Destination Unknown by Agatha Christie Page A

of lemonade, she managed almost to enjoy it. She enjoyed, too, being shown rugs and beads and draperies, embroideries and various other things. She made one or two small purchases more out of good manners than for any other reason. The indefatigable guide then said,
    “I have car ready now and take you very nice short drive. One hour, not more, see very beautiful scenery and country. And then back to hotel.” He added, assuming a suitably discreet expression, “This girl here, she take you first to very nice ladies' toilet.”
    The girl who had served the tea was standing by them smiling, and said at once in careful English,
    “Yes, yes, Madame. You come with me. We have very fine toilet, oh very fine. Just like the Ritz Hotel. Same as in New York or Chicago. You see!”
    Smiling a little, Hilary followed the girl. The toilet hardly rose to the heights claimed for it, but it did at least have running water. There was a wash basin and a small cracked mirror which had such distorting proportions that Hilary almost shrank back in alarm at the sight of her own face. When she had washed and dried her hands, which she did on her own handkerchief, not much caring for the appearance of the towel, she turned to leave.
    In some way, however, the door of the toilet appeared to have stuck. She turned and rattled the handle unavailingly. It would not move. Hilary wondered whether it had been bolted or locked from the outside. She grew angry. What was the idea of shutting her in there? Then she noticed that there was another door in a corner of the room. Going to it she turned the handle. This time the door opened easily enough. She passed through.
    She found herself in a small eastern looking room with light that came only from slits high in the wall. Sitting there on a low divan, smoking, was the little Frenchman she had met in the train, M. Henri Laurier.

Destination Unknown
    II
    He did not rise to greet her. He merely said, and the timbre of his voice was slightly changed,
    “Good afternoon, Mrs. Betterton.”
    For a moment Hilary stood motionless. Astonishment held her in its grip. So this - was it! She pulled herself together. “This is what you've been expecting. Act as you think she would act.” She came forward and said eagerly,
    “You have news for me? You can help me?”
    He nodded, then said reproachfully:
    “I found you. Madame, somewhat obtuse upon the train. Perhaps you are too well accustomed to talk of the weather.”
    “The weather?” She stared at him, bewildered.
    What had he said about weather on the train? Cold? Fog? Snow?
    Snow. That was what Olive Betterton had whispered as she lay dying. And she had quoted a silly little jingle - what was it?
    Snow, snow, beautiful snow.
    You slip on a lump and over you go.
    Hilary repeated it falteringly now.
    “Exactly - why did you not respond with that immediately as ordered?”
    “You don't understand. I have been ill. I was in a plane crash and afterwards in hospital with concussion. It's affected my memory in all sorts of ways. Everything long ago is clear enough, but there are terrible blanks - great gaps.” She let her hands rise to her head. She found it easy enough to go on with a real tremor in her voice. “You can't understand how frightening that is. I keep feeling that I've forgotten important things - really important things. The more I try to get them back, the less they will come.”
    “Yes,” said Laurier, “the airplane crash was unfortunate.” He spoke in a cold businesslike way. “It is going to be a question of whether you have the necessary stamina and courage to continue your journey.”
    “Of course I'm going to continue my journey,” cried Hilary. “My husband -” her voice broke.
    He smiled, but not a very pleasant smile. Faintly catlike.
    “Your husband,” he said, “is, I understand, awaiting you with eagerness.”
    Hilary's voice broke.
    “You have no idea,” she said. “no idea what it's been like these months since he