Death on the Nile

by Agatha Christie

  “Yes, I could do that. I will do that if you would like me to do so. But do not expect much result. I fancy that Mademoiselle de Bellefort is so much in the grip of a fixed idea that nothing will turn her from it.”

  “But surely we can do something to extricate ourselves?”

  “You could, of course, return to England and establish yourselves in your own house.”

  “Even then, I suppose, Jacqueline is capable of planting herself in the village, so that I should see her everytime I went out of the grounds.”

  “True.”

  “Besides,” said Linnet slowly, “I don’t think that Simon would agree to run away.”

  “What is his attitude in this?”

  “He’s furious—simply furious.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  Linnet said appealingly, “You will—talk to her?”

  “Yes, I will do that. But it is my opinion that I shall not be able to accomplish anything.”

  Linnet said violently: “Jackie is extraordinary! One can’t tell what she will do!”

  “You spoke just now of certain threats she had made. Would you tell me what those threats were?”

  Linnet shrugged her shoulders.

  “She threatened to—well—kill us both. Jackie can be rather—Latin sometimes.”

  “I see.” Poirot’s tone was grave.

  Linnet turned to him appealingly.

  “You will act for me?”

  “No, Madame.” His tone was firm. “I will not accept a commission from you. I will do what I can in the interests of humanity. That, yes. There is here a situation that is full of difficulty and danger. I will do what I can to clear it up—but I am not very sanguine as to my chance of success.”

  Linnet Doyle said slowly: “But you will not act for me?”

  “No, Madame,” said Hercule Poirot.

  Five

  Hercule Poirot found Jacqueline de Bellefort sitting on the rocks directly overlooking the Nile. He had felt fairly certain that she had not retired for the night and that he would find her somewhere about the grounds of the hotel.

  She was sitting with her chin cupped in the palms of her hands, and she did not turn her head or look around at the sound of his approach.

  “Mademoiselle de Bellefort?” asked Poirot. “You permit that I speak to you for a little moment?”

  Jacqueline turned her head slightly. A faint smile played round her lips.

  “Certainly,” she said. “You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot, I think? Shall I make a guess? You are acting for Mrs. Doyle, who has promised you a large fee if you succeed in your mission.”

  Poirot sat down on the bench near her.

  “Your assumption is partially correct,” he said, smiling. “I have just come from Madame Doyle, but I am not accepting any fee from her and, strictly speaking, I am not acting for her.”

  “Oh!”

  Jacqueline studied him attentively.

  “Then why have you come?” she asked abruptly.

  Hercule Poirot’s reply was in the form of another question.

  “Have you ever seen me before, Mademoiselle?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, I do not think so.”

  “Yet I have seen you. I sat next to you once at Chez Ma Tante. You were there with Monsieur Simon Doyle.”

  A strange masklike expression came over the girl’s face. She said, “I remember that evening….”

  “Since then,” said Poirot, “many things have occurred.”

  “As you say, many things have occurred.”

  Her voice was hard with an undertone of desperate bitterness.

  “Mademoiselle, I speak as a friend. Bury your dead!”

  She looked startled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Give up the past! Turn to the future! What is done is done. Bitterness will not undo it.”

  “I’m sure that that would suit dear Linnet admirably.”

  Poirot made a gesture.

  “I am not thinking of her at this moment! I am thinking of you. You have suffered—yes—but what you are doing now will only prolong the suffering.”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re wrong. There are times when I almost enjoy myself.”

  “And that, Mademoiselle, is the worst of all.”

  She looked up swiftly.

  “You’re not stupid,” she said. She added slowly, “I believe you mean to be kind.”

  “Go home, Mademoiselle. You are young; you have brains, the world is before you.”

  Jacqueline shook her head slowly.

  “You don’t understand—or you won’t. Simon is my world.”

  “Love is not everything, Mademoiselle,” Poirot said gently. “It is only when we are young that we think it is.”

  But the girl still shook her head.

  “You don’t understand.” She shot him a quick look. “You know all about it, of course? You’ve talked to Linnet? And you were in the restaurant that night…Simon and I loved each other.”

  “I know that you loved him.”

  She was quick to perceive the inflection of his words. She repeated with emphasis:

  “We loved each other. And I loved Linnet…I trusted her. She was my best friend. All her life Linnet has been able to buy everything she wanted. She’s never denied herself anything. When she saw Simon she wanted him—and she just took him.”

  “And he allowed himself to be—bought?”

  Jacqueline shook her dark head slowly.

  “No, it’s not quite like that. If it were, I shouldn’t be here now…You’re suggesting that Simon isn’t worth caring for…If he’d married Linnet for her money, that would be true. But he didn’t marry her for her money. It’s more complicated than that. There’s such a thing as glamour, Monsieur Poirot. And money helps that. Linnet had an ‘atmosphere,’ you see. She was the queen of a kingdom—the young princess—luxurious to her fingertips. It was like a stage setting. She had the world at her feet, one of the richest and most sought-after peers in England wanting to marry her. And she stoops instead to the obscure Simon Doyle…Do you wonder it went to his head?” She made a sudden gesture. “Look at the moon up there. You see her very plainly, don’t you? She’s very real. But if the sun were to shine you wouldn’t be able to see her at all. It was rather like that. I was the moon…When the sun came out, Simon couldn’t see me anymore…He was dazzled. He couldn’t see anything but the sun—Linnet.”

  She paused and then she went on: “So you see it was—glamour. She went to his head. And then there’s her complete assurance—her habit of command. She’s so sure of herself that she makes other people sure. Simon was weak, perhaps, but then he’s a very simple person. He would have loved me and me only if Linnet hadn’t come along and snatched him up in her golden chariot. And I know—I know perfectly—that he wouldn’t ever have fallen in love with her if she hadn’t made him.”

  “That is what you think—yes.”

  “I know it. He loved me—he will always love me.”

  Poirot said: “Even now?”

  A quick answer seemed to rise to her lips, then be stifled. She looked at Poirot and a deep burning colour spread over her face. She looked away; her head dropped down. She said in a low stifled voice: “Yes, I know. He hates me now. Yes, hates me…He’d better be careful!”

  With a quick gesture she fumbled in a little silk bag that lay on the seat. Then she held out her hand. On the palm of it was a small pearl-handled pistol—a dainty toy it looked.

  “Nice little thing, isn’t it? she said. “Looks too foolish to be real, but it is real! One of those bullets would kill a man or a woman. And I’m a good shot.” She smiled a faraway, reminiscent smile.

  “When I went home as a child with my mother, to South Carolina, my grandfather taught me to shoot. He was the old-fashioned kind that believes in shooting—especially where honour is concerned. My father, too, he fought several duels as a young man. He was a good swordsman. He kil
led a man once. That was over a woman. So you see, Monsieur Poirot”—she met his eyes squarely—“I’ve hot blood in me! I bought this when it first happened. I meant to kill one or other of them—the trouble was I couldn’t decide which. Both of them would have been unsatisfactory. If I’d thought Linnet would have looked afraid—but she’s got plenty of physical courage. She can stand up to physical action. And then I thought I’d—wait! That appealed to me more and more. After all, I could do it any time; it would be more fun to wait and—think about it! And then this idea came to my mind—to follow them! Whenever they arrived at some faraway spot and were together and happy, they should see Me! And it worked. It got Linnet badly—in a way nothing else could have done! It got right under her skin…That was when I began to enjoy myself…And there’s nothing she can do about it! I’m always perfectly pleasant and polite! There’s not a word they can take hold of! It’s poisoning everything—everything—for them.” Her laugh rang out, clear and silvery.

  Poirot grasped her arm.

  “Be quiet. Quiet, I tell you.”

  Jacqueline looked at him.

  “Well?” she asked. Her smile was definitely challenging.

  “Mademoiselle, I beseech you, do not do what you are doing.”

  “Leave dear Linnet alone, you mean!”

  “It is deeper than that. Do not open your heart to evil.”

  Her lips fell apart; a look of bewilderment came into her eyes.

  Poirot went on gravely: “Because—if you do—evil will come…Yes, very surely evil will come…It will enter in and make its home within you, and after a little while it will no longer be possible to drive it out.”

  Jacqueline stared at him. Her glance seemed to waver, to flicker uncertainly.

  She said: “I—don’t know—” Then she cried out definitely, “You can’t stop me.”

  “No,” said Hercule Poirot. “I cannot stop you.” His voice was sad.

  “Even if I were to—kill her, you couldn’t stop me.”

  “No—not if you were willing to pay the price.”

  Jacqueline de Bellefort laughed.

  “Oh, I’m not afraid of death! What have I got to live for, after all? I suppose you believe it’s very wrong to kill a person who has injured you—even if they’ve taken away everything you had in the world?”

  Poirot said steadily: “Yes, Mademoiselle. I believe it is the unforgivable offence—to kill.”

  Jacqueline laughed again.

  “Then you ought to approve of my present scheme of revenge; because, you see, as long as it works, I shan’t use that pistol…But I’m afraid—yes, afraid sometimes—it all goes red—I want to hurt her—to stick a knife into her, to put my dear little pistol close against her head and then—just press with my finger—Oh!”

  The exclamation startled him.

  “What is it, Mademoiselle!”

  She turned her head and was staring into the shadows.

  “Someone—standing over there. He’s gone now.”

  Hercule Poirot looked round sharply.

  The place seemed quite deserted.

  “There seems no one here but ourselves, Mademoiselle.” He got up. “In any case I have said all I came to say. I wish you good night.”

  Jacqueline got up too. She said almost pleadingly, “You do understand—that I can’t do what you ask me to do?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “No—for you could do it! There is always a moment! Your friend Linnet—there was a moment, too, in which she could have held her hand…She let it pass by. And if one does that, then one is committed to the enterprise and there comes no second chance.”

  “No second chance…” said Jacqueline de Bellefort.

  She stood brooding for a moment; then she lifted her head defiantly.

  “Good night, Monsieur Poirot.”

  He shook his head sadly and followed her up the path to the hotel.

  Six

  On the following morning Simon Doyle joined Hercule Poirot as the latter was leaving the hotel to walk down to the town.

  “Good morning, Monsieur Poirot.”

  “Good morning, Monsieur Doyle.”

  “You going to the town? Mind if I stroll along with you?”

  “But certainly. I shall be delighted.”

  The two men walked side by side, passed out through the gateway and turned into the cool shade of the gardens. Then Simon removed his pipe from his mouth and said, “I understand, Monsieur Poirot, that my wife had a talk with you last night?”

  “That is so.”

  Simon Doyle was frowning a little. He belonged to that type of men of action who find it difficult to put thoughts into words and who have trouble in expressing themselves clearly.

  “I’m glad of one thing,” he said. “You’ve made her realize that we’re more or less powerless in the matter.”

  “There is clearly no legal redress,” agreed Poirot.

  “Exactly. Linnet didn’t seem to understand that.” He gave a faint smile. “Linnet’s been brought up to believe that every annoyance can automatically be referred to the police.”

  “It would be pleasant if such were the case,” said Poirot.

  There was a pause. Then Simon said suddenly, his face going very red as he spoke:

  “It’s—it’s infamous that she should be victimized like this! She’s done nothing! If anyone likes to say I behaved like a cad, they’re welcome to say so! I suppose I did. But I won’t have the whole thing visited on Linnet. She had nothing whatever to do with it.”

  Poirot bowed his head gravely but said nothing.

  “Did you—er—have you—talked to Jackie—Miss de Bellefort?”

  “Yes, I have spoken with her.”

  “Did you get her to see sense?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Simon broke out irritably: “Can’t she see what an ass she’s making of herself? Doesn’t she realize that no decent woman would behave as she is doing? Hasn’t she got any pride or self-respect?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “She has only a sense of—injury, shall we say?” he replied.

  “Yes, but damn it all, man, decent girls don’t behave like this! I admit I was entirely to blame. I treated her damned badly and all that. I should quite understand her being thoroughly fed up with me and never wishing to see me again. But this following me round—it’s—it’s indecent! Making a show of herself! What the devil does she hope to get out of it?”

  “Perhaps—revenge!”

  “Idiotic! I’d really understand better if she’d tried to do something melodramatic—like taking a pot shot at me.”

  “You think that would be more like her—yes?”

  “Frankly I do. She’s hot-blooded—and she’s got an ungovernable temper. I shouldn’t be surprised at her doing anything while she was in a white-hot rage. But this spying business—” He shook his head.

  “It is more subtle—yes! It is intelligent!”

  Doyle stared at him.

  “You don’t understand. It’s playing hell with Linnet’s nerves.”

  “And yours?”

  Simon looked at him with momentary surprise.

  “Me? I’d like to wring the little devil’s neck.”

  “There is nothing, then, of the old feeling left?”

  “My dear Monsieur Poirot—how can I put it? It’s like the moon when the sun comes out. You don’t know it’s there anymore. When once I’d met Linnet—Jackie didn’t exist.”

  “Tiens, c’est drôle, ça!” muttered Poirot.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your simile interested me, that is all.”

  Again flushing, Simon said: “I suppose Jackie told you that I’d only married Linnet for her money? Well, that’s a damned lie! I wouldn’t marry any woman for money! What Jackie doesn’t understand is that it’s difficult for a fellow when—when—a woman cares for him as she cared for me.”

  “Ah?”

  Poirot looked up
sharply.

  Simon blundered on: “It—it—sounds a caddish thing to say, but Jackie was too fond of me!”

  “Une qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer,” murmured Poirot.

  “Eh? What’s that you say? You see, a man doesn’t want to feel that a woman cares more for him than he does for her.” His voice grew warm as he went on. “He doesn’t want to feel owned, body and soul. It’s the damned possessive attitude! This man is mine—he belongs to me! That’s the sort of thing I can’t stick—no man could stick! He wants to get away—to get free. He wants to own his woman; he doesn’t want her to own him.”

  He broke off, and with fingers that trembled slightly he lit a cigarette.

  Poirot said: “And it is like that that you felt with Mademoiselle Jacqueline?”

  “Eh?” Simon stared and then admitted: “Er—yes—well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. She doesn’t realize that, of course. And it’s not the sort of thing I could ever tell her. But I was feeling restless—and then I met Linnet, and she just swept me off my feet! I’d never seen anything so lovely. It was all so amazing. Everyone kowtowing to her—and then her singling out a poor chump like me.”

  His tone held boyish awe and astonishment.

  “I see,” said Poirot. He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes—I see.”

  “Why can’t Jackie take it like a man?” demanded Simon resentfully.

  A very faint smile twitched Poirot’s upper lip.

  “Well, you see, Monsieur Doyle, to begin with she is not a man.”

  “No, no—but I meant take it like a good sport! After all, you’ve got to take your medicine when it comes to you. The fault’s mine, I admit. But there it is! If you no longer care for a girl, it’s simply madness to marry her. And, now that I see what Jackie’s really like and the lengths she is likely to go to, I feel I’ve had rather a lucky escape.”

  “The lengths she is likely to go to,” Poirot repeated thoughtfully. “Have you an idea, Monsieur Doyle, what those lengths are?”

  Simon looked at him rather startled.

  “No—at least, what do you mean?”

  “You know she carries a pistol about with her?”

  Simon frowned, then shook his head.

  “I don’t believe she’ll use that—now. She might have done so earlier. But I believe it’s got past that. She’s just spiteful now—trying to take it out on us both.”