey boys and some detached but hopeful infantile riff-raff closed in upon them.
“You want beads, sir? Very good, sir. Very cheap….”
“Lady, you want scarab? Look—great queen—very lucky….”