Death on the Nile

by Agatha Christie

  “Why—I don’t understand—potatoes, beetroots—what does it mean, Simon?”

  Simon was just coming to look over her shoulder when a furious voice said: “Excuse me, that telegram is for me,” and Signor Richetti snatched it rudely from her hand, fixing her with a furious glare as he did so.

  Linnet stared in surprise for a moment, then turned over the envelope.

  “Oh, Simon, what a fool I am! It’s Richetti—not Ridgeway—and anyway of course my name isn’t Ridgeway now. I must apologize.”

  She followed the little archaeologist up to the stern of the boat.

  “I am so sorry, Signor Richetti. You see my name was Ridgeway before I married, and I haven’t been married very long, and so….”

  She paused, her face dimpled with smiles, inviting him to smile upon a young bride’s faux pas.

  But Richetti was obviously “not amused.” Queen Victoria at her most disapproving could not have looked more grim. “Names should be read carefully. It is inexcusable to be careless in these matters.”

  Linnet bit her lip and her colour rose. She was not accustomed to have her apologies received in this fashion. She turned away and, rejoining Simon, said angrily, “These Italians are really insupportable.”

  “Never mind, darling; let’s go and look at that big ivory crocodile you liked.”

  They went ashore together.

  Poirot, watching them walk up the landing stage, heard a sharp indrawn breath. He turned to see Jacqueline de Bellefort at his side. Her hands were clenched on the rail. The expression on her face, as she turned it towards him, quite startled him. It was no longer gay or malicious. She looked devoured by some inner consuming fire.

  “They don’t care anymore.” The words came low and fast. “They’ve got beyond me. I can’t reach them…They don’t mind if I’m here or not…I can’t—I can’t hurt them anymore….”

  Her hands on the rail trembled.

  “Mademoiselle—”

  She broke in: “Oh, it’s too late now—too late for warnings…You were right. I ought not to have come. Not on this journey. What did you call it? A journey of the soul? I can’t go back; I’ve got to go on. And I’m going on. They shan’t be happy together; they shan’t. I’d kill him sooner….”

  She turned abruptly away. Poirot, staring after her, felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Your girl friend seems a trifle upset, Monsieur Poirot.” Poirot turned. He stared in surprise, seeing an old acquaintance.

  “Colonel Race.”

  The tall bronzed man smiled.

  “Bit of a surprise, eh?”

  Hercule Poirot had come across Colonel Race a year previously in London. They had been fellow guests at a very strange dinner party—a dinner party that had ended in death for that strange man, their host.

  Poirot knew that Race was a man of unadvertised goings and comings. He was usually to be found in one of the outposts of Empire where trouble was brewing.

  “So you are here at Wadi Halfa,” he remarked thoughtfully.

  “I am here on this boat.”

  “You mean?”

  “That I am making the return journey with you to Shellal.”

  Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose.

  “That is very interesting. Shall we, perhaps, have a little drink?”

  They went into the observation saloon, now quite empty. Poirot ordered a whisky for the Colonel and a double orangeade full of sugar for himself.

  “So you make the return journey with us,” said Poirot as he sipped. “You would go faster, would you not, on the Government steamer, which travels by night as well as day?”

  Colonel Race’s face creased appreciatively.

  “You’re right on the spot as usual, Monsieur Poirot,” he said pleasantly.

  “It is, then, the passengers?”

  “One of the passengers.”

  “Now which one, I wonder?” Hercule Poirot asked of the ornate ceiling.

  “Unfortunately I don’t know myself,” said Race ruefully.

  Poirot looked interested.

  Race said: “There’s no need to be mysterious to you. We’ve had a good deal of trouble out here—one way and another. It isn’t the people who ostensibly lead the rioters that we’re after. It’s the men who very cleverly put the match to the gunpowder. There were three of them. One’s dead. One’s in prison. I want the third man—a man with five or six cold-blooded murders to his credit. He’s one of the cleverest paid agitators that ever existed…He’s on this boat. I know that from a passage in a letter that passed through our hands. Decoded it said: ‘X will be on the Karnak trip seventh to thirteenth.’ It didn’t say under what name X would be passing.”

  “Have you any description of him?”

  “No. American, Irish, and French descent. Bit of a mongrel. That doesn’t help us much. Have you got any ideas?”

  “An idea—it is all very well,” said Poirot meditatively.

  Such was the understanding between them that Race pressed him no further. He knew Hercule Poirot did not ever speak unless he was sure.

  Poirot rubbed his nose and said unhappily: “There passes itself something on this boat that causes me much inquietude.”

  Race looked at him inquiringly.

  “Figure to yourself,” said Poirot, “a person A who has grievously wronged a person B. The person B desires the revenge. The person B makes the threats.”

  “A and B being both on this boat?”

  Poirot nodded. “Precisely.”

  “And B, I gather, being a woman?”

  “Exactly.”

  Race lit a cigarette.

  “I shouldn’t worry. People who go about talking of what they are going to do don’t usually do it.”

  “And particularly is that the case with les femmes, you would say! Yes, that is true.”

  But he still did not look happy.

  “Anything else?” asked Race.

  “Yes, there is something. Yesterday the person A had a very near escape from death, the kind of death that might very conveniently be called an accident.”

  “Engineered by B?”

  “No, that is just the point. B could have had nothing to do with it.”

  “Then it was an accident.”

  “I suppose so—but I don’t like such accidents.”

  “You’re quite sure B could have had no hand in it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh, well, coincidences do happen. Who is A, by the way? A particularly disagreeable person?”

  “On the contrary. A is a charming, rich, and beautiful young lady.”

  Race grinned.

  “Sounds quite like a novelette.”

  “Peut-être. But I tell you, I am not happy, my friend. If I am right, and after all I am constantly in the habit of being right”—Race smiled into his moustache at this typical utterance—“then there is matter for grave inquietude. And now, you come to add yet another complication. You tell me that there is a man on the Karnak who kills.”

  “He doesn’t usually kill charming young ladies.”

  Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

  “I am afraid, my friend,” he said. “I am afraid…Today, I advised this lady, Madame Doyle, to go with her husband to Khartoum, not to return on this boat. But they would not agree. I pray to Heaven that we may arrive at Shellal without catastrophe.”

  “Aren’t you taking rather a gloomy view?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “I am afraid,” he said simply. “Yes, I, Hercule Poirot, I’m afraid….”

  Twelve

  I

  Cornelia Robson stood inside the temple of Abu Simbel. It was the evening of the following day—a hot still evening. The Karnak was anchored once more at Abu Simbel to permit a second visit to be made to the temple, this time by artificial light. The difference this made was considerable, and Cornelia commented wonderingly on the fact to Mr. Ferguson, who was standing by her side.

  “Why, you see it
ever so much better now!” she exclaimed. “All those enemies having their heads cut off by the King—they just stand right out. That’s a cute kind of castle there that I never noticed before. I wish Dr. Bessner was here, he’d tell me what it was.”

  “How you can stand that old fool beats me,” said Ferguson gloomily.

  “Why, he’s just one of the kindest men I’ve ever met.”

  “Pompous old bore.”

  “I don’t think you ought to speak that way.”

  The young man gripped her suddenly by the arm. They were just emerging from the temple into the moonlight.

  “Why do you stick being bored by fat old men—and bullied and snubbed by a vicious old harridan?”

  “Why, Mr. Ferguson!”

  “Haven’t you got any spirit? Don’t you know you’re just as good as she is?”

  “But I’m not!” Cornelia spoke with honest conviction.

  “You’re not as rich; that’s all you mean.”

  “No, it isn’t. Cousin Marie’s very cultured, and—”

  “Cultured!” The young man let go of her arm as suddenly as he had taken it. “That word makes me sick.”

  Cornelia looked at him in alarm.

  “She doesn’t like you talking to me, does she?” asked the young man.

  Cornelia blushed and looked embarrassed.

  “Why? Because she thinks I’m not her social equal! Pah! Doesn’t that make you see red?”

  Cornelia faltered out: “I wish you wouldn’t get so mad about things.”

  “Don’t you realize—and you an American—that everyone is born free and equal?”

  “They’re not,” said Cornelia with calm certainty.

  “My good girl, it’s part of your constitution!”

  “Cousin Marie says politicians aren’t gentlemen,” said Cornelia. “And of course people aren’t equal. It doesn’t make sense. I know I’m kind of homely-looking, and I used to feel mortified about it sometimes, but I’ve got over that. I’d like to have been born elegant and beautiful like Mrs. Doyle, but I wasn’t, so I guess it’s no use worrying.”

  “Mrs. Doyle!” exclaimed Ferguson with deep contempt. “She’s the sort of woman who ought to be shot as an example.”

  Cornelia looked at him anxiously.

  “I believe it’s your digestion,” she said kindly. “I’ve got a special kind of pepsin that Cousin Marie tried once. Would you like to try it?”

  Mr. Ferguson said: “You’re impossible!”

  He turned and strode away. Cornelia went on towards the boat. Just as she was crossing the gangway he caught her up once more.

  “You’re the nicest person on the boat,” he said. “And mind you remember it.”

  Blushing with pleasure Cornelia repaired to the observation saloon. Miss Van Schuyler was conversing with Dr. Bessner—an agreeable conversation dealing with certain royal patients of his.

  Cornelia said guiltily: “I do hope I haven’t been a long time, Cousin Marie.”

  Glancing at her watch, the old lady snapped: “You haven’t exactly hurried, my dear. And what have you done with my velvet stole?”

  Cornelia looked round.

  “Shall I see if it’s in the cabin, Cousin Marie?”

  “Of course it isn’t! I had it just after dinner in here, and I haven’t moved out of the place. It was on that chair.”

  Cornelia made a desultory search.

  “I can’t see it anywhere, Cousin Marie.”

  “Nonsense!” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Look about.” It was an order such as one might give to a dog, and in her doglike fashion Cornelia obeyed. The quiet Mr. Fanthorp, who was sitting at a table near by, rose and assisted her. But the stole could not be found.

  The day had been such an unusually hot and sultry one that most people had retired early after going ashore to view the temple. The Doyles were playing bridge with Pennington and Race at a table in a corner. The only other occupant of the saloon was Hercule Poirot, who was yawning his head off at a small table near the door.

  Miss Van Schuyler, making a Royal Progress bedward, with Cornelia and Miss Bowers in attendance, paused by his chair. He sprang politely to his feet, stifling a yawn of gargantuan dimensions.

  Miss Van Schuyler said: “I have only just realized who you are, Monsieur Poirot. I may tell you that I have heard of you from my old friend Rufus Van Aldin. You must tell me about your cases sometime.”

  Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little through their sleepiness, bowed in an exaggerated manner. With a kindly but condescending nod, Miss Van Schuyler passed on.

  Poirot yawned once more. He felt heavy and stupid with sleep and could hardly keep his eyes open. He glanced over at the bridge players, absorbed in their game, then at young Fanthorp, who was deep in a book. Apart from them the saloon was empty.

  He passed through the swing door out on to the deck. Jacqueline de Bellefort, coming precipitately along the deck, almost collided with him.

  “Pardon, Mademoiselle.”

  She said: “You look sleepy, Monsieur Poirot.”

  He admitted it frankly:

  “Mais oui—I am consumed with sleep. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It has been a day very close and oppressive.”

  “Yes.” She seemed to brood over it. “It’s been the sort of day when things—snap! Break! When one can’t go on….”

  Her voice was low and charged with passion. She looked not at him, but towards the sandy shore. Her hands were clenched, rigid….

  Suddenly the tension relaxed. She said: “Good night, Monsieur Poirot.”

  “Good night, Mademoiselle.”

  Her eyes met his, just for a swift moment. Thinking it over the next day, he came to the conclusion that there had been appeal in that glance. He was to remember it afterwards.

  Then he passed on to his cabin and she went towards the saloon.

  II

  Cornelia, having dealt with Miss Van Schuyler’s many needs and fantasies, took some needlework with her back to the saloon. She herself did not feel in the least sleepy. On the contrary she felt wide awake and slightly excited.

  The bridge four were still at it. In another chair the quiet Fanthorp read a book. Cornelia sat down to her needlework.

  Suddenly the door opened and Jacqueline de Bellefort came in. She stood in the doorway, her head thrown back. Then she pressed a bell and sauntered across to Cornelia and sat down.

  “Been ashore?” she asked.

  “Yes. I thought it was just fascinating in the moonlight.”

  Jacqueline nodded.

  “Yes, lovely night…A real honeymoon night.”

  Her eyes went to the bridge table—rested a moment on Linnet Doyle.

  The boy came in answer to the bell. Jacqueline ordered a double gin. As she gave the order Simon Doyle shot a quick glance at her. A faint line of anxiety showed between his eyebrows.

  His wife said: “Simon, we’re waiting for you to call.”

  Jacqueline hummed a little tune to herself. When the drink came, she picked it up, said: “Well, here’s to crime,” drank it off and ordered another.

  Again Simon looked across from the bridge table. His calls became slightly absentminded. His partner, Pennington, took him to task.

  Jacqueline began to hum again, at first under her breath, then louder:

  “He was her man and he did her wrong….”

  “Sorry,” said Simon to Pennington. “Stupid of me not to return your lead. That gives ’em rubber.”

  Linnet rose to her feet.

  “I’m sleepy. I think I’ll go to bed.”

  “About time to turn in,” said Colonel Race.

  “I’m with you,” agreed Pennington.

  “Coming, Simon?”

  Doyle said slowly: “Not just yet. I think I’ll have a drink first.”

  Linnet nodded and went out. Race followed her. Pennington finished his drink and then followed suit.

  Cornelia began to gather up her embroidery.

  “Don’t go t
o bed, Miss Robson,” said Jacqueline. “Please don’t. I feel like making a night of it. Don’t desert me.”

  Cornelia sat down again.

  “We girls must stick together,” said Jacqueline.

  She threw back her head and laughed—a shrill laugh without merriment.

  The second drink came.

  “Have something,” said Jacqueline.

  “No, thank you very much,” replied Cornelia.

  Jacqueline tilted back her chair. She hummed now loudly: “He was her man and he did her wrong….”

  Mr. Fanthorp turned a page of Europe from Within.

  Simon Doyle picked up a magazine.

  “Really, I think I’ll go to bed,” said Cornelia. “It’s getting very late.”

  “You can’t go to bed yet,” Jacqueline declared. “I forbid you to. Tell me about yourself.”

  “Well—I don’t know. There isn’t much to tell,” Cornelia faltered. “I’ve just lived at home, and I haven’t been around much. This is my first trip to Europe. I’m just loving every minute of it.”

  Jacqueline laughed.

  “You’re a happy sort of person, aren’t you? God, I’d like to be you.”

  “Oh, would you? But I mean—I’m sure—”

  Cornelia felt flustered. Undoubtedly Miss de Bellefort was drinking too much. That wasn’t exactly a novelty to Cornelia. She had seen plenty of drunkenness during Prohibition years. But there was something else…Jacqueline de Bellefort was talking to her—was looking at her—and yet, Cornelia felt, it was as though, somehow, she was talking to someone else….

  But there were only two other people in the room, Mr. Fanthorp and Mr. Doyle. Mr. Fanthorp seemed quite absorbed in his book. Mr. Doyle was looking rather odd—a queer sort of watchful look on his face.

  Jacqueline said again: “Tell me all about yourself.”

  Always obedient, Cornelia tried to comply. She talked, rather heavily, going into unnecessary small details about her daily life. She was so unused to being the talker. Her role was so constantly that of the listener. And yet Miss de Bellefort seemed to want to know. When Cornelia faltered to a standstill, the other girl was quick to prompt her.

  “Go on—tell me more.”

  And so Cornelia went on (“Of course, Mother’s very delicate—some days she touches nothing but cereals—”) unhappily conscious that all she said was supremely uninteresting, yet flattered by the other girl’s seeming interest. But was she interested? Wasn’t she, somehow, listening to something else—or, perhaps, for something else? She was looking at Cornelia, yes, but wasn’t there someone else, sitting in the room?