Free Destination Unknown by Agatha Christie

the red striped umbrella that protected her from the sun, Hilary felt how fantastic the whole thing was. Here she sat, pretending to be a dead woman, expecting something melodramatic and out of the common to occur. After all, wasn't it only too likely that poor Olive Betterton had come abroad merely to distract her mind and heart from sad thoughts and feelings. Probably the poor woman had been just as much in the dark as everybody else.
    Certainly the words she had said before she died admitted of a perfectly ordinary explanation. She had wanted Thomas Betterton warned against somebody called Boris. Her mind had wandered - she had quoted a strange little jingle - she had gone on to say that she couldn't believe it at first. Couldn't believe what? Possibly only that Thomas Betterton had been spirited away the way he had been.
    There had been no sinister undertones, no helpful clues. Hilary stared down at the terrace garden below her. It was beautiful here. Beautiful and peaceful. Children chattered and ran up and down the terrace, French mammas called to them or scolded them. The blonde Swedish girl came and sat down by a table and yawned. She took out a pale pink lipstick and touched up her already exquisitely painted lips. She appraised her face seriously, frowning a little.
    Presently her companion - husband, Hilary wondered, or it might possibly be her father - joined her. She greeted him without a smile. She leaned forward and talked to him, apparently expostulating about something. He protested and apologised.
    The old man with the yellow face and the little goatee came up the terrace from the gardens below. He went and sat at a table against the extreme wall, and immediately a waiter darted forth. He gave an order and the waiter bowed before him and went away, in all haste to execute it. The fair girl caught her companion excitedly by the arm and looked towards the elderly man.
    Hilary ordered a Martini, and when it came she asked the waiter in a low voice,
    “Who is the old man there against the wall?”
    “Ah!” The waiter leaned forward dramatically, “That is Monsieur Aristides. He is enormously - but yes, enormously - rich.”
    He sighed in ecstasy at the contemplation of so much wealth and Hilary looked over at the shrivelled up, bent figure at the far table. Such a wrinkled, dried up, mummified old morsel of humanity. And yet, because of his enormous wealth, waiters darted and sprang and spoke with awe in their voices. Old Monsieur Aristides shifted his position. Just for a moment his eyes met hers. He looked at her for a moment, then looked away.
    “Not so insignificant after all,” Hilary thought to herself. Those eyes, even at that distance, had been wonderfully intelligent and alive.
    The blonde girl and her escort got up from their table and went into the dining room. The waiter who now seemed to consider himself as Hilary's guide and mentor, stopped at her table as he collected glasses and gave her further information.
    “Ce Monsieur lа, he is a big business magnate from Sweden. Very rich, very important. And the lady with him she is a film star - another Garbo, they say. Very chic - very beautiful - but does she make him the scenes, the histories! Nothing pleases her. She is, as you say, 'fed up' to be here, in Fez, where there are no jewellers' shops - and no other expensive women to admire and envy her toilettes. She demands that he should take her somewhere more amusing tomorrow. Ah, it is not always the rich who can enjoy the tranquillity and peace of mind.”
    Having uttered this last in a somewhat sententious fashion, he saw a beckoning forefinger and sprang across the terrace as though galvanised.
    “Monsieur?”
    Most people had gone in to lunch, but Hilary had had breakfast late and was in no hurry for her midday meal. She ordered herself another drink. A good-looking young French man came out of the bar and across the terrace, cast a swift, discreet glance at Hilary which, thinly