Kitabı oku: «Death on the Nile / Смерть на Ниле», sayfa 2
Chapter 8
In an apartment overlooking Central Park in New York, Mrs Robson exclaimed: “You really are the luckiest girl, Cornelia.”
Cornelia Robson flushed. She was a big clumsy-looking girl with brown doglike eyes.
“Oh, it will be wonderful!” she gasped.
Old Miss Van Schuyler was satisfied with this correct attitude of poor relations.
“I've always dreamed of a trip to Europe,” sighed Cornelia, “but I just didn't feel I'd ever get there.”
“Miss Bowers will come with me as usual, of course,” said Miss Van Schuyler, “but as a social companion I find her limited – very limited. There are many little things that Cornelia can do for me.”
“I'd just love to, Cousin Marie,” said Cornelia eagerly.
“Well, well, then that's settled,” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Just run and find Miss Bowers, my dear. It's time for my eggnog.”
Cornelia left. Her mother said: “My dear Marie, I'm really most grateful to you! You know I think Cornelia suffers a lot from not being a social success. If I could afford to take her to places – but you know how it's been since Ned died.”
“I'm very glad to take her,” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Cornelia has always been a nice handy girl, willing to run errands, and not so selfish as some of these young people nowadays.”
Mrs Robson rose and kissed her rich relative's wrinkled face.
“I'm just ever so grateful,” she declared.
On the stairs she met a tall capable looking woman who was carrying a glass containing a yellow foamy liquid.
“Well, Miss Bowers, so you're off to Europe?”
“Why, yes, Mrs Robson.”
“What a lovely trip!”
“Why, yes, I should think it would be very enjoyable.”
“But you've been abroad before?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs Robson. I went over to Paris with Miss Van Schuyler last fall. But I've never been to Egypt before.”
Mrs Robson hesitated.
“I do hope – there won't be any – trouble.”
She had lowered her voice. Miss Bowers, however, replied in her usual tone:
“Oh, no, Mrs Robson; I shall take good care of that. I keep a very sharp look-out always.49”
But there was still a faint shadow on Mrs Robson's face as she slowly continued down the stairs.
Chapter 9
In his office down town Mr Andrew Pennington was opening his personal mail. Suddenly his fist clenched itself and came down on his desk with a bang; his face crimsoned and two big veins stood out on his forehead. He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a smart looking stenographer appeared. “Tell Mr Rockford to step in here.”
“Yes, Mr Pennington.”
A few minutes later, Stemdale Rockford, Pennington's partner, entered the office.
“ What's up, Pennington?”
Pennington looked up from the letter he was re-reading.
He said, “Linnet's married.”
“What?”
“You heard what I said! Linnet Ridgeway's married!”
“How? When? Why didn't we hear about it?”
Pennington glanced at the calendar on his desk.
“She wasn't married when she wrote this letter, but she's married now. Morning of the fourth. That's today.”
Rockford dropped into a chair.
“No warning? Nothing? Who's the man?”
Pennington referred again to the letter.
“Doyle. Simon Doyle.”
“What sort of a fellow is he? Ever heard of him?”
“No. She doesn't say much…” He scanned the lines of clear, upright handwriting. “Got an idea there's something hole-and-corner about the business.50 That doesn't matter. The whole point is, she's married.”
The eyes of the two men met. Rockford nodded.
“This needs a bit of thinking out,” he said quietly.
“What are we going to do about it?”
The two men sat silent. Then Rockford asked, “Got any plan?”
Pennington said slowly: “The Normandie51 sails today. One of us could just make it.52”
“You're crazy! What's the big idea?”
Pennington began, “Those British lawyers – ” and stopped.
“What about 'em? Surely you're not going over to tackle 'em? You're mad!”
“I'm not suggesting that you – or I – should go to England.”
“What's the big idea, then?”
Pennington smoothed out the letter on the table.
“Linnet's going to Egypt for her honeymoon. Expects to be there a month or more. Yes – a chance meeting. Over on a trip. Linnet and her husband – honeymoon atmosphere. It might be done.”
Rockford said doubtfully, “She's sharp, Linnet is… but – ”
Pennington went on softly, “I think there might be ways of managing it.”
Again their eyes met. Rockford nodded.
“All right, big boy.”
Pennington looked at the clock.
“We'll have to hustle – whichever of us is going.”
“You go,” said Rockford promptly. “You always made a hit with Linnet. 'Uncle Andrew.' That's the ticket!53”
Pennington's face had hardened. He said, “I hope I can pull it off.”
“You've got to pull it off,” his partner said. “The situation's critical.”
Chapter 10
Mrs Otterbourne, with the turban of native material draped round her head, said fretfully:
“I really don't see why we shouldn't go on to Egypt. I'm sick and tired of Jerusalem.”
As her daughter made no reply, she said, “You might at least answer when you're spoken to.”
Rosalie Otterbourne was looking at a newspaper reproduction of a face. Below it was printed:
Mrs Simon Doyle, who before her marriage was the well-known society beauty, Miss Linnet Ridgeway. Mr and Mrs Doyle are spending their holiday in Egypt.
Rosalie said, “You'd like to move on to Egypt, Mother?”
“Yes, I would,” Mrs Otterbourne snapped. “I consider they've treated us in a most peculiar fashion here.
And this morning, the manager actually had the impertinence to tell me that all the rooms had been booked in advance and that he would require ours in two days' time.”
“So we've got to go somewhere.”
“Not at all. I'm quite prepared to fight for my rights.”
Rosalie murmured: “I suppose we might as well go on to Egypt. It doesn't make any difference.”
“It's certainly not a matter of life or death,” agreed Mrs Otterbourne.
But there she was quite wrong – for a matter of life and death was exactly what it was.
Part II
Egypt
Chapter 1
“That's Hercule Poirot, the detective,” said Mrs Allerton.
She and her son were sitting outside the Cataract54 Hotel at Assuan. They were watching the figures of two people – a short man dressed in a white silk suit and a tall slim girl. Tim Allerton sat up.
“That funny little man?” he asked incredulously.
“ That funny little man!”
“What on earth's he doing out here?” Tim asked.
His mother laughed. “Darling, you sound quite excited. Why do men enjoy crime so much? I hate detective stories and never read them. But I don't think Monsieur Poirot is here with any motive. He's made a good deal of money and he's seeing life, I fancy55.”
“Seems to have an eye for the best-looking girl in the place.”
Mrs Allerton tilted her head a little on one side as she considered the backs of M. Poirot and his companion.
“I suppose she is quite good-looking,” said Mrs Allerton.
She shot a little glance at Tim. To her amusement, he got interested in the girl.
“She's more than 'quite'. Pity she looks so bad-tempered and sulky.”
“Perhaps that's just expression, dear.”
The subject of these remarks was walking slowly by Poirot's side. Rosalie Otterbourne was holding an unopened parasol, and she really looked both sulky and bad-tempered. Her eyebrows were drawn together in a frown and the scarlet line of her mouth was drawn downward.
They turned to the left out of the hotel gate and entered the cool shade of the public gardens.
Hercule Poirot was talking gently, his expression that of good humour. He wore a white silk suit, carefully pressed, and a panama hat.
“– it excites me,” he was saying. “The black rocks of Elephantine56, and the sun, and the little boats on the river. Yes, it is good to be alive.” He paused and then added, “You do not find it so, Mademoiselle?”
Rosalie Otterbourne said shortly: “It's all right, I suppose. I think Assuan's a gloomy sort of place. The hotel's half empty, and everyone's about a hundred – ”
She stopped – biting her lip.
Hercule Poirot's eyes twinkled.
“It is true, yes, I have one leg in the grave.”
“I–I wasn't thinking of you,” said the girl. “I'm sorry. That sounded rude.”
“Not at all. It is natural you should wish for companions of your own age. Ah, well, there is one young man, at least.”
“ The one who sits with his mother all the time? I like her – but I think he looks dreadful – so conceited!”
Poirot sniffed.
“And I – am I conceited?”
“Oh, I don't think so.”
She was obviously uninterested – but the fact did not seem to annoy Poirot.
“Oh, well,” said Rosalie, “I suppose you have something to be conceited about. Unfortunately crime doesn't interest me in the least.”
Poirot said solemnly, “I am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide.”
She shot him a questioning glance. Poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on: “Madame, your mother, was not at lunch today. She is not unwell, I hope?”
“This place doesn't suit her,” said Rosalie briefly. “I shall be glad when we leave.”
“We are fellow passengers, are we not?57 We both make the excursion up to Wadi Halfa58 and the Second Cataract?”
“Yes.”
They came out from the shade of the gardens onto a dusty road by the river. Five bead sellers, two vendors of postcards, a couple of donkey boys and some riff-raff closed in upon them. “You want beads, sir? Very good, sir. Very cheap.”
“ You want ride donkey, sir? This very good donkey, sir.”
“You want postcard – very cheap – very nice.”
“Look, lady. Only ten piastres59 – very ivory.”
“You ride back to hotel, lady? This first class donkey.”
Hercule Poirot made gestures to rid himself of the vendors. Rosalie didn't pay attention to them.
“It's best to pretend to be deaf and blind,” she remarked.
But they were the most persistent. The others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next comer.
“You visit my shop today, sir?”
“You want that ivory crocodile, sir?”
They turned into the fifth shop and Rosalie bought several rolls of films – the object of the walk.
Then they came out again and walked toward the river.
One of the Nile steamers was just mooring. Poirot and Rosalie looked interestedly at the passengers.
“Quite a lot, aren't there?” commented Rosalie.
She turned her head as Tim Allerton came up and joined them. He was a little out of breath60 as though he had been walking fast.
They stood there for a moment or two and then Tim spoke.
“An awful crowd as usual, I suppose,” he remarked, indicating the disembarking passengers.
“They're usually quite terrible,” agreed Rosalie.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Tim, his voice suddenly excited. “I'm damned if that isn't Linnet Ridgeway.”
If the information left Poirot unmoved, it stirred Rosalie's interest61. She leaned forward and her sulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked:
“Where? That one in white?”
“Yes, there with the tall man. They're coming ashore now. He's the new husband, I suppose. Can't remember her name now.”
“Doyle,” said Rosalie. “Simon Doyle. It was in all the newspapers. She's very rich, isn't she?”
“About the richest girl in England,” replied Tim cheerfully.
The three lookers-on were silent watching the passengers come ashore.
Poirot gazed with interest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. He murmured, “She is beautiful.”
“Some people have got everything,” said Rosalie bitterly.
There was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the gangplank.
Linnet Doyle was looking perfect. She had the assurance of a famous actress. She was used to being looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.
She came ashore playing a role, even though she played it unconsciously. The rich beautiful bride on her honeymoon. She turned, with a little smile and a light remark, to the tall man by her side. He answered, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest Hercule Poirot. His eyes lit up and he drew his brows together.
The couple passed close to him. He heard Simon Doyle say:
“We'll try and make time for it, darling.62 We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here.”
His face was turned toward her, eager, adoring, a little humble.
Poirot's eyes ran over him thoughtfully – the square shoulders, the bronzed face, the dark blue eyes, the rather childlike simplicity of the smile.
“Lucky devil,” said Tim after they had passed.
“They look frightfully happy,” said Rosalie with a note of envy in her voice. She added suddenly, but so low that Tim did not catch the words, “It isn't fair.” Poirot heard, however, and he flashed a quick glance toward her63.
Tim said, “I must collect some stuff for my mother now.”
He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie went slowly in the direction of the hotel, waving aside new offers of donkeys64. “So it is not fair, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot gently.
Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged her shoulders65.
“It really seems a little too much for one person. Money, good looks, marvellous figure and – ”
She paused and Poirot said:
“And love? Eh? And love? But you do not know – she may have been married for her money!”
“Didn't you see the way he looked at her?”
“Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. I saw all there was to see – indeed I saw something that you did not.”
“What was that?”
Poirot said slowly: “I saw, Mademoiselle, dark lines below a woman's eyes. I saw a hand that clutched a sunshade so tight that the knuckles were white.”
Rosalie was staring at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that all is not the gold that glitters66. I mean that, though this lady is rich and beautiful and beloved, there is all the same something that is not right. And I know something else.”
“Yes?”
“I know,” said Poirot, frowning, “that somewhere, at some time, I have heard that voice before – the voice of Monsieur Doyle – and I wish I could remember where.”
But Rosalie was not listening. She had stopped dead.67 Suddenly she broke out fiercely:
“I'm awful. I'm just a beast through and through.68 I'd like to tear the clothes off her back and stamp on her lovely, arrogant, self-confident face. I'm just a jealous cat – but that's what I feel like. She's so horribly successful and assured.”
Hercule Poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. He took her by the arm and gave her a friendly little shake.
“You will feel better for having said that!”69
“I just hate her! I've never hated anyone so much at first sight.”
“Magnificent!”
Rosalie looked at him doubtfully. Then her mouth twitched and she laughed.
Poirot laughed too. They went amicably back to the hotel.
“I must find Mother,” said Rosalie, as they came into the cool, dim hall.
Some people were playing tennis in the hot sun. Poirot paused to watch them for a while, then went on down the steep path. It was there, sitting on a bench overlooking the Nile, that he came upon the girl of Chez Ma Tante. He recognized her at once. Her face, as he had seen it that night, was upon his memory. The expression on it now was very different. She was paler, thinner, and there were lines that told of a great weariness. He drew back a little. She had not seen him, and he watched her for a while without her suspecting his presence. Her small foot tapped impatiently on the ground. Her eyes had a strange kind of dark triumph in them. She was looking out across the Nile where the white sail-boats glided up and down the river.
A face – and a voice. He remembered them both. This girl's face and the voice he had heard just now, the voice of a newly made bridegroom…
And even as he stood there watching the girl, the next scene in the drama was played.
Voices sounded above. The girl on the seat stood up. Linnet Doyle and her husband came down the path. Linnet's voice was happy and confident. The look of strain had quite disappeared. Linnet was happy.
The girl who was standing there took a step or two forward. The other two stopped dead.
“Hullo, Linnet,” said Jacqueline de Bellefort. “So here you are! We never seem to stop running into each other.70 Hullo, Simon, how are you?”
Linnet Doyle had shrunk back against the rock with a little cry.71 Simon Doyle's good-looking face was suddenly convulsed with rage. He moved forward as though he would have liked to strike the slim girlish figure.
Then Simon turned his head and noticed Poirot. He said awkwardly, “Hullo, Jacqueline; we didn't expect to see you here.”
The girl flashed white teeth at them.72
“Quite a surprise?” she asked. Then, with a little nod, she walked up the path. Poirot moved delicately in the opposite direction. As he went he heard Linnet Doyle say:
“Simon – for God's sake! Simon – what can we do?”
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 near by 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 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. Mrs Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.
The swing doors revolved. 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 to bridge an awkward pause73, but Linnet seemed struck by the information.
“Hercule Poirot? Of course – I've heard of him.”
Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace when he heard Mrs Otterbourne say,
“Sit down, Monsieur Poirot. What a lovely night.”
He obeyed.
“Mais oui,74 Madame, it is indeed beautiful.”
He smiled politely at her. 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 laugh.
Poirot saw the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch.
“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.75 My public is getting terribly impatient – and my publisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables!76” Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.
“I don't mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot77, I am partly here for local colour. Snow on the Desert's Face – that is the title of my new book. Snow – on the desert – melted in the first flaming breath of passion.” Rosalie, her daughter, got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.
“One must be strong,” went on Mrs Otterbourne. “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 see, 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 looked swiftly from side to side. “Perhaps – I'll just slip up and get it for you now.”78
“Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself 1. 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. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myself – ”
Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.
Mrs Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.
“No, no. I am practically a tee-totaller. 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 Benedictine7980.
The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came toward them, a book in her hand.
“Here you are,” she said. Her voice was quite expressionless.
“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, representing a lady with 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 entitled 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.
Poirot bowed and murmured, “I am honoured, Madame81.”
As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress's daughter. He was astonished at the pain in them.
It was at that moment that the drinks arrived. Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.
“A votre sante82, Madame – Mademoiselle.”
Mrs Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade, murmured, “So refreshing – delicious!”
Silence fell on the three of them.83 They looked down to the black rocks in the Nile. There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like prehistoric monsters lying half out of the water. There was a feeling in the air of hush – of expectancy.84
Hercule Poirot looked around 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. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking toward them.
A dark slender girl in a wine coloured evening dress came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table.
“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. 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 turned her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.
