Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile

‘emphasis meat – that is what my books are. Libraries may ban them – no matter! I speak the truth. Sex – ah! Monsieur Poirot – why is everyone so afraid of sex? 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!’

‘That is most kind of you, Madame. I will read it with pleasure.’

Mrs Otterbourne was silent a minute or two.

‘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 Monsieur Poirot.’

‘The Fig Tree? I’ll get it.’

‘You don’t know where it is, dear.

‘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, Monsieur 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 crеme 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.

‘Monsieur 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 Mrs 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.