Agatha Christie - Death On The Nile

by Death on the Nile (lit)

  "It was something like that, my friend---it was not a common table knife." "I suppose," said Race smoothly, "that none of your own knives arc missing, doctor?" Bessner stared at him, then his face grew red with indignation.

  "What is that you say? Do you think I--I, Carl Bessner who so well known is all over Austria--I with my clinics--my highly-born patients--I have killed a miserable littlefemme de chambre,t Ah, but it is ridiculous--absurd, what you say!

  None of my knives are missing--not one, I tell you. They are all here, correct, in their places. You can see for yourself. And this insult to my profession I will not forget." Dr. Bessner closed his case with a snap, flung it down and stamped out on to the deck.

  "Whew!" said Simon. "You've put the old boy's back up." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "It is regrettable." "You're on the wrong tack. Old Bessner's one of the best even though he is a kind of Boche." Dr. Bessner reappeared suddenly.

  "Will ou be so kind as to leave me now my cabin? I have to do the dressing of my patient's leg."

  Miss Bowers had entered with him and stood, brisk and professional, waiting for the others to go.

  Race and Poirot crept out meekly. Race muttered something and went off.

  Poirot turned to his left.

  He heard scraps of girlish conversation, a little laugh. JacqUeline and Rosalie were together in the latter's cabin.

  The door was open and the two girls were standing near it. As his shadow fell on them they looked up. He saw Rosalie Otterbourne smile at him for the first time--a shy welcoming smilea little uncertain in its lines as of one who doe a new and unfamiliar thing.

  "You talk the scandal, Mademoiselles?" he accused them.

  "No, indeed," said Rosalie. "As a matter of fact we were just comparing lipsticks."

  Poirot smiled.

  "Les chiffons d'aujourd'hui," he murmured.

  But there was something a little mechanical about his smile and Jacqueline de Bellefort, quicker and more observant than Rosalie, saw it. She dropped the lipstick she was holding and came out upon the deck.

  "Has something--what has happenel now?"

  "It is as you guess Mademoiselle, something has happened." "What?" Rosalie came out too.

  "Another death," said Poirot.

  Rosalie caught her breath sharply. Poirot was watching her narrowly. He saw alarm and something more consternation--show for a minute or two in her eyes.

  "Mrs. Doyle's maid has been killed," he said bluntly.

  "Killed?" cried Jacqueline. "Killed, do you say?"

  "Yes, that is what I said." Though his answer was nominally to her it was Rosalie whom he watched. It was to Rosalie to whom he spoke as he went on. "You see, this maid she saw something she was not intended to see. And so--she was silenced in case she should not hold her tongue."

  "What was it she saw?"

  Again it was Jacqueline who asked, and again Poirot's answer was to Rosalie. It was an odd little three-cornered scene.

  "There is, I think, very little doubt what it was she saw," said Poirot. "She saw some one enter and leave Linnet Doyle's cabin on that fatal night."

  His ears were quick. He heard the sharp intake of breath and saw the eyelids flicker. Rosalie Otterbourne had reacted just as he had intended she should.

  "Did she say who it was she saw?" Rosalie asked.

  Gently--regreffully--Poirot shook his head.

  Footsteps pattered up the deck. It was Cornelia Robson, her eyes wide and startled.

  "Oh, Jacqueline," she cried. "Something awful has happened. Another dreadful thing."

  Jacqueline turned to her. The two' moved a few steps forward. Almost unconsciously Poirot and Rosalie Otterbourne moved in the other direction.

  Rosalie said sharply:

  "Why do you look at me? What have you got in your mind?" "That is two questions you ask me. I will ask you only one in return. Why do you not tell me all the truth, Mademoiselle?" "I don't know what you mean. I told you--everything--this morning." "No, there were things you did not tell me. You did not tell me that you carry about in your handbag a small calibre pistol with a pearl handle. You did not tell me all that you saw last night." She flushed. Then she said sharply: "It's quite untrue. I haven't got a revolver." "I did not say a revolver. I said a small pistol that you carry about in your handbag." She wheeled round, darted into her cabin and out again and thrust her grey leather handbag into his hands.

  "You're talking nonsense. Look for yourself if you like." Poirot opened the bag. There wis no pistol inside.

  He handed the bag back to her, meeting her scornful triumphant glance.

  "No," he said pleasantly. "It is not there." "You see. You're not always right, M. Poirot. And you're wrong about that other ridiculous thing you said." "No, I do not think so." "You're infuriating." She stamped an angry foot. "You get an idea into your head and you go on and on and on about it." "Because I want you to tell me the truth." "What is the truth? You seem to-know it better than I do." Poirot said: "You want me to tell you what it was you saw? If I am right, will you admit that I am right? I will tell you my little idea. I think that when you came round the stern of the boat you stopped involuntarily because you saw a man come out of a cabin about half-way down the deck---Linnet Doyle's cabin as you realised next day--you saw him come out, close the door behind him and walk away from you down the deck and--perhaps---enter one of the two end cabins. Now then, am I right, Mademoiselle?" She did not answer.

  Poirot said: "Perhaps you think it wiser not to speak. Perhaps you are afraid that if you do---you too will be killed." For a moment he thought she had risen to the easy bait--that the accusation against her courage would succeed where more subtle arguments would have failed.

  Her lips opened trembled then: "I saw no one," said Rosalie Otterbourue.

  CHAPTER 23

  Miss Bowers came out of Dr. Bessner's cabin, smoothing her cuffs over her wrists.

  Jacqueline left Cornelia abruptly and accosted the hospital nurse.

  "How is he?" she demanded.

  Poirot came up in time to hear the answer.

  Miss Bowers was looking rather worried.

  "Things aren't going too badly," she said.

  Jacqueline cried: "You mean, he's worse?" "Well, I must say I shall be relieved when we get in and can get a proper X-ray done and the whole thing cleaned up under an anaesthetic. When do you think we shall get to Shellal, M. Poirot?" "To-morrow morning." Miss Bowers pursed her lips and shook her head.

  "It's very unfortunate. We are doing all we can, but there's always such a danger of septicameia." Jacqueline caught Miss Bowers's arm and shook it.

  "Is he going to die? Is he going to die?" "Dear me, no, Miss de Bellefort. That is, I hope not, I'm sure. The wound in itself isn't dangerous. But there's no doubt it ought to be X-rayed as soon as possible. And then, of course, poor Mr. Doyle ought to have been kept absolutely quiet to-day. He's had far too much worry and excitement. No. wonder his temperature is rising. What with the shock of his wife's death, and one thing and another--" Jacqueline relinquished her grasp of the nurse's arm and turned away. She stood leaning over the side, her back to the other two.

  "What I say is, we've got to hope for the best always," said Miss Bowers. "Of course Mr. Doyle has a very strong constitutionne can see that--probably never had a day's illness in his life--so that's in his favour. But there's no denying that this rise in temperature is a nasty sign and---" She shook her head, adjusted her cuffs once more, and moved briskly away.

  Jacqueline turned and walked gropingly, blinded by tears towards her cabin.

  A hand below her elbow steadied and guided her. She looked up through the tears to find Poirot by her side. She leaned on him a little and he guided her through the cabin door.

  She sank down on the bed and the tears came more'freely punctuated by great shuddering sobs.

  "He'll die. He'll die. I know he'll die .... And I shall have killed him. Yes, I shall have killed him .... " Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He shook
his head a little, sadly.

  "Mademoiselle, what is done, is done. One cannot take back the accomplished action. It is too late to regret." She cried out more vehemently: "I shall have killed him! And I love him so I love him so." Poirot sighed.

  "Too much . . .' It had been his thought long ago in the restaurant of M. Blondin. It was his thought again now.

  He said, hesitating a little.

  "Do not, at all events, go by what Miss Bowers says. Hospital nurses, me, I find them always gloomy! The night nurse, always, she is astonished to find her patient alive in the evening--the day nurse, always, she is surprised to find him alive in the morning! They know too much, you see, of the possibilities that may arise. When one is motoring one might easily say to oneself if a car came out from that cross-roadr if that lorry backed suddenly--or if the wheel came off the car that is approaching me or if a dog jumped off the hedge on to my driving arm, eh bien--I should probably be killed! But one assumes--and usually rightly--that none of these things will happen and that one will get to one's journey's end. But fi, of course, one has been in an accident, or seen one or more accidents, then one is inclined to take the opposite point of view." ' ' Jacqueline said, half-smiling through her tears:

  "Are you trying to console me, M. Poirot?" "The bon Dieu knows what I am trying to do! You should not have come on this journey." "No--I wish I hadn't. It's been--so awful. But--it will be soon over now." "Mais ouiis oui." "And Simon will go to the hospital and they'll give the proper treatment and everything will be all right." "You speak like the child] And they lived happily ever afterwards. That is it, is it not?" She flushed suddenly scarlet.

  "M. Poirot. I never meant--never--" "It is too soon to think of such a thing! That is the proper hypocritical thing to say, is it not? But you aro partly a Latin, Mademoiselle Jacqueline. You should be able to admit facts even if they do not sound very decorous. Le roi est mort--vive le roi.t The sun has gone and the moon rises. That is so, is it not?" "You don't understand. He's just sorry for me--awfully sorry for me because he knows how terrible it is for me to know I've hurt him so badly." "Ah, well," said Poirot. "The pure pity, it is a very lofty sentiment." He looked at her half-mockingly, half with some other emotion. He murmured softly under his breath words in French:

  La vie est vaine Un peu d'amour Un peu de haine Et puis bonjour.

  La vie est brve On peu d'espoir Un peu de I've Et puis bonsoir

  He went out again on to the deck. Colonel Race was striding along the deck and hailed him at once.

  "Poirot. Good man. I want you. I've got an idea." Thrusting his arm through Poirot's he walked him up the deck.

  "Just a chance remark Of Doyle's. I hardly noticed it at the time. Something about a telegram." "Tiens---c'est vrai." "Nothing in it, perhaps, but one can't leave any avenue unexplored. Damn it all, man, two murders and we're still in the dark." Poirot shook his head.

  "No, not in the dark. In the light." Race looked at him curiously.

  "You have an idea?" "It is more than an idea now. I am sure." "Since---when?"

  "Since the death of the maid--Louise Bourget."

  "Damned if I see it!"

  "My friend, it is so clear--so clear. Only--there are difficulties! Embarrass ments--impediments!

  See you, around a person like Linnet Doyle there is so much---so many conflicting hates and jealousies and envies and meannesses. It is like a cloud of flies--buzzing--buzzing.."

  "But you think you know?" The other looked at him curiously. "You wouldn't say so unless you were sure. Can't say I've any real light, myself. I've suspicions, of course . . .

  Poirot stopped. He laid an impressive hand on Race's arm.

  "You are a great man, mon Colonel You do not say, 'Tell me.' 'What is it that you think?' You know that if I could speak now, I would. But there is much to be cleared away first. But think, think for a moment along the lines that I shall indicate.

  There are certain points .... There is the statement of Mademoiselle de Bellefort that some one overheard our conversation that night in the garden at Assuan.

  There is the statement of Mr. Tim Allerton as to what he heard and did on the night of the crime. There are Louise Bourget's significant answers to our questions this morning. There is the fact that Mrs. Allerton drinks water, that her son drinks whisky and soda and that I drink wine. Add to that the fact of two bottles of nail polish and the proverb I quoted. And finally we come to the crux of the whole business, the fact that the pistol was wrapped up in a cheap handkerchief and a velvet stole and thrown overboard..." Race was silent a minute or two then he shook his head.

  "No," he said, "I don't see it. Mind, I've got a faint idea what you're driving at. But as far as I can see it doesn't work." "But yes but yes--you are seeing only half the truth. And remember this--we must start again from the beginning since our first conception was entirely wrong." Race made a slight grimace.

  "I'm used to that. It often seems to me that's all detective work is--wiping out your false starts and beginning again." "Yes, it is very true, that. And it is just what some people will not do. rhey conceive a certain theory and everything has to fit into that theory. If one little fact will not fit, they throw it aside. But it is always the facts that will notfit in that are significant. All along I have realised the significance of that pistol being removed from the scene of the ct/me. I knew that it meant something--but what that something was I only realised one little half-hour ago." "And I still don't see it!" "But you will! Only reflect along the lines I indicated. And now let us clear up this matter of a telegram. That is, if the Herr Doktor will admit us." Dr. Bessner was still in a very bad humour. In answer to their knock he disclosed a scowling face.

  "What is it? Once more you wish to see my patient? But I tell you it is not wise. He has fever. He has had more than enough excitement today." "Just one question," said Race. "Nothing more, I assure you." With an unwilling grunt the doctor moved aside and the two men entered the cabin.

  Dr. Bessner, growling to himself, pushed past them.

  "I return in three minutes," he said. "And then--positively--you go!"

  They heard him stumping down the deck.

  Simon Doyle looked from one to the other of them inquiringly.

  "Yes," he said. "What is it?" "A very little thing," said Race. "Just now, when the stewards were reporting to me, they mentioned that Signor Richetti had been particularly troublesome.

  You said that that didn't surprise you as you knew he had a bad temper, and that he had been rude to your wife over some matter of a telegram. Now can you tell me about that incident?" "Easily. It was at Wadi Halfa. We'd just come back from the Second Cataract.

  Linnet thought she saw a 'telegram for her sticking up on the board.' She'd forgotten, you see, that she wasn't called Ridgeway any longer and Richetti and Ridgeway do look rather alike when written in an atrocious handwriting. So she tore it open, couldn't make head or tail of it, and was puzzling over it when this fellow Richetti canoe along, fairly tore it out of her hand, and gibbered with rage.

  She went after hi to apologise and he was frightfully rude to her about it." Race drew a deep breath.

  "And do you know at all, Mr. Doyle, what was in that telegram?" "Yes, Linnet read part of it out aloud. It said--" He paused. There was a commotion outside. A high-pitched voice was rapidly approaching.

  "Where are M. Poirot and Colonel Race? I must see them immediately.t It is most important. I have vital information. I-- Are they with Mr. Doyle?" Bessner had not closed the door. Only thecurtain hung across the open doorway. Mrs. Otterbourne swept it to one side and entered like a tornado. Her face was suffused with colour, her gait slightly unsteady--her command of words not quite under her control.

  "Mr. Doyle," she said dramatically, "I know who killed your wife!" "What?" Simon stared at her. So did the other two.

  Mrs. Otterbourne swept all three of them with a triumphant glance. She was happy--superbly happy.

  "Yes," she said. "My theories are completel
y vindicated---the deep primeval, primordial urges--it may appear impossiblc fantastie-but it is the truth!" Race said sharply: "Do I understand that you have evidence in your possession to show who killed Mrs. Doyle?" Mrs. Otterbourne sat down in a chair and leaned forward nodding her head vigorously.

  "Certainly I have. You will agree, will you not, that whoever killed Louise Bourget also killed Linnet Doyle that the two crimes were committed by one and the same hand?" "Yes, yes," said Simon impatiently. "Of course. That stands to reason. Go on." "Then my assertion holds. I know who killed Louise Bourget--therefore I know who killed Linnet Doyle." "You mean, you have a theory as to who killed Louise Bourget," suggested Race sceptically.