Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile
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 carefully.
‘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 lunch time 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,’ said 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 said 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 lunch time. We mustn’t miss enjoying the scenery. Anyway those first two papers were the only urgent ones. We’ll settle down to business later.’
Linnet said: ‘It’s frightfully hot in here. 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 altogther-’
‘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,’ said 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 a 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.
Mrs Allerton shook her head.
‘No. I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s unhappy.’
Tim shrugged his shoulders.
‘Oh, well, I suppose we’ve all got our private troubles.’ His voice sounded hard and curt.
A booming noise was heard.
‘Lunch,’ cried Mrs Allerton delightedly. ‘I’m starving.’
That evening, Poirot noticed that Mrs Allerton was sitting talking to Miss Van Schuyler. As he passed, Mrs Allerton closed one eye and opened it again.
She was saying, ‘Of course at Calfries Castle – the dear Duke-’
Cornelia, released from attendance, was out on the deck. She was listening to Dr Bessner, who was instructing her somewhat ponderously in Egyptology as culled from the pages of Baedeker. Cornelia listened with rapt attention.
Leaning over the rail Tim Allerton was saying:
‘Anyhow, it’s a rotten world…’
Rosalie Otterbourne answered:
‘It’s unfair… some people have everything.’
Poirot sighed. He was glad that he was no longer young.
Chapter 9
On the Monday morning various expressions of delight and appreciation were heard on the deck of the Karnak. The steamer was moored to the bank and a few hundred yards away, the morning sun just striking it, was a great temple carved out of the face of the rock. Four colossal figures, hewn out of the cliff, look out eternally over the Nile and face the rising sun.
Cornelia Robson said incoherently:
‘Oh, Monsieur Poirot, isn’t it wonderful? I mean they’re so big and peaceful – and looking at them makes one feel that one’s so small – and rather like an insect – and that nothing matters very much really, does it?’
Mr Fanthorp, who was standing near by, murmured,
‘Very – er – impressive.’
‘Grand, isn’t it?’ said Simon Doyle, strolling up. He went on confidentially to Poirot: ‘You know, I’m not much of a fellow for temples and sightseeing and all that, but a place like this sort of gets you, if you know what I mean. Those old Pharaohs must have been wonderful fellows.’
The other had drifted away. Simon lowered his voice.
‘I’m no end glad we came on this trip. It’s – well, it’s cleared things up. Amazing why it should – but there it is. Linnet’s got her nerve back. She says it’s because she’s actually faced the business at last.’
‘I think that is very probable,’ said Poirot.
‘She says that when she actually saw Jackie on the boat she felt terrible – and then, suddenly, it didn’t matter any more. We’re both agreed that we won’t try to dodge her any more. We’ll just meet her on her own ground and show her that this ridiculous stunt of hers doesn’t worry us a bit. It’s just damned bad form – that’s all. She thought she’d got us badly rattled – but now, well, we just aren’t rattled any more. That ought to show her.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.
‘So that’s splendid, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes, yes.’
Linnet came along the deck. She was dressed in a soft shade of apricot linen. She was smiling. She greeted Poirot with no particular enthusiasm, just gave him a cool nod and then drew her husband away.
Poirot realized with a momentary flicker of amusement that he had not made himself popular by his critical attitude. Linnet was used to unqualified admiration of all she was or did. Hercule Poirot had sinned noticeably against this creed.
Mrs Allerton, joining him, murmured:
‘What a difference in that girl! She looked worried and not very happy at Aswan. Today she looks so happy that one might almost be afraid she was fey.’
Before Poirot could respond as he meant, the party was called to order. The official dragoman took charge and the party was led ashore to visit Abu Simbel.
Poirot himself fell into step with Andrew Pennington.
‘It is your first visit to Egypt – yes?’ he asked.
‘Why, no, I was here in 1923. That is to say, I was in Cairo. I’ve never been this trip up the Nile before.’
‘You came over on the Carmanic, I believe – at least so Madame Doyle was telling me.’
Pennington shot a shrewd glance in his direction.
‘Why, yes, that is so,’ he admitted.
‘I wondered if you had happened to come across some friends of mine who were aboard – the Rushington Smiths.’
‘I can’t recall anyone of that name. The boat was full and we had bad weather. A lot of passengers hardly appeared, and in any case the voyage is so short one doesn’t get to know who is on board and who isn’t.’
‘Yes, that is very true. What a pleasant surprise your running into Madame Doyle and her husband. You had no idea they were married?’
‘No. Mrs Doyle had written me, but the letter was forwarded on and I only received it some days after our unexpected meeting in Cairo.’
‘You have known her for many years, I understand?’
‘Why, I should say I have, Monsieur Poirot. I’ve known Linnet Ridgeway since she was just a cute little thing so high-’ He made an illustrating gesture. ‘Her father and I were lifelong friends. A very remarkable man, Melhuish Ridgeway – and a very successful one.’
‘His daughter comes into a considerable fortune, I understand… Ah, pardon – perhaps it is not delicate what I say there.’
Andrew Pennington seemed slightly amused.
‘Oh, that’s pretty common knowledge. Yes, Linnet’s a wealthy woman.’
‘I suppose, though, that the recent slump is bound to affect any stocks, however sound they may be?’
Pennington took a moment or two to answer. He said at last:
‘That, of course, is true to a certain extent. The position is very difficult in these days.’
Poirot murmured: ‘I should imagine, however, that Madame Doyle has a keen business head.’
‘That is so. Yes, that is so. Linnet is a clever practical girl.’
They came to a halt. The guide proceeded to instruct them on the subject of the temple built by the great Rameses. The four colossi of Rameses himself, one pair on each side of the entrance, hewn out of the living rock, looked down on the straggling little party of tourists.
Signor Richetti, disdaining the remarks of the dragoman, was busy examining the reliefs of African and Syrian captives on the bases of the colossi on either side of the entrance.
When the party entered the temple, a sense of dimness and peace came over them. The still vividly coloured reliefs on some of the inner walls were pointed out, but the party tended to break up into groups.
Dr Bessner read sonorously in German from a Baedeker, pausing every now and then to translate for the benefit of Cornelia, who walked in a docile manner beside him. This was not to continue, however. Miss Van Schuyler, entering on the arm of the phlegmatic Miss Bowers, uttered a commanding, ‘Cornelia, come here,’ and the instruction had perforce to cease. Dr Bessner beamed after her vaguely through his thick lenses.
‘A very nice maiden, that,’ he announced to Poirot. ‘She does not look so starved as some of these young women – no, she has the nice curves. She listens too very intelligently; it is a pleasure to instruct her.’
It fleeted across Poirot’s mind that it seemed to be Cornelia’s fate either to be bullied or instructed. In any case she was always the listener, never the talker.
Miss Bowers, momentarily released by the peremptory summons of Cornelia, was standing in the middle of the temple, looking about her with her cool, incurious gaze. Her reaction to the wonders of the past was succinct.
‘The guide says the name of one of these gods or goddesses was Mut. Can you beat it?’
There was an inner sanctuary where sat four figures eternally presiding, stangely dignified in their dim aloofness.
Before them stood Linnet and her husband. Her arm was in his, her face lifted – a typical face of the new civilization, intelligent, curious, untouched by the past.
Simon said suddenly: ‘Let’s get out of here. I don’t like these four fellows – especially the one in the high hat.’
‘That’s Amon, I suppose. And that one is Rameses. Why don’t you like them? I think they’re very impressive.’
‘They’re a damned sight too impressive – there’s something uncanny about them. Come out into the sunlight.’
Linnet laughed, but yielded.
They came out of the temple into the sunshine with the sand yellow and warm about their feet. Linnet began to laugh. At their feet in a row, presenting a momentarily gruesome appearance as though sawn from their bodies, were the heads of half a dozen boys. The eyes rolled, the heads moved rhythmically from side to side, the lips chanted a new invocation:
‘Hip, hip hurray! Hip, hip hurray! Very good, very nice. Thank you very much.’
‘How absurd! How do they do it? Are they really buried very deep?’
Simon produced some small change.
‘Very good, very nice, very expensive,’ he mimicked.
Two small boys in charge of the ‘show’ picked up the coins neatly.
Linnet and Simon passed on. They had no wish to return to the boat, and they were weary of sightseeing. They settled themselves with their backs to the cliff and let the warm sun bake them through.
‘How lovely the sun is,’ thought Linnet. ‘How warm – how safe… How lovely it is to be happy… How lovely to be me – me – me – Linnet-’
Her eyes closed. She was half asleep, half awake, drifting in the midst of thought that was like the sand drifting and blowing.
Simon’s eyes were open. They too held contentment. What a fool he’d been to be rattled that first night… There was nothing to be rattled about… Everything was all right… After all, one could trust Jackie-
There was a shout – people running towards him waving their arms – shouting…
Simon stared stupidly for a moment. Then he sprang to his feet and dragged Linnet with him.
Not a minute too soon. A big boulder hurtling down the cliff crashed past them. If Linnet had remained where she was she would have been crushed to atoms.
White-faced they clung together. Hercule Poirot and Tim Allerton ran up to them.
‘Ma foi, Madame, that was a near thing.’
All four instinctively looked up at the cliff. There was nothing to be seen. But there was a path along the top. Poirot remembered seeing some locals walking along there when they had first come ashore.
He looked at the husband and wife. Linnet looked dazed still – bewildered. Simon, however, was inarticulate with rage.
‘God damn her!’ he ejaculated. He checked himself with a quick glance at Tim Allerton.
The latter said:
‘Phew, that was near! Did some fool bowl that thing over, or did it get detached on its own?’
Linnet was very pale. She said with difficulty:
‘I think – some fool must have done it.’
‘Might have crushed you like an eggshell. Sure you haven’t got an enemy, Linnet?’
Linnet swallowed twice and found difficulty in answering the light-hearted raillery.
Poirot said quickly: ‘Come back to the boat, Madame. You must have a restorative.’
They walked quickly, Simon still full of pent-up rage, Tim trying to talk cheerfully and distract Linnet’s mind from the danger she had run, Poirot with a grave face.
And then, just as they reached the gangplank, Simon stopped dead. A look of amazement spread over his face.
Jacqueline de Bellefort was just coming ashore. Dressed in blue gingham, she looked childish this morning.
‘Good God!’ said Simon under his breath. ‘So it was an accident, after all.’
The anger went out of his face. An overwhelming relief showed so plainly that Jacqueline noticed something amiss.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little on the late side.’
She gave them all a nod and stepped ashore and proceeded in the direction of the temple.
Simon clutched Poirot’s arm. The other two had gone on.
‘My God, that’s a relief. I thought – I thought-’
Poirot nodded.
‘Yes, yes, I know what you thought.’ But he himself still looked grave and preoccupied. He turned his head and noted carefully what had become of the rest of the party from the ship.
Miss Van Schuyler was slowly returning on the arm of Miss Bowers.
A little farther away Mrs Allerton was standing laughing at the little row of heads. Mrs Otterbourne was with her.
The others were nowhere in sight.
Poirot shook his head as he followed Simon slowly onto the boat.
Chapter 10
‘Will you explain to me, Madame, the meaning of the word “fey”?’
Mrs Allerton looked slightly surprised. She and Poirot were toiling slowly up to the rock overlooking the Second Cataract. Most of the others had gone up on camels, but Poirot had felt that the motion of the camel was slightly reminiscent of that of a ship. Mrs Allerton had put it on the grounds of personal indignity.
They had arrived at Wadi Halfa the night before. This morning two launches had conveyed all the party to the Second Cataract, with the exception of Signor Richetti, who had insisted on making an excursion of his own to a remote spot called Semna, which he explained was of paramount interest as being the gateway of Nubia in the time of Amenemhet III. Everything had been done to discourage this example of individuality, but with no avail. Signor Richetti was determined and had waved aside each objection: (1) that the expedition was not worth making, (2) that the expedition could not be made, owing to the impossibility of getting a car there, (3) that no car could be obtained to do the trip, (4) that a car would be a prohibitive price. Having scoffed at (1), expressed incredulity at (2), offered to find a car himself to (3), and bargained fluently in Arabic for (4), Signor Richetti had at last departed – his departure being arranged in a secret and furtive manner in case some of the other tourists should take it into their heads to stray from the appointed paths of sightseeing.
‘Fey?’ Mrs Allerton put her head on one side as she considered her reply. ‘Well, it’s a Scottish word, really. It means the kind of exalted happiness that comes before disaster. You know – it’s too good to be true.’
She enlarged on the theme. Poirot listened attentively.
‘I thank you, Madame. I understand now. It is odd that you should have said that yesterday – when Madame Doyle was to escape death so shortly afterwards.’