Death on the Nile

by Agatha Christie

  She got up.

  “Say you will, Linnet. Say you will. Beautiful Linnet! Tall golden Linnet! My own very special Linnet! Say you will!”

  “Jackie—”

  “You will?”

  Linnet burst out laughing.

  “Ridiculous Jackie! Bring along your young man and let me have a look at him and we’ll talk it over.”

  Jackie darted at her, kissing her exuberantly.

  “Darling Linnet—you’re a real friend! I knew you were. You wouldn’t let me down—ever. You’re just the loveliest thing in the world. Good-bye.”

  “But, Jackie, you’re staying.”

  “Me? No, I’m not. I’m going back to London, and tomorrow I’ll come back and bring Simon and we’ll settle it all up. You’ll adore him. He really is a pet.”

  “But can’t you wait and just have tea?”

  “No, I can’t wait, Linnet. I’m too excited. I must get back and tell Simon. I know I’m mad, darling, but I can’t help it. Marriage will cure me, I expect. It always seems to have a very sobering effect on people.”

  She turned at the door, stood a moment, then rushed back for a last quick birdlike embrace.

  “Dear Linnet—there’s no one like you.”

  VI

  M. Gaston Blondin, the proprietor of that modish little restaurant Chez Ma Tante, was not a man who delighted to honour many of his clientèle. The rich, the beautiful, the notorious, and the well-born might wait in vain to be singled out and paid special attention. Only in the rarest cases did M. Blondin, with gracious condescension, greet a guest, accompany him to a privileged table, and exchange with him suitable and apposite remarks.

  On this particular night, M. Blondin had exercised his royal prerogative three times—once for a Duchess, once for a famous racing peer, and once for a little man of comical appearance with immense black moustaches, who, a casual onlooker would have thought, could bestow no favour on Chez Ma Tante by his presence there.

  M. Blondin, however, was positively fulsome in his attentions. Though clients had been told for the last half hour that a table was not to be had, one now mysteriously appeared, placed in a most favourable position. M. Blondin conducted the client to it with every appearance of empressement.

  “But naturally, for you there is always a table, Monsieur Poirot! How I wish that you would honour us oftener!”

  Hercule Poirot smiled, remembering that past incident wherein a dead body, a waiter, M. Blondin, and a very lovely lady had played a part.

  “You are too amiable, Monsieur Blondin,” he said.

  “And you are alone, Monsieur Poirot?”

  “Yes, I am alone.”

  “Oh, well, Jules here will compose for you a little meal that will be a poem—positively a poem! Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: They distract the mind from food! You will enjoy your dinner, Monsieur Poirot; I promise you that. Now as to wine—”

  A technical conversation ensued, Jules, the maître d’hotel, assisting.

  Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially.

  “You have grave affairs on hand?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “I am, alas, a man of leisure,” he said softly. “I have made the economies in my time and I have now the means to enjoy the life of idleness.”

  “I envy you.”

  “No, no, you would be unwise to do so. I can assure you, it is not so gay as it sounds.” He sighed. “How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the strain of having to think.”

  M. Blondin threw up his hands.

  “But there is so much! There is travel!”

  “Yes, there is travel. Already I have not done so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think. The climate, they say, is superb! One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of the constantly falling rain.”

  “Ah! Egypt,” breathed M. Blondin.

  “One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel.”

  “Ah, the sea, it does not agree with you?”

  Hercule Poirot shook his head and shuddered slightly.

  “I, too,” said M. Blondin with sympathy. “Curious the effect it has upon the stomach.”

  “But only upon certain stomachs! There are people on whom the motion makes no impression whatever. They actually enjoy it!”

  “An unfairness of the good God,” said M. Blondin.

  He shook his head sadly, and, brooding on the impious thought, withdrew.

  Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters ministered to the table. Toast Melba, butter, an ice pail, all the adjuncts to a meal of quality.

  The Negro orchestra broke into an ecstasy of strange discordant noises. London danced.

  Hercule Poirot looked on, registered impressions in his neat orderly mind.

  How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying themselves…whereas a patient endurance seemed to be the sentiment exhibited on their partners’ faces. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant…Undoubtedly the fat had certain compensations in life…a zest—a gusto—denied to those of more fashionable contours.

  A good sprinkling of young people—some vacant-looking—some bored—some definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happiness—youth, the time of greatest vulnerability!

  His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair—tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in perfect rhythm of happiness. Happiness in the place, the hour, and in each other.

  The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore the couple returned to their table close by Poirot. The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face, lifted laughing to her companion.

  There was something else beside laughter in her eyes. Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

  “She cares too much, that little one,” he said to himself. It is not safe. No, it is not safe.”

  And then a word caught his ear, “Egypt.”

  Their voices came to him clearly—the girl’s young, fresh, arrogant, with just a trace of soft-sounding foreign R’s, and the man’s pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.

  “I’m not counting my chickens before they’re hatched, Simon. I tell you Linnet won’t let us down!”

  “I might let her down.”

  “Nonsense—it’s just the right job for you.”

  “As a matter of fact I think it is…I haven’t really any doubts as to my capability. And I mean to make good—for your sake!”

  The girl laughed softly, a laugh of pure happiness.

  “We’ll wait three months—to make sure you don’t get the sack—and then—”

  “And then I’ll endow thee with my worldly goods—that’s the hang of it, isn’t it?”

  “And, as I say, we’ll go to Egypt for our honeymoon. Damn the expense! I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt all my life. The Nile and the Pyramids and the sand….”

  He said, his voice slightly indistinct: “We’ll see it together, Jackie…together. Won’t it be marvellous?”

  “I wonder. Will it be as marvellous to you as it is to me? Do you really care—as much as I do?”

  Her voice was suddenly sharp—her eyes dilated—almost with fear.

  The man’s answer came quickly crisp: “Don’t be absurd, Jackie.”

  But the girl repeated: “I wonder….”

  Then she shrugged her shoulders. “Let’s dance.”

  Hercule Poirot murmured to himself:

  “Une qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer. Yes, I wonder too.”

  VII

  Joanna Southwood said: “And suppose he’s a terrible tough?”

  Linnet shook her head. “Oh, he won’t be. I can trust Jacqueline’s taste.”

  Joanna murmured: “Ah, but people don’t run true to form in love affairs.”

  Linnet
shook her head impatiently. Then she changed the subject. “I must go and see Mr. Pierce about those plans.”

  “Plans?”

  “Yes, some dreadful insanitary old cottages. I’m having them pulled down and the people moved.”

  “How sanitary and public-spirited of you, darling!”

  “They’d have had to go anyway. Those cottages would have overlooked my new swimming pool.”

  “Do the people who live in them like going?”

  “Most of them are delighted. One or two are being rather stupid about it—really tiresome in fact. They don’t seem to realize how vastly improved their living conditions will be!”

  “But you’re being quite high-handed about it, I presume.”

  “My dear Joanna, it’s to their advantage really.”

  “Yes, dear. I’m sure it is. Compulsory benefit.”

  Linnet frowned. Joanna laughed.

  “Come now, you are a tyrant, admit it. A beneficent tyrant if you like!”

  “I’m not the least bit of a tyrant.”

  “But you like your own way!”

  “Not especially.”

  “Linnet Ridgeway, can you look me in the face and tell me of any one occasion on which you’ve failed to do exactly as you wanted?”

  “Heaps of times.”

  “Oh, yes, ‘heaps of times’—just like that—but no concrete example. And you simply can’t think up one, darling, however hard you try! The triumphal progress of Linnet Ridgeway in her golden car.”

  Linnet said sharply: “You think I’m selfish?”

  “No—just irresistible. The combined effect of money and charm. Everything goes down before you. What you can’t buy with cash you buy with a smile. Result: Linnet Ridgeway, the Girl Who Has Everything.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Joanna!”

  “Well, haven’t you got everything?”

  “I suppose I have…It sounds rather disgusting, somehow!”

  “Of course it’s disgusting, darling! You’ll probably get terribly bored and blasé by and by. In the meantime, enjoy the triumphal progress in the golden car. Only I wonder, I really do wonder, what will happen when you want to go down a street which has a board saying ‘No Thoroughfare.’”

  “Don’t be idiotic, Joanna.” As Lord Windlesham joined them, Linnet said, turning to him: “Joanna is saying the nastiest things to me.”

  “All spite, darling, all spite,” said Joanna vaguely as she got up from her seat.

  She made no apology for leaving them. She had caught the glint in Windlesham’s eye.

  He was silent for a minute or two. Then he went straight to the point.

  “Have you come to a decision, Linnet?”

  Linnet said slowly: “Am I being a brute? I suppose, if I’m not sure, I ought to say ‘No’—”

  He interrupted her:

  “Don’t say it. You shall have time—as much time as you want. But I think, you know, we should be happy together.”

  “You see,” Linnet’s tone was apologetic, almost childish, “I’m enjoying myself so much—especially with all this.” She waved a hand. “I wanted to make Wode Hall into my real ideal of a country house, and I do think I’ve got it nice, don’t you?”

  “It’s beautiful. Beautifully planned. Everything perfect. You’re very clever, Linnet.”

  He paused a minute and went on: “And you like Charltonbury, don’t you? Of course it wants modernizing and all that—but you’re so clever at that sort of thing. You enjoy it.”

  “Why, of course, Charltonbury’s divine.”

  She spoke with ready enthusiasm, but inwardly she was conscious of a sudden chill. An alien note had sounded, disturbing her complete satisfaction with life. She did not analyse the feeling at the moment, but later, when Windlesham had left her, she tried to probe the recesses of her mind.

  Charltonbury—yes, that was it—she had resented the mention of Charltonbury. But why? Charltonbury was modestly famous. Windlesham’s ancestors had held it since the time of Elizabeth. To be mistress of Charltonbury was a position unsurpassed in society. Windlesham was one of the most desirable peers in England.

  Naturally he couldn’t take Wode seriously…It was not in any way to be compared with Charltonbury.

  Ah, but Wode was hers! She had seen it, acquired it, rebuilt and redressed it, lavished money on it. It was her own possession—her kingdom.

  But in a sense it wouldn’t count if she married Windlesham. What would they want with two country places? And of the two, naturally Wode Hall would be the one to be given up.

  She, Linnet Ridgeway, wouldn’t exist any longer. She would be Countess of Windlesham, bringing a fine dowry to Charltonbury and its master. She would be queen consort, not queen any longer.

  “I’m being ridiculous,” said Linnet to herself.

  But it was curious how she did hate the idea of abandoning Wode….

  And wasn’t there something else nagging at her?

  Jackie’s voice with that queer blurred note in it saying: “I shall die if I can’t marry him! I shall die. I shall die….”

  So positive, so earnest. Did she, Linnet, feel like that about Windlesham? Assuredly she didn’t. Perhaps she could never feel like that about anyone. It must be—rather wonderful—to feel like that….

  The sound of a car came through the open window.

  Linnet shook herself impatiently. That must be Jackie and her young man. She’d go out and meet them.

  She was standing in the open doorway as Jacqueline and Simon Doyle got out of the car.

  “Linnet!” Jackie ran to her. “This is Simon. Simon, here’s Linnet. She’s just the most wonderful person in the world.”

  Linnet saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with very dark blue eyes, crisply curling brown hair, a square chin, and a boyish, appealing, simple smile….

  She stretched out a hand. The hand that clasped hers was firm and warm…She liked the way he looked at her, the naïve genuine admiration.

  Jackie had told him she was wonderful, and he clearly thought that she was wonderful….

  A warm sweet feeling of intoxication ran through her veins.

  “Isn’t this all lovely?” she said. “Come in, Simon, and let me welcome my new land agent properly.”

  And as she turned to lead the way she thought: “I’m frightfully—frightfully happy. I like Jackie’s young man…I like him enormously….”

  And then a sudden pang: “Lucky Jackie….”

  VIII

  Tim Allerton leant back in his wicker chair and yawned as he looked out over the sea. He shot a quick sidelong glance at his mother.

  Mrs. Allerton was a good-looking, white-haired woman of fifty. By imparting an expression of pinched severity to her mouth every time she looked at her son, she sought to disguise the fact of her intense affection for him. Even total strangers were seldom deceived by this device and Tim himself saw through it perfectly.

  He said: “Do you really like Majorca, Mother?”

  “Well,” Mrs. Allerton considered, “it’s cheap.”

  “And cold,” said Tim with a slight shiver.

  He was a tall, thin young man, with dark hair and a rather narrow chest. His mouth had a very sweet expression: His eyes were sad and his chin was indecisive. He had long delicate hands.

  Threatened by consumption some years ago, he had never displayed a really robust physique. He was popularly supposed “to write,” but it was understood among his friends that inquiries as to literary output were not encouraged.

  “What are you thinking of, Tim?”

  Mrs. Allerton was alert. Her bright, dark-brown eyes looked suspicious.

  Tim Allerton grinned at her:

  “I was thinking of Egypt.”

  “Egypt?” Mrs. Allerton sounded doubtful.

  “Real warmth, darling. Lazy golden sands. The Nile. I’d like to go up the Nile, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, I’d like it.” Her tone was dry. “But Egypt’s expensive, my dear. Not for
those who have to count the pennies.”

  Tim laughed. He rose, stretched himself. Suddenly he looked alive and eager. There was an excited note in his voice.

  “The expense will be my affair. Yes, darling. A little flutter on the Stock Exchange. With thoroughly satisfactory results. I heard this morning.”

  “This morning?” said Mrs. Allerton sharply. “You only had one letter and that—”

  She stopped and bit her lip.

  Tim looked momentarily undecided whether to be amused or annoyed. Amusement gained the day.

  “And that was from Joanna,” he finished coolly. “Quite right, Mother. What a queen of detectives you’d make! The famous Hercule Poirot would have to look to his laurels if you were about.”

  Mrs. Allerton looked rather cross.

  “I just happened to see the handwriting—”

  “And knew it wasn’t that of a stockbroker? Quite right. As a matter of fact it was yesterday I heard from them. Poor Joanna’s handwriting is rather noticeable—sprawls about all over the envelope like an inebriated spider.”

  “What does Joanna say? Any news?”

  Mrs. Allerton strove to make her voice sound casual and ordinary. The friendship between her son and his second cousin, Joanna Southwood, always irritated her. Not, as she put it to herself, that there was “anything in it.” She was quite sure there wasn’t. Tim had never manifested a sentimental interest in Joanna, nor she in him. Their mutual attraction seemed to be founded on gossip and the possession of a large number of friends and acquaintances in common. They both liked people and discussing people. Joanna had an amusing if caustic tongue.

  It was not because Mrs. Allerton feared that Tim might fall in love with Joanna that she found herself always becoming a little stiff in manner if Joanna were present or when letters from her arrived.

  It was some other feeling hard to define—perhaps an unacknowledged jealousy in the unfeigned pleasure Tim always seemed to take in Joanna’s society. He and his mother were such perfect companions that the sight of him absorbed and interested in another woman always startled Mrs. Allerton slightly. She fancied, too, that her own presence on these occasions set some barrier between the two members of the younger generation. Often she had come upon them eagerly absorbed in some conversation and, at sight of her, their talk had wavered, had seemed to include her rather too purposefully and as if duty bound. Quite definitely, Mrs. Allerton did not like Joanna Southwood. She thought her insincere, affected, and essentially superficial. She found it very hard to prevent herself saying so in unmeasured tones.