Death on the Nile Read online

  On his way to his cabin that night he encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was leaning over the rail and, as she turned her head, he was struck by the look of acute misery on her face. There was now no insouciance, no malicious defiance, no dark flaming triumph.

  “Good night, Mademoiselle.”

  “Good night, Monsieur Poirot.” She hesitated, then said: “You were surprised to find me here?”

  “I was not so much surprised as sorry—very sorry….”

  He spoke gravely.

  “You mean sorry—for me?”

  “That is what I meant. You have chosen, Mademoiselle, the dangerous course…As we here in this boat have embarked on a journey, so you too have embarked on your own private journey—a journey on a swift moving river, between dangerous rocks, and heading for who knows what currents of disaster….”

  “Why do you say this?”

  “Because it is true…You have cut the bonds that moored you to safety. I doubt now if you could turn back if you would.”

  She said very slowly: “That is true….”

  Then she flung her head back.

  “Ah, well—one must follow one’s star, wherever it leads.”

  “Beware, Mademoiselle, that it is not a false star….”

  She laughed and mimicked the parrot cry of the donkey boys:

  “That very bad star, sir! That star fall down….”

  He was just dropping off to sleep when the murmur of voices awoke him. It was Simon Doyle’s voice he heard, repeating the same words he had used when the steamer left Shellal.

  “We’ve got to go through with it now….”

  “Yes,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself, “we have got to go through with it now….”

  He was not happy.

  Nine

  I

  The steamer arrived early next morning at Ez-Zebua.

  Cornelia Robson, her face beaming, a large flapping hat on her head, was one of the first to hurry on shore. Cornelia was not good at snubbing people. She was of an amiable disposition and disposed to like all her fellow creatures.

  The sight of Hercule Poirot, in a white suit, pink shirt, large black bow tie and a white topee, did not make her wince as the aristocratic Miss Van Schuyler would assuredly have winced. As they walked together up an avenue of sphinxes, she responded readily to his conventional opening, “Your companions are not coming ashore to view the temple?”

  “Well, you see, Cousin Marie—that’s Miss Van Schuyler—never gets up very early. She has to be very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers, that’s her hospital nurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isn’t one of the best temples—but she was frightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.”

  “That was very gracious of her,” said Poirot dryly.

  The ingenuous Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.

  “Oh, she’s very kind. It’s simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel I’m a lucky girl. I just could hardly believe it when she suggested to Mother that I should come too.”

  “And you have enjoyed it—yes?”

  “Oh, it’s been wonderful! I’ve seen Italy—Venice and Padua and Pisa—and then Cairo—only cousin Marie wasn’t very well in Cairo, so I couldn’t get round much, and now this wonderful trip up the Wadi Halfa and back.”

  Poirot said, smiling, “You have the happy nature, Mademoiselle.”

  He looked thoughtfully from her to silent, frowning Rosalie, who was walking ahead by herself.

  “She’s very nice-looking, isn’t she?” said Cornelia, following his glance. “Only kind of scornful-looking. She’s very English, of course. She’s not as lovely as Mrs. Doyle. I think Mrs. Doyle’s the loveliest, the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen! And her husband just worships the ground she walks on, doesn’t he? I think that grey-haired lady is kind of distinguished-looking, don’t you? She’s a cousin of a Duke, I believe. She was talking about him right near us last night. But she isn’t actually titled herself, is she?”

  She prattled on until the dragoman in charge called a halt and began to intone: “This temple was dedicated to Egyptian God Amun and the Sun God Re-Harakhte—whose symbol was a hawk’s head….”

  It droned on. Dr. Bessner, Baedeker in hand, mumbled to himself in German. He preferred the written word.

  Tim Allerton had not joined the party. His mother was breaking the ice with the reserved Mr. Fanthorp. Andrew Pennington, his arm through Linnet Doyle’s, was listening attentively, seemingly most interested in the measurements as recited by the guide.

  “Sixty-five feet high, is that so? Looks a little less to me. Great fellow, this Rameses. An Egyptian live wire.”

  “A big business man, Uncle Andrew.”

  Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.

  “You look fine this morning, Linnet. I’ve been a mite worried about you lately. You’ve looked kind of peaky.”

  Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided up the river. The scenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation.

  It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had brooded over the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness. Rosalie looked less sulky. Linnet seemed almost lighthearted.

  Pennington said to her: “It’s tactless to talk business to a bride on her honeymoon, but there are just one or two things—”

  “Why, of course, Uncle Andrew.” Linnet at once became businesslike. “My marriage has made a difference, of course.”

  “That’s just it. Some time or other I want your signature to several documents.”

  “Why not now?”

  Andrew Pennington glanced round. Their corner of the observation saloon was quite untenanted. Most of the people were outside on the deck space between the observation saloon and the cabin. The only occupants of the saloon were Mr. Ferguson—who was drinking beer at a small table in the middle, his legs, encased in their dirty flannel trousers, stuck out in front of him, whilst he whistled to himself in the intervals of drinking—M. Hercule Poirot, who was sitting before him—and Miss Van Schuyler, who was sitting in a corner reading a book on Egypt.

  “That’s fine,” said Andrew Pennington. He left the saloon.

  Linnet and Simon smiled at each other—a slow smile that took a few minutes to come to full fruition.

  “All right, sweet?” he asked.

  “Yes, still all right…Funny how I’m not rattled anymore.”

  Simon said with deep conviction in his tone: “You’re marvellous.”

  Pennington came back. He brought with him a sheaf of closely written documents.

  “Mercy!” cried Linnet. “Have I got to sign all these?”

  Andrew Pennington was apologetic.

  “It’s tough on you, I know, but I’d just like to get your affairs put in proper shape. First of all there’s the lease of the Fifth Avenue property…then there are the Western Land Concessions…” He talked on, rustling and sorting the papers. Simon yawned.

  The door to the deck swung open and Mr. Fanthorp came in. He gazed aimlessly round, then strolled forward and stood by Poirot looking out at the pale blue water and the yellow enveloping sands….

  “—you sign just there,” concluded Pennington, spreading a paper before Linnet and indicating a space.

  Linnet picked up the document and glanced through it. She turned back once to the first page, then, taking up the fountain pen Pennington had laid beside her, she signed her name Linnet Doyle….

  Pennington took away the paper and spread out another.

  Fanthorp wandered over in their direction. He peered out through the side window at something that seemed to interest him on the bank they were passing.

  “That’s just the transfer,” said Pennington. “You needn’t read it.”

  But Linnet took a brief glance through it. Pennington laid down a third paper. Again Linnet perused it carefu
lly.

  “They’re all quite straightforward,” said Andrew. “Nothing of interest. Only legal phraseology.”

  Simon yawned again.

  “My dear girl, you’re not going to read the whole lot through, are you? You’ll be at it till lunchtime and longer.”

  “I always read everything through,” said Linnet. “Father taught me to do that. He said there might be some clerical error.”

  Pennington laughed rather harshly.

  “You’re a grand woman of business, Linnet.”

  “She’s much more conscientious than I’d be,” said Simon, laughing. “I’ve never read a legal document in my life. I sign where they tell me to sign on the dotted line—and that’s that.”

  “That’s frightfully slipshod,” said Linnet disapprovingly.

  “I’ve no business head,” declared Simon cheerfully. “Never had. A fellow tells me to sign—I sign. It’s much the simplest way.”

  Andrew Pennington was looking at him thoughtfully. He said dryly, stroking his upper lip, “A little risky sometimes, Doyle?”

  “Nonsense,” replied Simon. “I’m not one of those people who believe the whole world is out to do one down. I’m a trusting kind of fellow—and it pays, you know. I’ve hardly ever been let down.”

  Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, the silent Mr. Fanthorp swung around and addressed Linnet.

  “I hope I’m not butting in, but you must let me say how much I admire your businesslike capacity. In my profession—er—I am a lawyer—I find ladies sadly unbusinesslike. Never to sign a document unless you read it through is admirable—altogether admirable.”

  He gave a little bow. Then, rather red in the face, he turned once more to contemplate the banks of the Nile.

  Linnet looked rather uncertainly: “Er—thank you…” She bit her lip to repress a giggle. The young man had looked so preternaturally solemn.

  Andrew Pennington looked seriously annoyed.

  Simon Doyle looked uncertain whether to be annoyed or amused.

  The backs of Mr. Fanthorp’s ears were bright crimson.

  “Next, please,” said Linnet, smiling up at Pennington.

  But Pennington looked decidedly ruffled.

  “I think perhaps some other time would be better,” he said stiffly. “As—er—Doyle says, if you have to read through all these we shall be here till lunchtime. We mustn’t miss enjoying the scenery. Anyway those first two papers were the only urgent ones. We’ll settle down to business later.”

  “It’s frightfully hot in here,” Linnet said. “Let’s go outside.”

  The three of them passed through the swing door. Hercule Poirot turned his head. His gaze rested thoughtfully on Mr. Fanthorp’s back; then it shifted to the lounging figure of Mr. Ferguson who had his head thrown back and was still whistling softly to himself.

  Finally Poirot looked over at the upright figure of Miss Van Schuyler in her corner. Miss Van Schuyler was glaring at Mr. Ferguson.

  The swing door on the port side opened and Cornelia Robson hurried in.

  “You’ve been a long time,” snapped the old lady. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. The wool wasn’t where you said it was. It was in another case altogether—”

  “My dear child, you are perfectly hopeless at finding anything! You are willing, I know, my dear, but you must try to be a little cleverer and quicker. It only needs concentration.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. I’m afraid I am very stupid.”

  “Nobody need be stupid if they try, my dear. I have brought you on this trip, and I expect a little attention in return.”

  Cornelia flushed.

  “I’m very sorry, Cousin Marie.”

  “And where is Miss Bowers? It was time for my drops ten minutes ago. Please go and find her at once. The doctor said it was most important—”

  But at this stage Miss Bowers entered, carrying a small medicine glass.

  “Your drops, Miss Van Schuyler.”

  “I should have had them at eleven,” snapped the old lady. “If there’s one thing I detest it’s unpunctuality.”

  “Quite,” said Miss Bowers. She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s exactly half a minute to eleven.”

  “By my watch it’s ten past.”

  “I think you’ll find my watch is right. It’s a perfect timekeeper. It never loses or gains.” Miss Bowers was quite imperturbable.

  Miss Van Schuyler swallowed the contents of the medicine glass.

  “I feel definitely worse,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Van Schuyler.”

  Miss Bowers did not sound sorry. She sounded completely uninterested. She was obviously making the correct reply mechanically.

  “It’s too hot in here,” snapped Miss Van Schuyler. “Find me a chair on the deck, Miss Bowers. Cornelia, bring my knitting. Don’t be clumsy or drop it. And then I shall want you to wind some wool.”

  The procession passed out.

  Mr. Ferguson sighed, stirred his legs and remarked to the world at large, “Gosh, I’d like to scrag that dame.”

  Poirot asked interestedly: “She is a type you dislike, eh?”

  “Dislike? I should say so. What good has that woman ever been to anyone or anything? She’s never worked or lifted a finger. She’s just battened on other people. She’s a parasite—and a damned unpleasant parasite. There are a lot of people on this boat I’d say the world could do without.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. That girl in here just now, signing share transfers and throwing her weight about. Hundreds and thousands of wretched workers slaving for a mere pittance to keep her in silk stockings and useless luxuries. One of the richest women in England, so someone told me—and never done a hand’s turn in her life.”

  “Who told you she was one of the richest women in England?”

  Mr. Ferguson cast a belligerent eye at him.

  “A man you wouldn’t be seen speaking to! A man who works with his hands and isn’t ashamed of it! Not one of your dressed-up, foppish good-for-nothings.”

  His eye rested unfavourably on the bow tie and pink shirt.

  “Me, I work with my brains and am not ashamed of it,” said Poirot, answering the glance.

  Mr. Ferguson merely snorted.

  “Ought to be shot—the lot of them!” he asserted.

  “My dear young man,” said Poirot, “what a passion you have for violence!”

  “Can you tell me of any good that can be done without it? You’ve got to break down and destroy before you can build up.”

  “It is certainly much easier and much noisier and much more spectacular.”

  “What do you do for a living? 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 a 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 holiday.”

  “Enjoying a vacation—eh?”

  “And you? Is it not that you are on holiday also?”

  “Holiday!” Mr. Ferguson snorted. Then he added cryptically: “I’m studying conditions.”

  “Very interesting,” murmured Poirot and moved gently out on to 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 towards 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. She shot a quick suspicious look at him and hurried along the deck.

  “I can’t make that child out,” said Mrs. Allerton. “She varies so. One day she’s friendly; the next day, she’s positively rude.”

  “Thoroughly spoilt and bad-tempered,” said Tim.