"Wrong, Mother," said Tim grinning. He had suddenly recovered his good humour.
"How do you know?"
"Because I was in the lounge before dinner and the old bean said to the companion woman, 'Where's Miss Bowers? Fetch her at once, Cornelia,' and away trotted Cornelia like an obedient dog."
"I shall have to talk to Miss Van Schuyler," mused Mrs. Allerton.
Tim grinned again.
"She'll snub you, Mother."
"Not at all. I shall pave the way by sitting near her and conversing in low (but penetrating) well-bred tones about any titled relations and friends I can remember.
I think a casual mention of your second cousin once removed the Duke of Glasgow would probably do the trick."
"How unscrupulous you are, Mother."
Events after dinner were not without their amusing side to a student of human nature.
The socialist young man (who turned out to be Mr. Ferguson as deduced) retired to the smoking-room, scorning the assemblage of passengers in the observation saloon on the top deck.
Miss Van Schuyler duly secured the best and most undraughty position there by advancing firmly on a table at which Mrs. Otterbourne was sitting and saying: "You'll excuse me, I am sure, but I think my knitting was left here!" Fixed by a hypnotic eye the turban rose and gave ground. Miss Van Schuyler established herself and her suite. Mrs. Otterbourne sat down near by and hazarded various remarks which were met with such chilling politeness that she soon gave up. Miss Van Schuyler then sat in glorious isolation. The Doyles sat with the Allertons. Dr. Bessner retained the quiet Mr. Fanthorp as a companion.
Jacqueline de Bellefort sat by herself with a book. Rosalie Otterbourne was restless. Mrs. Allerton spoke to her once or twice and tried to draw her into their group but the girl responded ungraciously.
M. Hercule Poirot spent his evening listening to an account of Mrs.
Otterbourne's mission as a writer.
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, M. 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 all 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.
CHAPTER 8
The steamer arrived early next morning at Es-Sab6a. 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 ince 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 around much, and now this wonderful trip up to Wadi Halfa and back." Poirot said, smiling: "You have the happy nature, Mademoiselle." He looked thoughtfully from her to the 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 cotsin to 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 RHarakhtewhose symbol was hawk's head . . ." It droned on. Dr. Bessner, Bedeker 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 cabins. 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 close up to the front glass intent on the panorama unfolding 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.
He said: "All right, sweet?" "Yes, still all right .... Funny how I'm not rattled any more."
Simon said with a deep conviction in h
is 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 Lands 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 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 te simplest way." Andrew Pennington was looking at him thoughtfully. He said dryly, stroking his upper lip: "A little risky sometimes, Doyle?" "Nonsense," said 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 every one's surprise, the silent Mr. Fanthorp swung round 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 before you read it through is admirablealtogether 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 was looking 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 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 halfa 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 any one 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 some one 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 eyes 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 up--the lot of them!" he snorted.
"My dear young man," said Poirot. "What a passion you have for violencel"
"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 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 Mr. and Mrs. Doyle," said Poirot stiffly.
"I am on a holiday."
"Enjoying a vacation--eh?" e'
Agatha Christie - Death On The Nile Page 9