"I'm being dreadfully lazy.
I really must set to.
My public is getting terribly impatient - and my publisher, poor man!
Appeals by every post!
Even cables!"
Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.
"I don't mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot, I am partly here for local colour.
Snow on the Desert's Face - that is the title of my new book.
Powerful - suggestive.
Snow - on the desert - melted in the first flaming breath of passion."
Rosalie got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.
"One must be strong," went on Mrs Otterbourne, wagging the turban emphatically. "Strong meat - that is what my books are - all important.
Libraries banned - 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.
She fidgeted with a long chain of beads that was wound twice round her neck. She looked swiftly from side to side.
"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.
I'll go."
"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 creme de menthe?"