Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile Кристи Агата

Chapter 2

Dinner was over. The terrace outside the Cataract Hotel was softly lit. Most of the guests staying at the hotel were there sitting at little tables.

Simon and Linnet Doyle came out, a tall distinguished looking grey-haired man with a keen clean-shaven American face beside them. As the little group hesitated for a moment in the doorway, Tim Allerton rose from his chair nearby and came forward.

‘You don’t remember me, I’m sure,’ he said pleasantly to Linnet, ‘but I’m Joanna Southwood’s cousin.’

‘Of course – how stupid of me. You’re Tim Allerton. This is my husband’-a faint tremor in the voice, pride, shyness? – ‘and this is my American trustee, Mr Pennington.’

Tim said:

‘You must meet my mother.’

A few minutes later they were sitting together in a party – Linnet in the corner, Tim and Pennington each side of her, both talking to her, vying for her attention. Mrs Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.

The swing doors revolved. A sudden tension came into the beautiful upright figure sitting in the corner between the two men. Then it relaxed as a small man came out and walked across the terrace.

Mrs Allerton said:

‘You’re not the only celebrity here, my dear. That funny little man is Hercule Poirot.’

She had spoken lightly, just out of instinctive social tact to bridge an awkward pause, but Linnet seemed struck by the information.

‘Hercule Poirot? Of course – I’ve heard of him…’

She seemed to sink into a fit of abstraction. The two men on either side of her were momentarily at a loss.

Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace, but his attention was immediately solicited.

‘Sit down, Monsieur Poirot. What a lovely night!’

He obeyed.

‘Mais oui, Madame, it is indeed beautiful.’

He smiled politely at Mrs Otterbourne. What draperies of black ninon and that ridiculous turban effect! Mrs Otterbourne went on in her high complaining voice:

‘Quite a lot of notabilities here now, aren’t there? I expect we shall see a paragraph about it in the papers soon. Society beauties, famous novelists-’

She paused with a slight mock-modest laugh.

Poirot felt, rather than saw, the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch and set her mouth in a sulkier line than before.

‘You have a novel on the way at present, Madame?’ he inquired.

Mrs Otterbourne gave her little self-conscious laugh again.

‘I’m being dreadfully lazy. I really must set to. My public is getting terribly impatient – and my publisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables!’

Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.

‘I don’t mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot, I am partly here for local colour. Snow on the Desert’s Face – that is the h2 of my new book. Powerful – suggestive. Snow – on the desert – melted in the first flaming breath of passion.’

Rosalie got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.

‘One must be em,’ went on Mrs Otterbourne, wagging the turban emphatically. ‘em meat – that is what my books are. Libraries may ban them – no matter! I speak the truth. Sex – ah! Monsieur Poirot – why is everyone so afraid of sex? The pivot of the universe! You have read my books?’

‘Alas, Madame! You comprehend, I do not read many novels. My work-’

Mrs Otterbourne said firmly:

‘I must give you a copy of Under the Fig Tree. I think you will find it significant. It is outspoken – but it is real!’

‘That is most kind of you, Madame. I will read it with pleasure.’

Mrs Otterbourne was silent a minute or two. She fidgeted with a long chain of beads that was wound twice round her neck. She looked swiftly from side to side.

‘Perhaps – I’ll just slip up and get it for you now.’

‘Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself. Later-’

‘No, no. It’s no trouble.’ She rose. ‘I’d like to show you-’

‘What is it, Mother?’

Rosalie was suddenly at her side.

‘Nothing, dear. I was just going up to get a book for Monsieur Poirot.’

‘The Fig Tree? I’ll get it.’

‘You don’t know where it is, dear. I’ll go.’

‘Yes, I do.’

The girl went swiftly across the terrace and into the hotel.

‘Let me congratulate you, Madame, on a very lovely daughter,’ said Poirot, with a bow.

‘Rosalie? Yes, yes – she is good looking. But she’s very hard, Monsieur Poirot. And no sympathy with illness. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myself-’

Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.

‘A liqueur, Madame? A chartreuse? A crme de menthe?’

Mrs Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.

‘No, no. I am practically a teetotaller. You may have noticed I never drink anything but water – or perhaps lemonade. I cannot bear the taste of spirits.’

‘Then may I order you a lemon squash, Madame?’

He gave the order – one lemon squash and one benedictine.

The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came towards them, a book in her hand.

‘Here you are,’ she said. Her voice was quite expressionless – almost remarkably so.

‘Monsieur Poirot has just ordered me a lemon squash,’ said her mother.

‘And you, Mademoiselle, what will you take?’

‘Nothing.’ She added, suddenly conscious of the curtness: ‘Nothing, thank you.’

Poirot took the volume which Mrs Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, a gaily coloured affair representing a lady with smartly shingled hair and scarlet fingernails sitting on a tiger skin in the traditional costume of Eve. Above her was a tree with the leaves of an oak, bearing large and improbably coloured apples.

It was enh2d Under the Fig Tree, by Salome Otterbourne. On the inside was a publisher’s blurb. It spoke enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modern woman’s love life. Fearless, unconventional, realistic were the adjectives used.

Poirot bowed and murmured:

‘I am honoured, Madame.’

As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress’s daughter. Almost involuntarily he made a little movement. He was astonished and grieved at the eloquent pain they revealed.

It was at that moment that the drinks arrived and created a welcome diversion.

Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.

‘A votre sant, Madame – Mademoiselle.’

Mrs Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade, murmured:

‘So refreshing – delicious.’

Silence fell on the three of them. They looked down to the shining black rocks in the Nile. There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like vast prehistoric monsters lying half out of the water. A little breeze came up suddenly and as suddenly died away. There was a feeling in the air of hush – of expectancy.

Hercule Poirot brought his gaze to the terrace and its occupants. Was he wrong, or was there the same hush of expectancy there? It was like a moment on the stage when one is waiting for the entrance of the leading lady.

And just at that moment the swing doors began to revolve once more. This time it seemed as though they did so with a special air of importance. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking towards them.

A dark slender girl in a wine-coloured evening frock came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table. There was nothing flaunting, nothing out of the way about her demeanour, and yet it had somehow the studied effect of a stage entrance.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Otterbourne. She tossed her turbaned head. ‘She seems to think she is somebody, that girl!’

Poirot did not answer. He was watching. The girl had sat down in a place where she could look deliberately across at Linnet Doyle. Presently, Poirot noticed, Linnet Doyle leant forward and said something and a moment later got up and changed her seat. She was now sitting facing in the opposite direction.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully to himself.

It was about five minutes later that the other girl changed her seat to the opposite side of the terrace. She sat smoking and smiling quietly, the picture of contented ease. But always, as though unconsciously, her meditative gaze was on Simon Doyle’s wife.

After a quarter of an hour Linnet Doyle got up abruptly and went into the hotel. Her husband followed her almost immediately.

Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and twistd her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.

Chapter 3

‘Monsieur Poirot.’

Poirot got hastily to his feet. He had remained sitting out on the terrace alone after everyone else had left. Lost in meditation, he had been staring at the smooth shiny black rocks when the sound of his name recalled him to himself.

It was a well-bred, assured voice, a charming voice, although perhaps a trifle arrogant.

Hercule Poirot, rising quickly, looked into the commanding eyes of Linnet Doyle. She wore a wrap of rich purple velvet over her white satin gown and she looked more lovely and more regal than Poirot had imagined possible.

‘You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?’ said Linnet.

It was hardly a question.

‘At your service, Madame.’

‘You know who I am, perhaps?’

‘Yes, Madame. I have heard your name. I know exactly who you are.’

Linnet nodded. That was only what she had expected. She went on, in her charming autocratic manner:

‘Will you come with me into the card room, Monsieur Poirot? I am very anxious to speak to you.’

‘Certainly, Madame.’

She led the way into the hotel. He followed. She led him into the deserted card room and motioned him to close the door. Then she sank down on a chair at one of the tables and he sat down opposite her.

She plunged straightaway into what she wanted to say. There were no hesitations. Her speech came flowingly.

‘I have heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Poirot, and I know that you are a very clever man. It happens that I am urgently in need of someone to help me – and I think very possibly that you are the man who could do it.’

Poirot inclined his head.

‘You are very amiable, Madame. But you see, I am on holiday, and when I am on holiday I do not take cases.’

‘That could be arranged.’

It was not offensively said – only with the quiet confidence of a young woman who had always been able to arrange matters to her satisfaction.

Linnet Doyle went on:

‘I am the subject, Monsieur Poirot, of an intolerable persecution. That persecution has got to stop! My own idea was to go to the police about it, but my – my husband seems to think that the police would be powerless to do anything.’

‘Perhaps – if you would explain a little further?’ murmured Poirot politely.

‘Oh, yes, I will do so. The matter is perfectly simple.’

There was still no hesitation – no faltering. Linnet Doyle had a clear-cut businesslike mind. She only paused a minute so as to present the facts as concisely as possible.

‘Before I met my husband, he was engaged to a Miss de Bellefort. She was also a friend of mine. My husband broke off his engagement to her – they were not suited in any way. She, I am sorry to say, took it rather hard… I – am very sorry about that – but these things cannot be helped. She made certain – well, threats – to which I paid very little attention, and which, I may say, she has not attempted to carry out. But instead she has adopted the extraordinary course of – of following us about wherever we go.’

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

‘Ah – rather an unusual – er – revenge.’

‘Very unusual – and very ridiculous! But also – annoying.’

She bit her lip.

Poirot nodded.

‘Yes, I can imagine that. You are, I understand, on your honeymoon?’

‘Yes. It happened – the first time – at Venice. She was there – at Danielli’s. I thought it was just coincidence. Rather embarrassing, but that was all. Then we found her on board the boat at Brindisi. We – we understood that she was going on to Palestine. We left her, as we thought, on the boat. But – but when we got to Mena House she was there – waiting for us.’

Poirot nodded.

‘And now?’

‘We came up the Nile by boat. I–I was half expecting to find her on board. When she wasn’t there I thought she had stopped being so – so childish. But when we got here – she – she was here – waiting.’

Poirot eyed her keenly for a moment. She was still perfectly composed, but the knuckles of the hand that was gripping the table were white with the force of her grip.

He said:

‘And you are afraid this state of things may continue?’

‘Yes.’ She paused. ‘Of course the whole thing is idiotic! Jacqueline is making herself utterly ridiculous. I am surprised she hasn’t got more pride – more dignity.’

Poirot made a slight gesture.

‘There are times, Madame, when pride and dignity – they go by the board! There are other – emer emotions.’

‘Yes, possibly.’ Linnet spoke impatiently. ‘But what on earth can she hope to gain by all this?’

‘It is not always a question of gain, Madame.’

Something in his tone struck Linnet disagreeably. She flushed and said quickly:

‘You are right. A discussion of motives is beside the point. The crux of the matter is that this has got to be stopped.’

‘And how do you propose that that should be accomplished, Madame?’ Poirot asked.

‘Well – naturally – my husband and I cannot continue being subjected to this annoyance. There must be some kind of legal redress against such a thing.’

She spoke impatiently. Poirot looked at her thoughtfully as he asked:

‘Has she threatened you in actual words in public? Used insulting language? Attempted any bodily harm?’

‘No.’

‘Then, frankly, Madame, I do not see what you can do. If it is a young lady’s pleasure to travel in certain places, and those places are the same where you and your husband find yourselves – eh bien – what of it? The air is free to all! There is no question of her forcing herself upon your privacy? It is always in public that these encounters take place?’

‘You mean there is nothing that I can do about it?’ Linnet sounded incredulous.

Poirot said placidly:

‘Nothing at all, as far as I can see. Mademoiselle de Bellefort is within her rights.’

‘But – but it is maddening! It is intolerable that I should have to put up with this!’

Poirot said dryly:

‘I must sympathize with you, Madame – especially as I imagine that you have not often had to put up with things.’

Linnet was frowning.

‘There must be some way of stopping it,’ she murmured.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘You can always leave – move on somewhere else,’ he suggested.

‘Then she will follow!’

‘Very possibly – yes.’

‘It’s absurd!’

‘Precisely.’

‘Anyway, why should I – we – run away? As though – as though-’

She stopped.

‘Exactly, Madame. As though-! It is all there, is it not?’

Linnet lifted her head and stared at him.

‘What do you mean?’

Poirot altered his tone. He leant forward; his voice was confidential, appealing. He said very gently:

‘Why do you mind so much, Madame?’

‘Why? But it’s maddening! Irritating to the last degree! I’ve told you why!’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Not altogether.’

Linnet said again: ‘What do you mean?’

Poirot leant back, folded his arms and spoke in a detached impersonal manner.

‘Ecoutez, Madame. I will recount to you a little history. It is that one day, a month or two ago, I am dining in a restaurant in London. At the table next to me are two people, a man and a girl. They are very happy, so it seems, very much in love. They talk with confidence of the future. It is not that I listen to what is not meant for me – they are quite oblivious of who hears them and who does not. The man’s back is to me, but I can watch the girl’s face. It is very intense. She is in love – heart, soul, and body – and she is not of those who love lightly and often. With her it is clearly the life and the death. They are engaged to be married, these two; that is what I gather; and they talk of where they shall pass the days of their honeymoon. They plan to go to Egypt.’

He paused.

Linnet said sharply:

‘Well?’

Poirot went on.

‘That is a month or two ago, but the girl’s face – I do not forget it. I know that I shall remember if I see it again. And I remember too the man’s voice. And I think you can guess, Madame, when it is I see the one and hear the other again. It is here in Egypt. The man is on his honeymoon, yes – but he is on his honeymoon with another woman.’

Linnet said sharply: ‘What of it? I had already mentioned the facts.’

‘The facts – yes.’

‘Well then?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘The girl in the restaurant mentioned a friend – a friend who she was very positive would not let her down. That friend, I think, was you, Madame.’

Linnet flushed.

‘Yes. I told you we had been friends.’

‘And she trusted you?’

‘Yes.’