"It must have been a very near escape. Do you think some of those little black wretches rolled that stone over for fun? It's the sort of thing boys might do all over the world--not perhaps really meaning any harm." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "It may be, Madame.' He changed the subject, talking of Majorca and asking various practical questions from the point of view of a possible visit.
Mrs. Allerton had grown to like the little man very much partly, perhaps, out of a contradictory spirit. Tim, she felt, was always trying to make her less friendly to Hercule Poirot whom he had summarised firmly as "the worst kind of bounder." But she herself did not call him a bounder--she supposed it was his somewhat foreign exotic clothing which roused her son's prejudices. She herself found him an intelligent and stimulating companion. He was also extremely sympathetic. She found herself suddenly confiding in him her dislike of Joanna Southwood. It eased her to talk of the matter. And, after all, why not? He did not know Joanna--would probably never meet her. Why should she not ease herself of that constantly borne burden of jealous thought.
At that same moment Tim and Rosalie Otterbourne were talking of her.
Tim had just been halfjestingly abusing his luck. His rotten health, never bad enough to be really interesting--yet not good enough for him to have led the life he would have chosen. Very little money--no congenial occupation.
"A thoroughly lukewarm tame existence," he finished disconten..tedly.
Rosalie said abruptly: "You've got something heaps of people would envy you." "What's that?" "Your mother." Tim was surprised and pleased.
"Mother? Yes, of course she is quite unique. It's nice of you to see it." "I think she's marvellous. She looks so lovely--so composed and calm--as though nothing could ever touch her and yet--and yet somehow she's always ready to be funny about things too .
Rosalie was stammering slightly in her earnestness.
Tim felt a rising warmth towards the girl. He wished he could return the compliment, but lamentably Mrs. Otterbourne was his idea of the world's greatest menace. The inabfiity to respond in kind made him embarrassed.
Miss Van Schuyler had stayed in the launch. She could neither risk the ascent on a camel nor on her legs. She had said snappily: "I'm sorry to have to ask you to stay with me, Miss Bowers. I intended you to go and Cornelia to stay, but girls are so selfish. She rushed off without a word to me. And I actually saw her talking to that very unpleasant and ill-bred young man, Ferguson. Cornelia has disappointed me sadly. She has absolutely no social sense." Miss Bowers replied in her usual matter-of-fact fashion: "That's quite all right, Miss Van Schuyler. It would have been a hot walk up there and I don't fancy the look of those saddles on the camels. Fleas as likely as not." She adjusted her glasses, screwed up her eyes to look at the party descending the hill and remarked: "Miss Robson isn't with that young man any more. She's with Dr. Bessner." Miss Van Schuyler grunted.
Since she had discovered that Dr. Bessner had a large clinic in CzechoSlovakia and a European reputation as a fashionable physician she was disposed to be gracious to him. Besides, she might need his professional services before the journey was over.
When the party returned to the Karnak, Linnet gave a cry of surprise.
"A telegram for me." She snatched it off the board and tore it open.
"Why--I don't understand--potatoes--beetroots--what does it mean, Simon?'' Simon was just coming to look over her shoulder when a furious voice said: "Excuse me, that telegram is for me." And Signor Richetti snatched it rudely from her hand, fixing her with a furious glare as he did so.
Linnet stared in surprise for a moment, then turned over the envelope.
"Oh, Simon, what a fool I am. It's Richetti--not Ridgeway--and anyway, of course, my name isn't Ridgeway now. I must apologise." She followed the little archaeologist up to the stern of the boat.
"I am so sorry, Signor Richetti. You see my name was Ridgeway before I married and I haven't been married very long and so--" She paused, her face dimpled with smiles, inviting him to smile upon a young bride's faux pas.
But Richetti was obviously "not amused." Queen Victoria at her most disapproving could not have looked more grim.
"Names should be read carefully. It is inexcusable to be careless in these matters." Linnet bit her lip and her colour rose. She was not accustomed to have her apologies received in this fashion. She turned away and, rejoining Simon, she said angrily, "These Italians are really insupportable." "Never mind, darling, let's go and look at that big ivory crocodile you liked." They went ashore together.
Poirot, 'watching them walk up the landing-stage, heard a sharp indrawn breath. He turned to see Jacqueline de Bellefort at his side. Her hands were clenched on the rail. The expression on her face as she turned it towards him quite startled him. It was no longer gay or malicious. She looked devoured by some inner consuming fire.
"They don't care any more." The words came low and fast. "They've got beyond me. I can't reach them They don't mind if I'm here or not . . . I can't--I can't hurt them any more " Her hands on the rail trembled.
"Mademoiselle" She broke in.
"Oh, it's too late now--too late for warning .... You were right. I ought not to have come. Not on this journey. What did you call it? A journey of the soul? I can't go back---I've got to go on. And I'm going on. They shan't be happy together--they shan't. I'd kill him sooner .... "
She turned abruptly away. Poirot staring after her, felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Your girl friend seems a trifle upset, M. Poirot."
Poirot turned. He stared in surprise, seeing an old acquaintance.
"Colonel Race."
The tall bronzed man smiled.
"Bit of a surprise ch?"
Hercule Poirot had come across Colonel Race a year previously in London.
They had been fellow-guests at a very strange dinner party--a dinner party that had ended in death for that strange man, their host.
Poirot knew that Race was a man of unadvertised goings and comings. He was usually to be found in one of the outposts of Empire where trouble was brewing. "So you are here at Wadi Halfa," Poirot remarked thoughtfully. "I am here on this boat." "You mean?"
"That I am making the return journey with you to Shellal."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose.
"That is very interesting. Shall we, perhaps, have a little drink."
They went into the observation saloon, now quite empty. Poirot ordered a whisky for the colonel and a double orangeade full of sugar for himself.
"So you make the return journey with us," said Poirot as he sipped. "You would go faster, would you not, on the Government steamer which travels by night as well as day?"
Colonel Race's face creased appreciatively.
"You're right on the spot as usual, M, Poirot,' he said pleasantly. "It is, then, the passengers?" "One of the passengers."
"Now which one, I wonder?" Hercule Poirot asked of the ornate ceiling.
"Unfortunately I don't know myself," said Race ruefully.
Poirot looked interested.
Race said:
"There's no need to be mysterious to you. We've had a good deal of trouble out hereone way and another. It isn't the people who ostensibly lead the rioters that we're after. It's the men who very cleverly put the match to the gunpowder.
There were three of them. One's dead. One's in prison. I want the third man--a man with five or six cold-blooded murders to his credit. He's one of the cleverest paid agitators that ever existed .... He's on this boat. I know that from a passage in a letter that passed through our hands. Decoded it said: 'X will be on the Karnak trip Feb. 7th-13th .... ' It didn't say under what name X would be passing." "Have you any description of him?"
"No. American, Irish and French descent. Bit of a mongrel. That doesn't help us much. Have you got any ideas?"
"An idea--it is all very well," said Poirot meditatively.
Such was the understanding betwen them that Race pressed him no further.
He kn
ew that Hercule Poirot did not ever speak unless he were sure.
Poirot rubbed his nose and said unhappily:
"There passes itself something on this boat that causes me much inquietude." Race looked at him inquiringly.
"Figure to yourself," said Poirot, "a person A who has grievously wronged a person B. The person B desires the revenge. The person B makes the threats."
"A and B being both on this boat?"
Poirot nodded.
"Precisely."
"And B, I gather, being a woman?"
"Exactly."
Race lit a cigarette.
"I shouldn't worry. People who go about talking of what they are going to do don't usually do it."
"And particularly is that the case with lesfemmes, you would say! Yes, that is true.'
But he still did not look happy.
"Anything else?" asked Race.
"Yes, there is something. Yesterday the person A had a very near escape from death. The kind of death that might very conveniently be called an accident." "Engineered by B?'
"No, that is just the point. B could have had nothing to do with it."
"Then it was an accident."
"I suppose so--but I do not like such accidents." "You're quite sure B could have had no hand in it?" "Absolutely.'
"Oh well, coincidences do happen. Who is A, by the way? A particularly disagreeable person?"
"On the contrary. A is a charming, rich and beautiful young lady.'
Race grinned.
"Sounds quite like a novelette."
"Peut-tre. But I tell you, I am not happy, my friend. If I am right, and after all I am constantly in the habit of being right--"
Race smiled into his moustache at this typical utterance.
"--then there is matter for grave inquietude. And now, tou come to add yet another complication. You tell me that there is a man on the Karnak who kills." "He doesn't usually kill charming young ladies.
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
"I am afraid, my friend," he said. "I am afraid .... To-day, I advised this lady, Mrs. Doyle, to go with her husband to Khartoum, not to return on this boat.
But they would not agree. I pray to Heaven that we may arrive at Shellal without catastrophe."
"Aren't you taking rather a gloomy view?"
Poirot shook his head.
"I am afraid," he said simply. "Yes I, Hercule Poirot, am afraid .... "
CHAPTER 11
Cornelia Robson stood inside the temple of Abu Simbel. It was the evening of the following day--a hot still evening. The Karnak was anchored once more at Abu Simbel to permit a second visit to be made to the temple this time by artificial light. The difference this made was considerable and Cornelia commented wonderingly on the fact to Mr. Ferguson who was standing by her side.
"Why, you see it ever so much better now!" she exclaimed. "All those enemies having their heads cut off by the king--they just stand right out. That's a cute kind of castle there that I never noticed before. I wish Dr. Bessner was here, he'd tell me what it was."
"How you can stand that old fool beats me," said Ferguson gloomily.
"Why, he's just one of the kindest men I've ever met!" "Pompous old bore."
"I don't think you ought to speak that way."
The young man gripped her suddenly by the arm. They were just emerging from the temple into the moonlight.
"Why do you stick being bored by fat old men--and bullied and snubbed by a vicious old harridan?"
"Why, Mr. Ferguson!"
"Haven't you got any spirit? Don't you know you're just as good as she is?" "But I'm not!" Cornelia spoke with honest conviction.
"You're not as rich--that's all you mean."
"No, it isn't. Cousin Marie's very very cultured, and-"
"Cultured--" the young man let go of her arm as suddenly as he had taken it.
"That word makes me sick."
Cornelia looked at him in alarm.
"She doesn't like you talking to me, does she?" said the young man.
Cornelia blushed and looked embarrassed.
"Why--? Because she thinks I'm not her social equal! Pah--doesn't that make you see red?"
Cornelia faltered out:
"I wish you wouldn't get so mad about things."
"Don't you realise-and you an American--that every one is born free and equal?"
"They're not," said Cornelia with calm certainty.
"My good girl--it's part of your constitution!"
"Cousin Marie says politicians aren't gentlemen," said Cornelia. "And of course people aren't equal. It doesn't make sense. I know I'm kind of homely looking and I used to feel mortified about it sometimes, but I've got over that. I'd like to have been born elegant and beautiful like Mrs. Doyle, but I wasn't, so I guess it's no use worrying."
"Mrs. Doyle!" said Ferguson with deep contempt. "She's the sort of woman who ought to be shot as an example."
Cornelia looked at him anxiously.
"I believe it's your digestion," she said kindly. "I've got a special kind of pepsin that Cousin Marie tried once. Would you like to try it?" Mr. Ferguson said: "You're impossible!"
He turned and strode away. Cornelia went on towards the boat. Just as she was crossing on to the gangway, he caught her up once more.
"You're the nicest person on the boat," he said. "And mind you remember it." Blushing with pleasure Cornelia repaired to the observation saloon.
Miss Van Schuyler was conversing with Dr. Bessner--an agreeable eon versation dealing with certain royal patients of his.
Cornelia said guiltily:
"I do hope I haven't been a long time, Cousin Marie." Glancing at her watch the old lady snapped:
"You haven't exactly hurried, my dear. And what have you done with my velvet stole?" Cornelia looked round.
"Shall I see if it's in the cabin, Cousin Marie?" "Of course it isn't! I had it just after dinner in here, and I haven't moved out of the place. It was on that chair." Cornelia made a desultory search.
"I can't see it anywhere, Cousin Marie." "Nonsense," said Miss Van Schuyler. "Look about." It was an order such as one might give to a dog and in her doglike fashion Cornelia obeyed. The quiet Mr.
Fanthorp who was sitting at a table near by rose and assisted her. But the stole could not be found.
The day had been such an unusually hot and sultry one that most people had retired early after going ashore to view the temple. The Doyles were playing bridge with Pennington and Race at a table in a corner. The only other occupant of the saloon was Hercule Poirot, who was yawning his head off at a small table near the door.
Miss Van Schuyler, making a Royal Progress bedwards with Cornelia and Miss Bowers in attendance, paused by his chair, and he sprang politely to his feet, stifling a yawn of gargantuan dimensions.
Miss Van Schuyler said: "I have only just realised who you are, M. Poirot. I may tell you that I have heard of you from my old friend Rufus Van Aldin. You must tell me about your cases some time." With a kindly but condescending nod she passed on.
Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little through their sleepiness, bowed in an exaggerated manner.
Then he yawned once more. He felt heavy and stupid with sleep and could hardly keep his eyes open. He glanced over at the bridge players, absorbed in their game, then at young Fanthorp who was deep in a book. Apart from them the saloon was empty.
He passed through the swinging door out on to the deck. Jacqueline de Bellefort, coming precipitately along the deck, almost collided with him.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle." She said: "You look sleepy, M. Poirot." He admitted it frankly.
"Mais oui--I am consumed with sleep. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It has been a day very close and oppressive." "Yes." She seemed to brood over it. "It's been the sort of day when things--snap!
Break! When one can't go on .... " Her voice was low and charged with passion.
She looked not at him, but towards the sandy shore. Her hands were clenched, rigid
.
Suddenly the tension relaxed. She said: "Good-night, M. Poirot." "Good-night, Mademoiselle." Her eyes met his, just for a swift moment. Thinking it over next day he came to the conclusion that there had been appeal in that glance. He was to remember it afterwards .
Then he passed on to his cabin and she went towards the saloon.
Agatha Christie - Death On The Nile Page 11