Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile. Агата Кристи
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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 altogther-’
‘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 half a 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 anyone 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 someone 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 eye 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 – the lot of them!’ he asserted.
‘My dear young man,’ said Poirot, ‘what a passion you have for violence!’
‘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 a 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 Monsieur and Madame Doyle,’ said Poirot stiffly. ‘I am on a holiday.’
‘Enjoying a vacation – eh?’
‘And you? Is it not that you are on holiday also?’
‘Holiday!’ Mr Ferguson snorted. Then he added cryptically: ‘I’m studying conditions.’
‘Very interesting,’ murmured Poirot and moved gently out on to the deck.
Miss Van Schuyler was established in the best corner. Cornelia knelt in front of her, her arms outstretched with a skein of grey wool upon them. Miss Bowers was sitting very upright reading the Saturday Evening Post.
Poirot wandered gently onward down the starboard deck. As he passed round the stern of the boat he almost ran into a woman who turned a startled face towards him – a dark, piquant, Latin face. She was neatly dressed in black and had been standing talking to a big burly man in uniform – one of the engineers, by the look of him. There was a queer expression on both their faces – guilt and alarm. Poirot wondered what they had been talking about.
He rounded the stern and continued his walk along the port side. A cabin door opened and Mrs Otterbourne emerged and nearly fell into his arms. She was wearing a scarlet satin dressing gown.
‘So sorry,’ she apologized. ‘Dear Mr Poirot – so very sorry. The motion – just the motion, you know. Never did have any sea legs. If the boat would only keep still…’ She clutched at his arm. ‘It’s the pitching I can’t stand… Never really happy at sea… And left all alone here hour after hour. That girl of mine – no sympathy – no understanding of her poor old mother who’s done everything for her…’ Mrs Otterbourne began to weep. ‘Slaved for her I have – worn myself to the bone – to the bone. A grande amoureuse – that’s what I might have been – a grande amoureuse – sacrificed everything – everything… And nobody cares! But I’ll tell everyone – I’ll tell them now – how she neglects me – how hard she is – making me come on this journey – bored to death… I’ll go and tell them now-’
She surged forward. Poirot gently repressed the action.
‘I will send her to you, Madame. Re-enter your cabin. It is best that way-’
‘No. I want to tell everyone – everyone on the boat-’
‘It is too dangerous, Madame. The sea is too rough. You might be swept overboard.’
Mrs Otterbourne looked at him doubtfully.
‘You think so. You really think so?’
‘I do.’
He was successful. Mrs Otterbourne wavered, faltered and re-entered her cabin.
Poirot’s nostrils twitched once or twice. Then he nodded and walked on to where Rosalie Otterbourne was sitting between Mrs Allerton and