Nothing at all, I bet.
Probably call yourself a middle man."
"I am not a middle man. I am a top man," declared Hercule Poirot with slight arrogance.
"What are you?"
"I am a detective," said Hercule Poirot with the modest air of one who says
"I am a King."
"Good God!" The young man seemed seriously taken aback. "Do you mean that girl actually totes about a dumb dick?
Is she as careful of her precious skin as that?"
"I have no connection whatever with Monsieur and Madame Doyle," said Poirot stiffly. "I am on a holiday."
"Enjoying a vacation - eh?"
"And you? Is it not that you are on a holiday also?"
"Holiday!" Mr Ferguson snorted. Then he added cryptically, "I'm studying conditions."
"Very interesting," murmured Poirot and moved gently out onto the deck.
Miss Van Schuyler was established in the best corner.
Cornelia knelt in front of her, her arms outstretched with a skein of grey wool upon them.
Miss Bowers was sitting very upright reading the Saturday Evening Post.
Poirot wandered gently onward down the starboard deck.
As he passed round the stern of the boat he almost ran into a woman who turned a startled face toward him - a dark, piquant, Latin face.
She was neatly dressed in black and had been standing talking to a big burly man in uniform - one of the engineers, by the look of him.
There was a queer expression on both their faces - guilt and alarm.
Poirot wondered what they had been talking about.
He rounded the stern and continued his walk along the port side.
A cabin door opened and Mrs Otterbourne emerged and nearly fell into his arms.
She was wearing a scarlet satin dressing-gown.
"So sorry," she apologized. "Dear Mr Poirot - so very sorry.
The motion - just the motion, you know.
Never did have any sea legs.
If the boat would only keep still..." She clutched at his arm. "It's the pitching I can't stand... Never really happy at sea... And left all alone here hour after hour.
That girl of mine - no sympathy - no understanding of her poor old mother who's done everything for her..." Mrs Otterbourne began to weep. "Slaved for her I have - worn myself to the bone - to the bone.
A grande amoureuse - that's what I might have been - a grande amoureuse - sacrificed everything - everything... And nobody cares!
But I'll tell everyone - I'll tell them now - how she neglects me - how hard she is - making me come on this journey - bored to death... I'll go and tell them now -" She surged forward.
Poirot gently repressed the action.
"I will send her to you, Madame.
Re-enter your cabin.
It is best that way -"
"No. I want to tell everyone - everyone on the boat -"
"It is too dangerous, Madame.
The sea is too rough.
You might be swept overboard."
Mrs Otterbourne looked at him doubtfully.
"You think so.
You really think so?"
"I do."
He was successful.
Mrs Otterbourne wavered, faltered and re-entered her cabin.
Poirot's nostrils twitched once or twice.
Then he nodded and walked on to where Rosalie Otterbourne was sitting between Mrs Allerton and Tim.
"Your mother wants you, Mademoiselle."
She had been laughing quite happily.
Now her face clouded over.