Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile Кристи Агата

‘Then there’s young Ferguson,’ said Race. ‘He talks bitterly enough. Not that I go by talk. Still, he might be the fellow whose father was ruined by old Ridgeway. It’s a little far-fetched but it’s possible. People do brood over bygone wrongs sometimes.’ He paused a minute and then said: ‘And there’s my fellow.’

‘Yes, there is “your fellow” as you call him.’

‘He’s a killer,’ said Race. ‘We know that. On the other hand, I can’t see any way in which he could have come up against Linnet Doyle. Their orbits don’t touch.’

Poirot said slowly:

‘Unless, accidentally, she had become possessed of evidence showing his identity.’

‘That’s possible, but it seems highly unlikely.’ There was a knock at the door. ‘Ah, here’s our would-be bigamist.’

Fleetwood was a big, truculent-looking man. He looked suspiciously from one to the other of them as he entered the room. Poirot recognized him as the man he had seen talking to Louise Bourget.

Fleetwood said suspiciously: ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘We did,’ said Race. ‘You probably know that a murder was committed on this boat last night?’

Fleetwood nodded.

‘And I believe it is true that you had reason to feel anger against the woman who was killed.’

A look of alarm sprang up in Fleetwood’s eyes.

‘Who told you that?’

‘You considered that Mrs Doyle had interfered between you and a young woman.’

‘I know who told you that – that lying French hussy. She’s a liar through and through, that girl.’

‘But this particular story happens to be true.’

‘It’s a dirty lie!’

‘You say that although you don’t know what it is yet.’

The shot told. The man flushed and gulped.

‘It is true, is it not, that you were going to marry the girl Marie, and that she broke it off when she discovered that you were a married man already?’

‘What business was it of hers?’

‘You mean, what business was it of Mrs Doyle’s? Well, you know, bigamy is bigamy.’

‘It wasn’t like that. I married one of the locals out here. It didn’t answer. She went back to her people. I’ve not seen her for a half a dozen years.’

‘Still you were married to her.’

The man was silent. Race went on.

‘Mrs Doyle, or Miss Ridgeway as she then was, found out all this?’

‘Yes, she did, curse her! Nosing about where no one ever asked her to. I’d have treated Marie right. I’d have done anything for her. And she’d never have known about the other, if it hadn’t been for that meddlesome young lady of hers. Yes, I’ll say it, I did have a grudge against the lady, and I felt bitter about it when I saw her on this boat, all dressed up in pearls and diamonds and lording it all over the place with never a thought that she’d broken up a man’s life for him! I felt bitter all right. But if you think I’m a dirty murderer – if you think I went and shot her witha gun, well, that’s a damned lie! I never touched her. And that’s God’s truth.’

He stopped. The sweat was rolling down his face.

‘Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and two?’

‘In my bunk asleep – and my mate will tell you so.’

‘We shall see,’ said Race. He dismissed him with a curt nod. ‘That’ll do.’

‘Eh bien?’ inquired Poirot as the door closed behind Fleetwood.

Race shrugged his shoulders.

‘He tells quite a straight story. He’s nervous, of course, but not unduly so. We’ll have to investigate his alibi – though I don’t suppose it will be decisive. His mate was probably asleep, and this fellow could have slipped in and out if he wanted to. It depends whether anyone else saw him.’

‘Yes, one must enquire as to that.’

‘The next thing, I think,’ said Race, ‘is whether anyone heard anything which might give a clue to the time of the crime. Bessner places it as having occurred between twelve and two. It seems reasonable to hope that someone among the passengers may have heard the shot – even if they did not recognize it for what it was. I didn’t hear anything of the kind myself. What about you?’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Me, I slept absolutely like the log. I heard nothing – but nothing at all. I might have been drugged, I slept so soundly.’

‘A pity,’ said Race. ‘Well, let’s hope we have a bit of luck with the people who have cabins on the starboard side. Fanthorp we’ve done. The Allertons come next. I’ll send the steward to fetch them.’

Mrs Allerton came in briskly. She was wearing a soft grey striped silk dress. Her face looked distressed.

‘It’s too horrible,’ she said as she accepted the chair that Poirot placed for her. ‘I can hardly believe it. That lovely creature with everything to live for – dead. I almost feel I can’t believe it.’

‘I know how you feel, Madame,’ said Poirot sympathetically.

‘I’m glad you are on board,’ said Mrs Allerton simply. ‘You’ll be able to find out who did it. I’m so glad it isn’t that poor tragic girl.’

‘You mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who told you she did not do it?’

‘Cornelia Robson,’ said Mrs Allerton, with a faint smile. ‘You know, she’s simply thrilled by it all. It’s probably the only exciting thing that has ever happened to her, and probably the only exciting thing that ever will happen to her. But she’s so nice that she’s terribly ashamed of enjoying it. She thinks it’s awful of her.’ Mrs Allerton gave a look at Poirot and then added: ‘But I mustn’t chatter. You want to ask me questions.’

‘If you please. You went to bed at what time, Madame?’

‘Just after half past ten.’

‘And you went to sleep at once?’

‘Yes. I was sleepy.’

‘And did you hear anything – anything at all – during the night?’

Mrs Allerton wrinkled her brows.

‘Yes, I think I heard a splash and someone running – or was it the other way about? I’m rather hazy. I just had a vague idea that someone had fallen overboard at sea – a dream, you know – and then I woke up and listened, but it was all quite quiet.’

‘Do you know what time that was?’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I don’t think it was very long after I went to sleep. I mean it was within the first hour or so.’

‘Alas, Madame, that is not very definite.’

‘No, I know it isn’t. But it’s no good trying to guess, is it, when I haven’t really the vaguest idea?’

‘And that is all you can tell us, Madame?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Had you ever actually met Madame Doyle before?’

‘No, Tim had met her. And I’d heard a good deal about her – through a cousin of ours, Joanna Southwood, but I’d never spoken to her till we met at Aswan.’

‘I have one other question, Madame, if you will pardon me for asking.’

Mrs Allerton murmured with a faint smile,

‘I should love to be asked an indiscreet question.’

‘It is this. Did you, or your family, ever suffer any financial loss through the operations of Madame Doyle’s father, Melhuish Ridgeway?’

Mrs Allerton looked throughly astonished.

‘Oh, no! The family finances have never suffered except by dwindling… you know, everything paying less interest than it used to. There’s never been anything melodramatic about our poverty. My husband left very little money, but what he left I still have, though it doesn’t yield as much as it used to yield.’

‘I thank you, Madame. Perhaps you will ask your son to come to us.’

Tim said lightly, when his mother came to him:

‘Ordeal over? My turn now! What sort of things did they ask you?’

‘Only whether I heard anything last night,’ said Mrs Allerton. ‘And unluckily I didn’t hear anything at all. I can’t think why not. After all, Linnet’s cabin is only one away from mine. I should think I’d have been bound to hear the shot. Go along, Tim; they’re waiting for you.’

To Tim Allerton Poirot repeated his previous questions.

Tim answered:

‘I went to bed early, half past ten or so. I read for a bit. Put out my light just after eleven.’

‘Did you hear anything after that?’

‘Heard a man’s voice saying good night, I think, not far away.’

‘That was me saying good night to Mrs Doyle,’ said Race.

‘Yes. After that I went to sleep. Then, later, I heard a kind of hullabaloo going on, somebody calling Fanthorp, I remember.’

‘Mademoiselle Robson when she ran out from the observation saloon.’

‘Yes, I suppose that was it. And then a lot of different voices. And then somebody running along the deck. And then a splash. And then I heard old Bessner booming out something about “Careful now” and “Not too quick.” ’

‘You heard a splash.’

‘Well, something of that kind.’

‘You are sure it was not a shot you heard?’

‘Yes, I suppose it might have been… I did hear a cork pop. Perhaps that was the shot. I may have imagined the splash from connecting the idea of the cork with liquid pouring into a glass… I know my foggy idea was that there was some kind of party on. And I wished they’d all go to bed and shut up.’

‘Anything more after that?’

Tim thought.

‘Only Fanthorp barging around in his cabin next door. I thought he’d never go to bed.’

‘And after that?’

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

‘After that – oblivion.’

‘You heard nothing more?’

‘Nothing whatever.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Allerton.’

Tim got up and left the cabin.

Chapter 15

Race pored thoughtfully over a plan of the promenade deck of the Karnak.

‘Fanthorp, young Allerton, Mrs Allerton. Then an empty cabin – Simon Doyle’s. Now who’s on the other side of Mrs Doyle’s? The old American dame. If anyone heard anything she would have done. If she’s up we’d better have her along.’

Miss Van Schuyler entered the room. She looked even older and yellower than usual this morning. Her small dark eyes had an air of venomous displeasure in them.

Race rose and bowed.

‘We’re very sorry to trouble you, Miss Van Schuyler. It’s very good of you. Please sit down.’

Miss Van Schuyler said sharply:

‘I dislike being mixed up in this. I resent it very much. I do not wish to be associated in any way with this – er – very unpleasant affair.’

‘Quite – quite. I was just saying to Monsieur Poirot that the sooner we took your statement the better, as then you need have no further trouble.’

Miss Van Schuyler looked at Poirot with something approaching favour.

‘I’m glad you both realize my feelings. I am not accustomed to anything of this kind.’

Poirot said soothingly:

‘Precisely, Mademoiselle. That is why we wish to free you from unpleasantness as quickly as possible. Now you went to bed last night – at what time?’

‘Ten o’clock is my usual time. Last night I was rather later, as Cornelia Robson, very inconsiderately, kept me waiting.’

‘Trs bien, Mademoiselle Now what did you hear after you had retired?’

Miss Van Schuyler said: ‘I sleep very lightly.’

‘A merveille! That is very fortunate for us.’

‘I was awakened by that rather flashy young woman, Mrs Doyle’s maid, who said, “Bonne nuit, Madame” in what I cannot but think an unnecessarily loud voice.’

‘And after that?’

‘I went to sleep again. I woke up thinking someone was in my cabin, but I realized that it was someone in the cabin next door.’

‘In Madame Doyle’s cabin?’

‘Yes. Then I heard someone outside on the deck and then a splash.’

‘You have no idea what time this was?’

‘I can tell you the time exactly. It was ten minutes past one.’

‘You are sure of that?’

‘Yes. I looked at my little clock that stands by my bed.’

‘You did not hear a shot?’

‘No, nothing of the kind.’

‘But it might possibly have been a shot that awakened you?’

Miss Van Schuyler considered the question, her toad-like head on one side.

‘It might,’ she admitted rather grudgingly.

‘And you have no idea what caused the splash you heard?’

‘Not at all – I know perfectly.’

Colonel Race sat up alertly.

‘You know?’

‘Certainly. I did not like this sound of prowling around. I got up and went to the door of my cabin. Miss Otterbourne was leaning over the side. She had just dropped something into the water.’

‘Miss Otterbourne?’ Race sounded really surprised.

‘Yes.’

‘You are quite sure it was Miss Otterbourne?’

‘I saw her face distinctly.’

‘She did not see you?’

‘I do not think so.’

Poirot leant forward.

‘And what did her face look like, Mademoiselle?’

‘She was in a condition of considerable emotion.’

Race and Poirot exchanged a quick glance.

‘And then?’ Race prompted.

‘Miss Otterbourne went away round the stern of the boat and I returned to bed.’

There was a knock at the door and the manager entered. He carried in his hand a dripping bundle.

‘We’ve got it, Colonel.’

Race took the package. He unwrapped fold after fold of sodden velvet. Out of it fell a coarse handkerchief faintly stained with pink, wrapped round a small pearlhandled pistol.

Race gave Poirot a glance of slightly malicious triumph.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘my idea was right. It was thrown overboard.’ He held the pistol out on the palm of his hand. ‘What do you say, Monsieur Poirot? Is this the pistol you saw at the Cataract Hotel that night?’

Poirot examined it carefully, then he said quietly:

‘Yes – that is it. There is the ornamental work on it – and the initials J. B. It is an article de luxe – a very feminine production – but it is none the less a lethal weapon.’

‘.22,’ murmured Race. He took out the clip. ‘Two bullets fired. Yes, there doesn’t seem much doubt about it.’

Miss Van Schuyler coughed significantly.

‘And what about my stole?’ she demanded.

‘Your stole, Mademoiselle?’

‘Yes, that is my velvet stole you have there.’

Race picked up the dripping folds of material.

‘This is yours, Miss Van Schuyler?’

‘Certainly it’s mine!’ the old lady snapped. ‘I missed it last night. I was asking everyone if they’d seen it.’

Poirot questioned Race with a glance, and the latter gave a slight nod of assent.

‘Where did you see it last, Miss Van Schuyler?’

‘I had it in the saloon yesterday evening. When I came to go to bed I could not find it anywhere.’

Race said quickly:

‘You realize what it’s been used for?’ He spread it out, indicating with a finger the scorching and several small holes. ‘The murderer wrapped it round the pistol to deaden the noise of the shot.’

‘Impertinence!’ snapped Miss Van Schuyler. The colour rose in her wizened cheeks.

Race said:

‘I shall be glad, Miss Van Schuyler, if you will tell me the extent of your previous acquaintance with Mrs Doyle.’

‘There was no previous acquaintance.’

‘But you knew of her?’

‘I knew who she was, of course.’

‘But your families were not acquainted?’

‘As a family we have always prided ourselves on being exclusive, Colonel Race. My dear mother would never have dreamed of calling upon any of the Hartz family, who, outside their wealth, were nobodies.’

‘That is all you have to say, Miss Van Schuyler?’

‘I have nothing to add to what I have told you. Linnet Ridgeway was brought up in England and I never saw her till I came aboard this boat.’

She rose. Poirot opened the door and she marched out.

The eyes of the two men met.

‘That’s her story,’ said Race, ‘and she’s going to stick to it! It may be true. I don’t know. But – Rosalie Otterbourne? I hadn’t expected that.’

Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner. Then he brought down his hand on the table with a sudden bang.

‘But it does not make sense,’ he cried. ‘Nom d’un nom d’un nom! It does not make sense.’

Race looked at him.

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘I mean that up to a point it is all the clear sailing. Someone wished to kill Linnet Doyle. Someone overheard the scene in the saloon last night. Someone sneaked in there and retrieved the pistol – Jacqueline de Bellefort’s pistol, remember. Somebody shot Linnet Doyle with that pistol and wrote the letter J on the wall… All so clear, is it not? All pointing to Jacqueline de Bellefort as the murderess. And then what does the murderer do? Leave the pistol – the damning pistol – Jacqueline de Bellefort’s pistol, for everyone to find? No, he – or she – throws the pistol, that particular damning bit of evidence, overboard. Why, my friend, why?’

Race shook his head.

‘It’s odd.’

‘It is more than odd – it is impossible!’

‘Not impossible, since it happened!’

‘I do not mean that. I mean the sequence of events is impossible. Something is wrong.’

Chapter 16

Colonel Race glanced curiously at his colleague. He respected – he had reason to respect – the brain of Hercule Poirot. Yet for the moment he did not follow the other’s process of thought. He asked no question, however. He seldom did ask questions. He proceeded straightforwardly with the matter in hand.

‘What’s the next thing to be done? Question the Otterbourne girl?’

‘Yes, that may advance us a little.’

Rosalie Otterbourne entered ungraciously. She did not look nervous or frightened in any way – merely unwilling and sulky.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘What is it?’

Race was the spokesman.

‘We’re investigating Mrs Doyle’s death,’ he explained.

Rosalie nodded.

‘Will you tell me what you did last night?’

Rosalie reflected a minute.

‘Mother and I went to bed early – before eleven. We didn’t hear anything in particular, except a bit of fuss outside Dr Bessner’s cabin. I heard the old man’s German voice booming away. Of course I didn’t know what it was all about till this morning.’

‘You didn’t hear a shot?’

‘No.’

‘Did you leave your cabin at all last night?’

‘No.’

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