Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile. Агата Кристи
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hand slipped through his arm. He pressed it close to his side.
‘We’re off, Lin,’ he murmured.
The steamer was drawing away from the jetty. They had started on their seven-day journey to the Second Cataract and back.
Behind them a light silvery laugh rang out. Linnet whipped round.
Jacqueline de Bellefort was standing there. She seemed amused.
‘Hullo, Linnet! I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought you said you were staying in Aswan another ten days. This is a surprise!’
‘You – you didn’t-’Linnet’s tongue stammered. She forced a ghastly conventional smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you either.’
‘No?’
Jacqueline moved away to the other side of the boat. Linnet’s grasp on her husband’s arm tightened.
‘Simon – Simon-’
All Doyle’s good-natured pleasure had gone. He looked furious. His hands clenched themselves in spite of his effort at self-control.
The two of them moved a little away. Without turning his head Poirot caught scraps of disjointed words.
‘… turn back… impossible… we could…’ and then, slightly louder, Doyle’s voice, despairing but grim. ‘We can’t run away for ever, Lin. We’ve got to go through with it now …’
It was some hours later. Daylight was just fading. Poirot stood in the glass-enclosed saloon looking straight ahead. The Karnak was going through a narrow gorge. The rocks came down with a kind of sheer ferocity to the river flowing deep and swift between them. They were in Nubia now.
He heard a movement and Linnet Doyle stood by his side. Her fingers twisted and untwisted themselves; she looked as he had never yet seen her look. There was about her the air of a bewildered child. She said:
‘Monsieur Poirot, I’m afraid – I’m afraid of everything. I’ve never felt like this before. All these wild rocks and the awful grimness and starkness. Where are we going? What’s going to happen? I’m afraid, I tell you. Everyone hates me. I’ve never felt like that before. I’ve always been nice to people – I’ve done things for them – and they hate me – lots of people hate me. Except for Simon, I’m surrounded by enemies… It’s terrible to feel – that there are people who hate you…’
‘But what is all this, Madame?’
She shook her head.
‘I suppose – it’s nerves… I just feel that – everything’s unsafe all round me.’
She cast a quick nervous glance over his shoulder. Then she said abruptly: ‘How will all this end? We’re caught here. Trapped. There’s no way out. We’ve got to go on. I–I don’t know where I am.’
She slipped down on to a seat. Poirot looked down on her gravely; his glance was not untinged with compassion.
She said:
‘How did she know we were coming on this boat? How could she have known?’
Poirot shook his head as he answered:
‘She has brains, you know.’
‘I feel as though I shall never escape from her.’
Poirot said: ‘There is one plan you might have adopted. In fact I am surprised that it did not occur to you. After all, with you, Madame, money is no object. Why did you not engage in your own private dahabeeyah?’
Linnet shook her head rather helplessly.
‘If we’d known about all this – but you see we didn’t – then. And it was difficult…’ She flashed out with sudden impatience: ‘Oh! you don’t understand half my difficulties. I’ve got to be careful with Simon… He’s – he’s absurdly sensitive – about money. About my having so much! He wanted me to go to some little place in Spain with him – he – he wanted to pay all our honeymoon expenses himself. As if it mattered! Men are stupid! He’s got to get used to – to – living comfortably. The mere idea of a dahabeeyah upset him – the – the needless expense. I’ve got to educate him – gradually.’
She looked up, bit her lip vexedly, as though feeling that she had been led into discussing her difficulties rather too unguardedly.
She got up.
‘I must change. I’m sorry, Monsieur Poirot. I’m afraid I’ve been talking a lot of foolish nonsense.’
Chapter 7
Mrs Allerton, looking quiet and distinguished in her simple black lace evening gown, descended two decks to the dining room. At the door of it her son caught her up.
‘Sorry, darling. I thought I was going to be late.’
‘I wonder where we sit.’
The saloon was dotted with little tables. Mrs Allerton paused till the steward, who was busy seating a party of people, could attend to them.
‘By the way,’ she added, ‘I asked little Hercule Poirot to sit at our table.’
‘Mother, you didn’t!’ Tim sounded really taken aback and annoyed.
His mother stared at him in surprise. Tim was usually so easy going.
‘My dear, do you mind?’
‘Yes, I do. He’s an unmitigated little bounder!’
‘Oh, no, Tim! I don’t agree with you.’
‘Anyway, what do we want to get mixed up with an outsider for? Cooped up like this on a small boat, that sort of thing is always a bore. He’ll be with us morning, noon and night.’
‘I’m sorry, dear.’ Mrs Allerton looked distressed. ‘I thought really it would amuse you. After all, he must have had a varied experience. And you love detective stories.’
Tim grunted:
‘I wish you wouldn’t have these bright ideas, Mother. We can’t get out of it now, I suppose?’
‘Really, Tim, I don’t see how we can.’
‘Oh, well, we shall have to put up with it, I suppose.’
The steward came to them at this minute and led them to a table. Mrs Allerton’s face wore rather a puzzled expression as she followed him. Tim was usually so easy-going and good-tempered. This outburst was quite unlike him. It wasn’t as though he had the ordinary Britisher’s dislike – and mistrust – of foreigners. Tim was very cosmopolitan. Oh, well – she sighed. Men were incomprehensible! Even one’s nearest and dearest had unsuspected reactions and feelings.
As they took their places, Hercule Poirot came quickly and silently into the dining-saloon. He paused with his hand on the back of the third chair.
‘You really permit, Madame, that I avail myself of your kind suggestion?’
‘Of course. Sit down, Monsieur Poirot.’
‘You are most amiable.’
She was uneasily conscious that as he seated himself he shot a swift glance at Tim, and that Tim had not quite succeeded in masking a somewhat sullen expression.
Mrs Allerton set herself to produce a pleasant atmosphere. As they drank their soup, she picked up the passenger list which had been placed beside her plate.
‘Let’s try and identify everybody,’ she suggested cheerfully. ‘I always think that’s rather fun.’ She began reading. ‘Mrs Allerton, Mr T. Allerton. That’s easy enough! Miss de Bellefort. They’ve put her at the same table as the Otterbournes, I see. I wonder what she and Rosalie will make of each other. Who comes next? Dr Bessner. Dr Bessner? Who can identify Dr Bessner?’ She bent her glance on a table at which four men sat together. ‘I think he must be the fat one with the closely shaved head and the moustache. A German, I should imagine. He seems to be enjoying his soup very much.’ Certain succulent noises floated across