Death on the Nile

by Agatha Christie

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “It may be so,” he said doubtfully.

  “It’s Linnet I’m worrying about,” declared Simon, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “I quite realize that,” said Poirot.

  “I’m not really afraid of Jackie doing any melodramatic shooting stuff, but this spying and following business has absolutely got Linnet on the raw. I’ll tell you the plan I’ve made, and perhaps you can suggest improvements on it. To begin with, I’ve announced fairly openly that we’re going to stay here ten days. But tomorrow the steamer Karnak starts from Shellal to Wadi Halfa. I propose to book passages on that under an assumed name. Tomorrow we’ll go on an excursion to Philae. Linnet’s maid can take the luggage. We’ll join the Karnak at Shellal. When Jackie finds we don’t come back, it will be too late—we shall be well on our way. She’ll assume we have given her the slip and gone back to Cairo. In fact I might even bribe the porter to say so. Inquiry at the tourist offices won’t help her, because our names won’t appear. How does that strike you?”

  “It is well imagined, yes. And suppose she waits here till you return?”

  “We may not return. We would go on to Khartoum and then perhaps by air to Kenya. She can’t follow us all over the globe.”

  “No; there must come a time when financial reasons forbid. She has very little money, I understand.”

  Simon looked at him with admiration.

  “That’s clever of you. Do you know, I hadn’t thought of that. Jackie’s as poor as they make them.”

  “And yet she has managed to follow you so far?”

  Simon said doubtfully:

  “She’s got a small income, of course. Something under two hundred a year, I imagine. I suppose—yes, I suppose she must have sold out the capital to do what she’s doing.”

  “So that the time will come when she has exhausted her resources and is quite penniless?”

  “Yes….”

  Simon wriggled uneasily. The thought seemed to make him uncomfortable. Poirot watched him attentively.

  “No,” he remarked. “No, it is not a pretty thought….”

  Simon said rather angrily, “Well, I can’t help it!” Then he added, “What do you think of my plan?”

  “I think it may work, yes. But it is, of course, a retreat.”

  Simon flushed.

  “You mean, we’re running away? Yes, that’s true…But Linnet—”

  Poirot watched him, then gave a short nod.

  “As you say, it may be the best way. But remember, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has brains.”

  Simon said sombrely: “Some day, I feel, we’ve got to make a stand and fight it out. Her attitude isn’t reasonable.”

  “Reasonable, mon Dieu!” cried Poirot.

  “There’s no reason why women shouldn’t behave like rational beings,” Simon asserted stolidly.

  Poirot said dryly: “Quite frequently they do. That is even more upsetting!” He added, “I, too, shall be on the Karnak. It is part of my itinerary.

  “Oh!” Simon hesitated, then said, choosing his words with some embarrassment: “That isn’t—isn’t—er—on our account in any way? I mean I wouldn’t like to think—”

  Poirot disabused him quickly:

  “Not at all. It was all arranged before I left London. I always make my plans well in advance.”

  “You don’t just move on from place to place as the fancy takes you? Isn’t the latter really pleasanter?”

  “Perhaps. But to succeed in life every detail should be arranged well beforehand.”

  Simon laughed and said: “That is how the more skilful murderer behaves, I suppose.”

  “Yes—though I must admit that the most brilliant crime I remember and one of the most difficult to solve was committed on the spur of the moment.”

  Simon said boyishly: “You must tell us something about your cases on board the Karnak.”

  “No, no; that would be to talk—what do you call it?—the shop.”

  “Yes, but your kind of shop is rather thrilling. Mrs. Allerton thinks so. She’s longing to get a chance to cross-question you.”

  “Mrs. Allerton? That is the charming grey-haired woman who has such a devoted son?”

  “Yes. She’ll be on the Karnak too.”

  “Does she know that you—?”

  “Certainly not,” said Simon with emphasis. “Nobody knows. I’ve gone on the principle that it’s better not to trust anybody.”

  “An admirable sentiment—and one which I always adopt. By the way, the third member of your party, the tall grey-haired man—”

  “Pennington?”

  “Yes. He is travelling with you?”

  Simon said grimly: “Not very usual on a honeymoon, you were thinking? Pennington is Linnet’s American trustee. We ran across him by chance in Cairo.”

  “Ah, vraiment! You permit a question? She is of age, Madame your wife?”

  Simon looked amused.

  “She isn’t actually twenty-one yet—but she hadn’t got to ask anyone’s consent before marrying me. It was the greatest surprise to Pennington. He left New York on the Carmanic two days before Linnet’s letter got there telling him of our marriage, so he knew nothing about it.”

  “The Carmanic—” murmured Poirot.

  “It was the greatest surprise to him when we ran into him at Shepheard’s in Cairo.”

  “That was indeed the coincident!”

  “Yes, and we found that he was coming on this Nile trip—so naturally we foregathered; couldn’t have done anything else decently. Besides that, it’s been—well, a relief in some ways.” He looked embarrassed again. “You see, Linnet’s been all strung up—expecting Jackie to turn up anywhere and everywhere. While we were alone together, the subject kept coming up. Andrew Pennington’s a help that way, we have to talk of outside matters.”

  “Your wife has not confided in Mr. Pennington?”

  “No.” Simon’s jaw looked aggressive. “It’s nothing to do with anyone else. Besides, when we started on this Nile trip we thought we’d seen the end of the business.”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “You have not seen the end of it yet. No—the end is not yet at hand. I am very sure of that.”

  “I say, Monsieur Poirot, you’re not very encouraging.”

  Poirot looked at him with a slight feeling of irritation. He thought to himself: “The Anglo-Saxon, he takes nothing seriously but playing games! He does not grow up.”

  Linnet Doyle—Jacqueline de Bellefort—both of them took the business seriously enough. But in Simon’s attitude he could find nothing but male impatience and annoyance. He said: “You will permit me an impertinent question? Was it your idea to come to Egypt for your honeymoon?”

  Simon flushed.

  “No, of course not. As a matter of fact I’d rather have gone anywhere else, but Linnet was absolutely set upon it. And so—and so—”

  He stopped rather lamely.

  “Naturally,” said Poirot gravely.

  He appreciated the fact that, if Linnet Doyle was set upon anything, that thing had to happen.

  He thought to himself: “I have now heard three separate accounts of the affair—Linnet Doyle’s, Jacqueline de Bellefort’s, Simon Doyle’s. Which of them is nearest to the truth?”

  Seven

  Simon and Linnet Doyle set off on their expedition to Philae about eleven o’clock the following morning. Jacqueline de Bellefort, sitting on the hotel balcony, watched them set off in the picturesque sailing-boat. What she did not see was the departure of the car—laden with luggage, and in which sat a demure-looking maid—from the front door of the hotel. It turned to the right in the direction of Shellal.

  Hercule Poirot decided to pass the remaining two hours before lunch on the island of Elephantine, immediately opposite the hotel.

  He went down to the landing stage. There were two men just stepping into one of the hotel boats, and Poirot joined them. The men were obviously strangers to each ot
her. The younger of them had arrived by train the day before. He was a tall, dark-haired young man, with a thin face and a pugnacious chin. He was wearing an extremely dirty pair of grey flannel trousers and a high-necked polo jumper singularly unsuited to the climate. The other was a slightly podgy middle-aged man who lost no time in entering into conversation with Poirot in idiomatic but slightly broken English. Far from taking part in the conversation, the younger man merely scowled at them both and then deliberately turned his back on them and proceeded to admire the agility with which the Nubian boatman steered the boat with his toes as he manipulated the sail with his hands.

  It was very peaceful on the water, the great smooth slippery black rocks gliding by and the soft breeze fanning their faces. Elephantine was reached very quickly and on going ashore Poirot and his loquacious acquaintance made straight for the museum. By this time the latter had produced a card which he handed to Poirot with a little bow. It bore the inscription: “Signor Guido Richetti, Archeologo.”

  Not to be outdone, Poirot returned the bow and extracted his own card. These formalities completed, the two men stepped into the Museum together, the Italian pouring forth a stream of erudite information. They were by now conversing in French.

  The young man in the flannel trousers strolled listlessly round the Museum, yawning from time to time, and then escaped to the outer air.

  Poirot and Signor Richetti at last found him. The Italian was energetic in examining the ruins, but presently Poirot, espying a green-lined sunshade which he recognized on the rocks down by the river, escaped in that direction.

  Mrs. Allerton was sitting on a large rock, a sketchbook by her side and a book on her lap.

  Poirot removed his hat politely and Mrs. Allerton at once entered into conversation.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I suppose it would be quite impossible to get rid of some of these awful children.”

  A group of small black figures surrounded her, all grinning and posturing and holding out imploring hands as they lisped “Bakshish,” at intervals, hopefully.

  “I thought they’d get tired of me,” said Mrs. Allerton sadly. “They’ve been watching me for over two hours now—and they close in on me little by little; and then I yell ‘Imshi’ and brandish my sunshade at them and they scatter for a minute or two. And then they come back and stare and stare, and their eyes are simply disgusting, and so are their noses, and I don’t believe I really like children—not unless they’re more or less washed and have the rudiments of manners.”

  She laughed ruefully.

  Poirot gallantly attempted to disperse the mob for her, but without avail. They scattered and then reappeared, closing in once more.

  “If there were only any peace in Egypt, I should like it better,” said Mrs. Allerton. “But you can never be alone anywhere. Someone is always pestering you for money, or offering you donkeys, or beads, or expeditions to native villages, or duck shooting.”

  “It is the great disadvantage, that is true,” said Poirot.

  He spread his handkerchief cautiously on the rock and sat somewhat gingerly upon it.

  “Your son is not with you this morning?” he went on.

  “No, Tim had some letters to get off before we leave. We’re doing the trip to the Second Cataract, you know.”

  “I, too.”

  “I’m so glad. I want to tell you that I’m quite thrilled to meet you. When we were in Majorca, there was a Mrs. Leech there, and she was telling us the most wonderful things about you. She’d lost a ruby ring bathing, and she was just lamenting that you weren’t there to find it for her.

  “Ah, parbleu, but I am not the diving seal!”

  They both laughed.

  Mrs. Allerton went on.

  “I saw you from my window walking down the drive with Simon Doyle this morning. Do tell me what you make of him! We’re so excited about him.”

  “Ah? Truly?”

  “Yes. You know his marriage to Linnet Ridgeway was the greatest surprise. She was supposed to be going to marry Lord Windlesham and then suddenly she gets engaged to this man no one had ever heard of!”

  “You know her well, Madame?”

  “No, but a cousin of mine, Joanna Southwood, is one of her best friends.”

  “Ah, yes, I have read that name in the papers.” He was silent a moment and then went on, “She is a young lady very much in the news, Mademoiselle Joanna Southwood.”

  “Oh, she knows how to advertise herself all right,” snapped Mrs. Allerton.

  “You do not like her, Madame?”

  “That was a nasty remark of mine.” Mrs. Allerton looked penitent. “You see I’m old-fashioned. I don’t like her much. Tim and she are the greatest of friends, though.”

  “I see,” said Poirot.

  His companion shot a quick look at him. She changed the subject.

  “How very few young people there are out here! That pretty girl with the chestnut hair and the appalling mother in the turban is almost the only young creature in the place. You have talked to her a good deal, I notice. She interests me, that child.”

  “Why is that, Madame?”

  “I feel sorry for her. You can suffer so much when you are young and sensitive. I think she is suffering.”

  “Yes, she is not happy, poor little one.”

  “Tim and I call her the ‘sulky girl.’ I’ve tried to talk to her once or twice, but she’s snubbed me on each occasion. However, I believe she’s going on this Nile trip too, and I expect we’ll have to be more or less all matey together, shan’t we?”

  “It is a possible contingency, Madame.”

  “I’m very matey really—people interest me enormously. All the different types.” She paused, then said: “Tim tells me that that dark girl—her name is de Bellefort—is the girl who was engaged to Simon Doyle. It’s rather awkward for them—meeting like this.”

  “It is awkward—yes,” agreed Poirot.

  “You know, it may sound foolish, but she almost frightened me. She looked so—intense.”

  Poirot nodded his head slowly.

  “You were not far wrong, Madame. A great force of emotion is always frightening.”

  “Do people interest you too, Monsieur Poirot? Or do you reserve your interest for potential criminals?”

  “Madame—that category would not leave many people outside it.”

  Mrs. Allerton looked a trifle startled.

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “Given the particular incentive, that is to say,” Poirot added.

  “Which would differ?”

  “Naturally.”

  Mrs. Allerton hesitated—a little smile on her lips.

  “Even I perhaps?”

  “Mothers, Madame, are particularly ruthless when their children are in danger.”

  She said gravely, “I think that’s true—yes, you’re quite right.”

  She was silent a minute or two, then she said, smiling: I’m trying to imagine motives for crime suitable for everyone in the hotel. It’s quite entertaining. Simon Doyle, for instance?”

  Poirot said, smiling: “A very simple crime—a direct shortcut to his objective. No subtlety about it.”

  “And therefore very easily detected?”

  “Yes; he would not be ingenious.”

  “And Linnet?”

  “That would be like the Queen in your Alice in Wonderland, ‘Off with her head.’”

  “Of course. The divine right of monarchy! Just a little bit of the Naboth’s vineyard touch. And the dangerous girl—Jacqueline de Bellefort—could she do a murder?”

  Poirot hesitated for a minute or two, then he said doubtfully, “Yes, I think she could.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “No. She puzzles me, that little one.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Pennington could do one, do you? He looks so desiccated and dyspeptic—with no red blood in him.”

  “But possibly a strong sense of self-preservation.”

  “Yes, I sup
pose so. And poor Mrs. Otterbourne in her turban?”

  “There is always vanity.”

  “As a motive for murder?” Mrs. Allerton asked doubtfully.

  “Motives for murder are sometimes very trivial, Madame.”

  “What are the most usual motives, Monsieur Poirot?”

  “Most frequent—money. That is to say, gain in its various ramifications. Then there is revenge—and love, and fear, and pure hate, and beneficence—”

  “Monsieur Poirot!”

  “Oh, yes, Madame. I have known of—shall we say A?—being removed by B solely in order to benefit C. Political murders often come under the same heading. Someone is considered to be harmful to civilization and is removed on that account. Such people forget that life and death are the affair of the good God.”

  He spoke gravely.

  Mrs. Allerton said quietly: “I am glad to hear you say that. All the same, God chooses his instruments.”

  “There is a danger in thinking like that, Madame.”

  She adopted a lighter tone.

  “After this conversation, Monsieur Poirot, I shall wonder that there is anyone left alive!”

  She got up.

  “We must be getting back. We have to start immediately after lunch.”

  When they reached the landing stage they found the young man in the polo jumper just taking his place in the boat. The Italian was already waiting. As the Nubian boatman cast the sail loose and they started, Poirot addressed a polite remark to the stranger.

  “There are very wonderful things to be seen in Egypt, are there not?”

  The young man was now smoking a somewhat noisome pipe. He removed it from his mouth and remarked briefly and very emphatically, in astonishingly well-bred accents: “They make me sick.”

  Mrs. Allerton put on her pince-nez and surveyed him with pleasurable interest.

  “Indeed? And why is that?” Poirot asked.

  “Take the Pyramids. Great blocks of useless masonry, put up to minister to the egoism of a despotic bloated king. Think of the sweated masses who toiled to build them and died doing it. It makes me sick to think of the suffering and torture they represent.”