Death on the Nile

by Agatha Christie

  Poirot said quickly: “But it was an odd moment to choose?”

  “Exactly. To steal the pearls at such a moment invites a close search of everybody on board. How then could the thief hope to get away with his booty?”

  “He might have gone ashore and dumped it.”

  “The company always has a watchman on the bank.”

  “Then that is not feasible. Was the murder committed to divert attention from the robbery? No, that does not make sense; it is profoundly unsatisfactory. But supposing that Madame Doyle woke up and caught the thief in the act?”

  “And therefore the thief shot her? But she was shot whilst she slept.”

  “So that does not make sense…You know, I have a little idea about those pearls—and yet—no—it is impossible. Because if my idea was right the pearls would not have disappeared. Tell me, what did you think of the maid?”

  “I wondered,” said Race slowly, “if she knew more than she said.”

  “Ah, you too had that impression?”

  “Definitely not a nice girl,” said Race.

  Hercule Poirot nodded. “Yes, I would not trust her.”

  “You think she had something to do with the murder?”

  “No. I would not say that.”

  “With the theft of the pearls, then?”

  “That is more probable. She had only been with Madame Doyle a very short time. She may be a member of a gang that specializes in jewel robberies. In such a case there is often a maid with excellent references. Unfortunately we are not in a position to seek information on these points. And yet that explanation does not quite satisfy me…Those pearls—ah, sacré, my little idea ought to be right. And yet nobody would be so imbecile—” He broke off.

  “What about the man Fleetwood?”

  “We must question him. It may be that we have there the solution. If Louise Bourget’s story is true, he had a definite motive for revenge. He could have overheard the scene between Jacqueline and Monsieur Doyle, and when they had left the saloon he could have darted in and secured the gun. Yes, it is all quite possible. And that letter J scrawled in blood. That, too, would accord with a simple, rather crude nature.”

  “In fact, he’s just the person we are looking for?”

  “Yes—only—” Poirot rubbed his nose. He said with a slight grimace: “See you, I recognize my own weaknesses. It has been said of me that I like to make a case difficult. This solution that you put to me—it is too simple, too easy. I cannot feel that it really happened. And yet, that may be the sheer prejudice on my part.”

  “Well, we’d better have the fellow here.”

  Race rang the bell and gave the order. Then he asked, “Any other—possibilities?”

  “Plenty, my friend. There is, for example, the American trustee.”

  “Pennington?”

  “Yes, Pennington. There was a curious little scene in here the other day.” He narrated the happenings to Race. “You see—it is significant. Madame, she wanted to read all the papers before signing. So he makes the excuse of another day. And then, the husband, he makes a very significant remark.”

  “What was that?”

  “He says—‘I never read anything. I sign where I am told to sign.’ You perceive the significance of that. Pennington did. I saw it in his eye. He looked at Doyle as though an entirely new idea had come into his head. Just imagine, my friend, that you have been left trustee to the daughter of an intensely wealthy man. You use, perhaps, that money to speculate with. I know it is so in all detective novels—but you read of it too in the newspapers. It happens, my friend, it happens.”

  “I don’t dispute it,” said Race.

  “There is, perhaps, still time to make good by speculating wildly. Your ward is not yet of age. And then—she marries! The control passes from your hands into hers at a moment’s notice! A disaster! But there is still a chance. She is on a honeymoon. She will perhaps be careless about business. A casual paper, slipped in among others, signed without reading…But Linnet Doyle was not like that. Honeymoon or no honeymoon, she is a business woman. And then her husband makes a remark, and a new idea comes to that desperate man who is seeking a way out from ruin. If Linnet Doyle were to die, her fortune would pass to her husband—and he would be easy to deal with; he would be a child in the hands of an astute man like Andrew Pennington. Mon cher Colonel, I tell you I saw the thought pass through Andrew Pennington’s head. ‘If only it were Doyle I had got to deal with…’ That is what he was thinking.”

  “Quite possible, I dare say,” said Race dryly, “but you’ve no evidence.”

  “Alas, no.”

  “Then there’s young Ferguson,” said Race. “He talks bitterly enough. Not that I go by talk. Still, he might be the fellow whose father was ruined by old Ridgeway. It’s a little far-fetched but it’s possible. People do brood over bygone wrongs sometimes.” He paused a minute and then said: “And there’s my fellow.”

  “Yes, there is ‘your fellow’ as you call him.”

  “He’s a killer,” said Race. “We know that. On the other hand, I can’t see any way in which he could have come up against Linnet Doyle. Their orbits don’t touch.”

  Poirot said slowly: “Unless, accidentally, she had become possessed of evidence showing his identity.”

  “That’s possible, but it seems highly unlikely.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Ah, here’s our would-be bigamist.”

  Fleetwood was a big, truculent-looking man. He looked suspiciously from one to the other of them as he entered the room. Poirot recognized him as the man he had seen talking to Louise Bourget.

  Fleetwood asked suspiciously: “You wanted to see me?”

  “We did,” said Race. “You probably know that a murder was committed on this boat last night?”

  Fleetwood nodded.

  “And I believe it is true that you had reason to feel anger against the woman who was killed.”

  A look of alarm sprang up in Fleetwood’s eyes.

  “Who told you that?”

  “You considered that Mrs. Doyle had interfered between you and a young woman.”

  “I know who told you that—that lying French hussy. She’s a liar through and through, that girl.”

  “But this particular story happens to be true.”

  “It’s a dirty lie!”

  “You say that, although you don’t know what it is yet.”

  The shot told. The man flushed and gulped.

  “It is true, is it not, that you were going to marry the girl Marie, and that she broke it off when she discovered that you were a married man already?”

  “What business was it of hers?”

  “You mean, what business was it of Mrs. Doyle’s? Well, you know, bigamy is bigamy.”

  “It wasn’t like that. I married one of the locals out here. It didn’t answer. She went back to her people. I’ve not seen her for a half a dozen years.”

  “Still you were married to her.”

  The man was silent. Race went on: “Mrs. Doyle, or Miss Ridgeway as she then was, found out all this?”

  “Yes, she did, curse her! Nosing about where no one ever asked her to. I’d have treated Marie right. I’d have done anything for her. And she’d never have known about the other, if it hadn’t been for that meddlesome young lady of hers. Yes, I’ll say it, I did have a grudge against the lady, and I felt bitter about it when I saw her on this boat, all dressed up in pearls and diamonds and lording it all over the place, with never a thought that she’d broken up a man’s life for him! I felt bitter all right, but if you think I’m a dirty murderer—if you think I went and shot her with a gun, well, that’s a damned lie! I never touched her. And that’s God’s truth.”

  He stopped. The sweat was rolling down his face.

  “Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and two?”

  “In my bunk asleep—and my mate will tell you so.”

  “We shall see,” said Race. He dismissed him with a curt nod.
“That’ll do.”

  “Eh bien?” inquired Poirot as the door closed behind Fleetwood.

  Race shrugged his shoulders. “He tells quite a straight story. He’s nervous, of course, but not unduly so. We’ll have to investigate his alibi—though I don’t suppose it will be decisive. His mate was probably asleep, and this fellow could have slipped in and out if he wanted to. It depends whether anyone else saw him.”

  “Yes, one must inquire as to that.”

  “The next thing, I think,” said Race, “is whether anyone heard anything which might give a clue as to the time of the crime. Bessner places it as having occurred between twelve and two. It seems reasonable to hope that someone among the passengers may have heard the shot—even if they did not recognize it for what it was. I didn’t hear anything of the kind myself. What about you?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “Me, I slept absolutely like the log. I heard nothing—but nothing at all. I might have been drugged, I slept so soundly.”

  “A pity,” said Race. “Well, let’s hope we have a bit of luck with the people who have cabins on the starboard side. Fanthorp we’ve done. The Allertons come next. I’ll send the steward to fetch them.”

  Mrs. Allerton came in briskly. She was wearing a soft grey striped silk dress. Her face looked distressed.

  “It’s too horrible,” she said as she accepted the chair that Poirot placed for her. “I can hardly believe it. That lovely creature, with everything to live for—dead. I almost feel I can’t believe it.”

  “I know how you feel, Madame,” said Poirot sympathetically.

  “I’m glad you are on board,” said Mrs. Allerton simply. “You’ll be able to find out who did it. I’m so glad it isn’t that poor tragic girl.”

  “You mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who told you she did not do it?”

  “Cornelia Robson,” replied Mrs. Allerton, with a faint smile. “You know, she’s simply thrilled by it all. It’s probably the only exciting thing that has ever happened to her, and probably the only exciting thing that ever will happen to her. But she’s so nice that she’s terribly ashamed of enjoying it. She thinks it’s awful of her.”

  Mrs. Allerton gave a look at Poirot and then added: “But I mustn’t chatter. You want to ask me questions.”

  “If you please. You went to bed at what time, Madame?”

  “Just after half past ten.”

  “And you went to sleep at once?”

  “Yes. I was sleepy.”

  “And did you hear anything—anything at all—during the night?”

  Mrs. Allerton wrinkled her brows.

  “Yes, I think I heard a splash and someone running—or was it the other way about? I’m rather hazy. I just had a vague idea that someone had fallen overboard at sea—a dream, you know—and then I woke up and listened, but it was all quite quiet.”

  “Do you know what time that was?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I don’t think it was very long after I went to sleep. I mean it was within the first hour or so.”

  “Alas, Madame, that is not very definite.”

  “No, I know it isn’t. But it’s no good trying to guess, is it, when I haven’t really the vaguest idea?”

  “And that is all you can tell us, Madame?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Had you ever actually met Madame Doyle before?”

  “No, Tim had met her. And I’d heard a good deal about her—through a cousin of ours, Joanna Southwood, but I’d never spoken to her till we met at Assuan.”

  “I have one other question, Madame, if you will pardon me for asking.”

  Mrs. Allerton murmured with a faint smile, “I should love to be asked an indiscreet question.”

  “It is this. Did you, or your family, ever suffer any financial loss through the operations of Madame Doyle’s father, Melhuish Ridgeway?”

  Mrs. Allerton looked thoroughly astonished.

  “Oh, no! The family finances have never suffered except by dwindling…you know, everything paying less interest than it used to. There’s never been anything melodramatic about our poverty. My husband left very little money, but what he left I still have, though it doesn’t yield as much as it used to yield.”

  “I thank you, Madame. Perhaps you will ask your son to come to us.”

  Tim said lightly, when his mother came: “Ordeal over? My turn now! What sort of things did they ask you?”

  “Only whether I heard anything last night,” said Mrs. Allerton. “And unluckily I didn’t hear anything at all. I can’t think why not. After all, Linnet’s cabin is only one away from mine. I should think I’d have been bound to hear the shot. Go along, Tim; they’re waiting for you.”

  To Tim Allerton Poirot repeated his previous questions.

  Tim answered: “I went to bed early, half-past ten or so. I read for a bit. Put out my light just after eleven.”

  “Did you hear anything after that?”

  “Heard a man’s voice saying good night, I think, not far away.”

  “That was me saying good night to Mrs. Doyle,” said Race.

  “Yes. After that I went to sleep. Then, later, I heard a kind of hullabaloo going on, somebody calling Fanthorp, I remember.”

  “Mademoiselle Robson when she ran out from the observation saloon.”

  “Yes, I suppose that was it. And then a lot of different voices. And then somebody running along the deck. And then a splash. And then I heard old Bessner booming out something about ‘Careful now’ and ‘Not too quick.’”

  “You heard a splash.”

  “Well, something of that kind.”

  “You are sure it was not a shot you heard?”

  “Yes, I suppose it might have been…I did hear a cork pop. Perhaps that was the shot. I may have imagined the splash from connecting the idea of the cork with liquid pouring into a glass…I know my foggy idea was that there was some kind of party on, and I wished they’d all go to bed and shut up.”

  “Anything more after that?”

  Tim shrugged his shoulders. “After that—oblivion.”

  “You heard nothing more?”

  “Nothing whatever.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Allerton.”

  Tim got up and left the cabin.

  Sixteen

  Race pored thoughtfully over a plan of the promenade deck of the Karnak.

  “Fanthorp, young Allerton, Mrs. Allerton. Then an empty cabin—Simon Doyle’s. Now who’s on the other side of Mrs. Doyle’s? The old American dame. If anyone heard anything she would have done. If she’s up we’d better have her along.”

  Miss Van Schuyler entered the room. She looked even older and yellower than usual this morning. Her small dark eyes had an air of venomous displeasure in them.

  Race rose and bowed.

  “We’re very sorry to trouble you, Miss Van Schuyler. It’s very good of you. Please sit down.”

  Miss Van Schuyler said sharply: “I dislike being mixed up in this. I resent it very much. I do not wish to be associated in any way with this—er—very unpleasant affair.”

  “Quite—quite. I was just saying to Monsieur Poirot that the sooner we took your statement the better, as then you need have no further trouble.”

  Miss Van Schuyler looked at Poirot with something approaching favour.

  “I’m glad you both realize my feelings. I am not accustomed to anything of this kind.”

  Poirot said soothingly: “Precisely, Mademoiselle. That is why we wish to free you from unpleasantness as quickly as possible. Now you went to bed last night—at what time?”

  “Ten o’clock is my usual time. Last night I was rather later, as Cornelia Robson, very inconsiderately, kept me waiting.”

  “Très bien, Mademoiselle. Now what did you hear after you had retired?”

  Miss Van Schuyler said: “I sleep very lightly.”

  “A merveille! That is very fortunate for us.”

  “I was awakened by that rather flashy young woman, Mrs.
Doyle’s maid, who said, ‘Bonne nuit, Madame’ in what I cannot but think an unnecessarily loud voice.”

  “And after that?”

  “I went to sleep again. I woke up thinking someone was in my cabin, but I realized that it was someone in the cabin next door.”

  “In Madame Doyle’s cabin?”

  “Yes. Then I heard someone outside on the deck and then a splash.”

  “You have no idea what time this was?”

  “I can tell you the time exactly. It was ten minutes past one.”

  “You are sure of that?”

  “Yes. I looked at my little clock that stands by my bed.”

  “You did not hear a shot?”

  “No, nothing of the kind.”

  “But it might possibly have been a shot that awakened you?”

  Miss Van Schuyler considered the question, her toadlike head on one side.

  “It might,” she admitted rather grudgingly.

  “And you have no idea what might have caused the splash you heard?”

  “Not at all—I know perfectly.”

  Colonel Race sat up alertly. “You know?”

  “Certainly. I did not like this sound of prowling around. I got up and went to the door of my cabin. Miss Otterbourne was leaning over the side. She had just dropped something into the water.”

  “Miss Otterbourne?” Race sounded really surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “You are quite sure it was Miss Otterbourne?”

  “I saw her face distinctly.”

  “She did not see you?”

  “I do not think so.”

  Poirot leaned forward.

  “And what did her face look like, Mademoiselle?”

  “She was in a condition of considerable emotion.”

  Race and Poirot exchanged a quick glance.

  “And then?” Race prompted.

  “Miss Otterbourne went away round the stern of the boat and I returned to bed.”

  There was a knock at the door and the manager entered. He carried in his hand a dripping bundle.

  “We’ve got it, Colonel.”

  Race took the package. He unwrapped fold after fold of sodden velvet. Out of it fell a coarse handkerchief, faintly stained with pink, wrapped round a small pearl-handled pistol.