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Authors: Agatha Christie
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going
to start.”
“Right; I'll tell her she's got to come straight away.” Raymond walked into the elevator.
Hercule Poirot stood for a moment looking after him, his eyebrows raised, his head a
little on one side as though he were listening. Then he nodded his head as though in
agreement. Walking through the lounge he took a good look at Carol who had joined her
mother. Then he beckoned the head waiter who was passing.
“Pardon, can you tell me the name of those people over there?”
“The name is Boynton, Monsieur; they are Americans.”
“Thank you,” said Hercule Poirot.
On the third floor Dr. Gerard, going to his room, passed Raymond Boynton and Ginevra
walking towards the waiting elevator. Just as they were about to get into it Ginevra said:
“Just a minute. Ray; wait for me in the elevator.” She ran back, turned a corner, caught
up with the walking man. “Please - I must speak to you.”
Dr. Gerard looked up in astonishment. The girl came up close to him and caught his arm.
“They're taking me away! They may be going to kill me... I don't really belong to them,
you know. My name isn't really Boynton...” She hurried on, her words coming fast and
tumbling over each other. “I'll trust you with the secret. I'm - I'm Royal, really! I'm
the heiress to a throne. That's why there are enemies all around me. They try to poison
me, all sorts of things... If you could help me - to get away - ” She broke off. Footsteps.
“Jinny - ”
Beautiful in her sudden startled gesture, the girl put a finger to her lips, threw Gerard
an imploring glance, and ran back. “I'm coming, Ray.”
Dr. Gerard walked on with his eyebrows raised. Slowly, he shook his head and frowned.
Appointment with Death
10
It was the morning of the start to Petra.
Sarah came down to find a big masterful woman with a rocking-horse nose whom she had
already noticed in the hotel, outside the main entrance objecting fiercely to the size of
the car.
“A great deal too small! Four passengers? And a dragoman? Then of course we must have a
much larger saloon. Please take that car away and return with one of an adequate size.”
In vain did the representative of Messrs. Castle's raise his voice in explanation. That
was the size of car always provided. It was really a most comfortable car. A larger car
was not so suitable for desert travel. The large woman, metaphorically speaking, rolled
over him like a large steamroller. Then she turned her attention to Sarah. “Miss King? I
am Lady Westholme. I am sure you agree with me that that car is grossly inadequate as to
size?”
“Well,” said Sarah cautiously, “I agree that a larger one would be more comfortable!”
The young man from Castle's murmured that a larger car would add to the price.
“The price,” said Lady Westholme firmly, “is inclusive and I shall certainly refuse to
sanction any addition to it. Your prospectus distinctly states 'in comfortable saloon
car.' You will keep to the terms of your agreement.”
Recognizing defeat, the young man from Castle's murmured something about seeing what he
could do and wilted away from the spot. Lady Westholme turned to Sarah, a smile of triumph
on her weather-beaten countenance, her large red rocking-horse nostrils dilated exultantly.
Lady Westholme was a very well-known figure in the English political world. When Lord
Westholme, a middle-aged, simple-minded peer, whose only interests in life were hunting,
shooting and fishing, was returning from a trip to the United States, one of his fellow
passengers was a Mrs. Vansittart. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Vansittart became Lady
Westholme. The match was often cited as one of the examples of the danger of ocean
voyages. The new Lady Westholme lived entirely in tweeds and stout brogues, bred dogs,
bullied the villagers and forced her husband pitilessly into public life. It being borne
in upon her,
to start.”
“Right; I'll tell her she's got to come straight away.” Raymond walked into the elevator.
Hercule Poirot stood for a moment looking after him, his eyebrows raised, his head a
little on one side as though he were listening. Then he nodded his head as though in
agreement. Walking through the lounge he took a good look at Carol who had joined her
mother. Then he beckoned the head waiter who was passing.
“Pardon, can you tell me the name of those people over there?”
“The name is Boynton, Monsieur; they are Americans.”
“Thank you,” said Hercule Poirot.
On the third floor Dr. Gerard, going to his room, passed Raymond Boynton and Ginevra
walking towards the waiting elevator. Just as they were about to get into it Ginevra said:
“Just a minute. Ray; wait for me in the elevator.” She ran back, turned a corner, caught
up with the walking man. “Please - I must speak to you.”
Dr. Gerard looked up in astonishment. The girl came up close to him and caught his arm.
“They're taking me away! They may be going to kill me... I don't really belong to them,
you know. My name isn't really Boynton...” She hurried on, her words coming fast and
tumbling over each other. “I'll trust you with the secret. I'm - I'm Royal, really! I'm
the heiress to a throne. That's why there are enemies all around me. They try to poison
me, all sorts of things... If you could help me - to get away - ” She broke off. Footsteps.
“Jinny - ”
Beautiful in her sudden startled gesture, the girl put a finger to her lips, threw Gerard
an imploring glance, and ran back. “I'm coming, Ray.”
Dr. Gerard walked on with his eyebrows raised. Slowly, he shook his head and frowned.
Appointment with Death
10
It was the morning of the start to Petra.
Sarah came down to find a big masterful woman with a rocking-horse nose whom she had
already noticed in the hotel, outside the main entrance objecting fiercely to the size of
the car.
“A great deal too small! Four passengers? And a dragoman? Then of course we must have a
much larger saloon. Please take that car away and return with one of an adequate size.”
In vain did the representative of Messrs. Castle's raise his voice in explanation. That
was the size of car always provided. It was really a most comfortable car. A larger car
was not so suitable for desert travel. The large woman, metaphorically speaking, rolled
over him like a large steamroller. Then she turned her attention to Sarah. “Miss King? I
am Lady Westholme. I am sure you agree with me that that car is grossly inadequate as to
size?”
“Well,” said Sarah cautiously, “I agree that a larger one would be more comfortable!”
The young man from Castle's murmured that a larger car would add to the price.
“The price,” said Lady Westholme firmly, “is inclusive and I shall certainly refuse to
sanction any addition to it. Your prospectus distinctly states 'in comfortable saloon
car.' You will keep to the terms of your agreement.”
Recognizing defeat, the young man from Castle's murmured something about seeing what he
could do and wilted away from the spot. Lady Westholme turned to Sarah, a smile of triumph
on her weather-beaten countenance, her large red rocking-horse nostrils dilated exultantly.
Lady Westholme was a very well-known figure in the English political world. When Lord
Westholme, a middle-aged, simple-minded peer, whose only interests in life were hunting,
shooting and fishing, was returning from a trip to the United States, one of his fellow
passengers was a Mrs. Vansittart. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Vansittart became Lady
Westholme. The match was often cited as one of the examples of the danger of ocean
voyages. The new Lady Westholme lived entirely in tweeds and stout brogues, bred dogs,
bullied the villagers and forced her husband pitilessly into public life. It being borne
in upon her,
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