Death on the Nile

by Agatha Christie

  “That can be arranged, Madame. It is very good of you.”

  “It’s mere decency. Besides, I’m very fond of the girl. I’ve always liked her.”

  “Is she very upset?”

  “Terribly. She seems to have been absolutely devoted to that odious woman. That is what is so pathetic about it all. Tim says he believes she drank. Is that true?”

  Poirot nodded.

  “Oh, well, poor woman, one must not judge her, I suppose; but that girl must have had a terrible life.”

  “She did, Madame. She is very proud and she was very loyal.”

  “Yes, I like that—loyalty, I mean. It’s out of fashion nowadays. She’s an odd character, that girl—proud, reserved, stubborn, and terribly warm-hearted underneath, I fancy.”

  “I see that I have given her into good hands, Madame.”

  “Yes, don’t worry. I’ll look after her. She’s inclined to cling to me in the most pathetic fashion.”

  Mrs. Allerton went back into the cabin. Poirot returned to the scene of the tragedy.

  Cornelia was still standing on the deck, her eyes wide. She said: “I don’t understand, Monsieur Poirot. How did the person who shot her get away without our seeing him?”

  “Yes, how?” echoed Jacqueline.

  “Ah,” said Poirot, “it was not quite such a disappearing trick as you think, Mademoiselle. There were three distinct ways the murderer might have gone.”

  Jacqueline looked puzzled. She said, “Three?”

  “He might have gone to the right, or he might have gone to the left, but I don’t see any other way,” puzzled Cornelia.

  Jacqueline too frowned. Then her brow cleared.

  She said: “Of course. He could move in two directions on one plane, but he could go at right angles to that plane too. That is, he couldn’t go up very well, but he could go down.”

  Poirot smiled. “You have brains, Mademoiselle.”

  Cornelia said: “I know I’m just a plain mutt, but I still don’t see.”

  Jacqueline said: “Monsieur Poirot means, darling, that he could swing himself over the rail and down on to the deck below.”

  “My!” gasped Cornelia. “I never thought of that. He’d have to be mighty quick about it, though. I suppose he could just do it?”

  “He could do it easily enough,” said Tim Allerton. “Remember, there’s always a minute of shock after a thing like this. One hears a shot and one’s too paralysed to move for a second or two.”

  “That was your experience, Monsieur Allerton?”

  “Yes, it was. I just stood like a dummy for quite five seconds. Then I fairly sprinted round the deck.”

  Race came out of Bessner’s cabin and said authoritatively: “Would you mind all clearing off? We want to bring out the body.”

  Everyone moved away obediently. Poirot went with them. Cornelia said to him with sad earnestness: “I’ll never forget this trip as long as I live. Three deaths…It’s just like living in a nightmare.”

  Ferguson overheard her. He said aggressively: “That’s because you’re over-civilized. You should look on death as the Oriental does. It’s a mere incident—hardly noticeable.”

  “That’s all very well,” Cornelia said.

  “They’re not educated, poor creatures.”

  “No, and a good thing too. Education has devitalized the white races. Look at America—goes in for an orgy of culture. Simply disgusting.”

  “I think you’re talking nonsense,” said Cornelia, flushing. “I attend lectures every winter on Greek Art and the Renaissance, and I went to some on famous Women of History.”

  Mr. Ferguson groaned in agony: “Greek Art; Renaissance! Famous Women of History! It makes me quite sick to hear you. It’s the future that matters, woman, not the past. Three women are dead on this boat. Well, what of it? They’re no loss! Linnet Doyle and her money! The French maid—a domestic parasite. Mrs. Otterbourne—a useless fool of a woman. Do you think anyone really cares whether they’re dead or not? I don’t. I think it’s a damned good thing!”

  “Then you’re wrong!” Cornelia blazed out at him. “And it makes me sick to hear you talk and talk, as though nobody mattered but you. I didn’t like Mrs. Otterbourne much, but her daughter was ever so fond of her, and she’s all broken up over her mother’s death. I don’t know much about the French maid, but I expect somebody was fond of her somewhere; and as for Linnet Doyle—well, apart from everything else, she was just lovely! She was so beautiful when she came into a room that it made a lump come in your throat. I’m homely myself, and that makes me appreciate beauty a lot more. She was as beautiful—just as a woman—as anything in Greek Art. And when anything beautiful’s dead, it’s a loss to the world. So there!”

  Mr. Ferguson stepped back a pace. He caught hold of his hair with both hands and tugged at it vehemently.

  “I give it up,” he said. “You’re unbelievable. Just haven’t got a bit of natural female spite in you anywhere.” He turned to Poirot. “Do you know, sir, that Cornelia’s father was practically ruined by Linnet Ridgeway’s old man? But does the girl gnash her teeth when she sees the heiress sailing about in pearls and Paris models? No, she just bleats out: ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ like a blessed Baa Lamb. I don’t believe she even felt sore at her.”

  Cornelia flushed. “I did—just for a minute. Poppa kind of died of discouragement, you know, because he hadn’t made good.”

  “Felt sore for a minute! I ask you.”

  Cornelia flashed round on him.

  “Well, didn’t you say just now it was the future that mattered, not the past? All that was in the past, wasn’t it? It’s over.”

  “Got me there,” said Ferguson. “Cornelia Robson, you’re the only nice woman I’ve ever come across. Will you marry me?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “It’s a genuine proposal—even if it is made in the presence of Old Man Sleuth. Anyway, you’re a witness, Monsieur Poirot. I’ve deliberately offered marriage to this female—against all my principles, because I don’t believe in legal contracts between the sexes; but I don’t think she’d stand for anything else, so marriage it shall be. Come on, Cornelia, say yes.”

  “I think you’re utterly ridiculous,” said Cornelia, flushing.

  “Why won’t you marry me?”

  “You’re not serious,” said Cornelia.

  “Do you mean not serious in proposing or do you mean not serious in character?”

  “Both, but I really meant character. You laugh at all sorts of serious things. Education and Culture—and—and Death. You wouldn’t be reliable.”

  She broke off, flushed again, and hurried along into her cabin.

  Ferguson stared after her. “Damn the girl! I believe she really means it. She wants a man to be reliable. Reliable—ye gods!” He paused and then said curiously: “What’s the matter with you, Monsieur Poirot? You seem very deep in thought.”

  Poirot roused himself with a start.

  “I reflect, that is all. I reflect.”

  “Meditation on Death. Death, the Recurring Decimal, by Hercule Poirot. One of his well-known monographs.”

  “Monsieur Ferguson,” said Poirot, “you are a very impertinent young man.”

  “You must excuse me. I like attacking established institutions.”

  “And I am an established institution?”

  “Precisely. What do you think of that girl?”

  “Of Miss Robson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think that she has a great deal of character.”

  “You’re right. She’s got spirit. She looks meek, but she isn’t. She’s got guts. She’s—oh, damn it, I want that girl. It mightn’t be a bad move if I tackled the old lady. If I could once get her thoroughly against me, it might cut some ice with Cornelia.”

  He wheeled and went into the observation saloon. Miss Van Schuyler was seated in her usual corner. She looked even more arrogant than usual. She was knitting. Ferguson strode up to her. Hercule Poirot,
entering unobtrusively, took a seat a discreet distance away and appeared to be absorbed in a magazine.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Van Schuyler.”

  Miss Van Schuyler raised her eyes for a bare second, dropped them again and murmured frigidly, “Er—good afternoon.”

  “Look here, Miss Van Schuyler, I want to talk to you about something pretty important. It’s just this. I want to marry your cousin.”

  Miss Van Schuyler’s ball of wool dropped on to the ground and ran wildly across the saloon.

  She said in a venomous tone: “You must be out of your senses, young man.”

  “Not at all. I’m determined to marry her. I’ve asked her to marry me!”

  Miss Van Schuyler surveyed him coldly, with the kind of speculative interest she might have accorded to an odd sort of beetle.

  “Indeed? And I presume she sent you about your business.”

  “She refused me.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Not ‘naturally’ at all. I’m going to go on asking her till she agrees.”

  “I can assure you, sir, that I shall take steps to see that my young cousin is not subjected to any such persecution,” said Miss Van Schuyler in a biting tone.

  “What have you got against me?”

  Miss Van Schuyler merely raised her eyebrows and gave a vehement tug to her wool, preparatory to regaining it and closing the interview.

  “Come now,” persisted Mr. Ferguson, “what have you got against me?”

  “I should think that was quite obvious, Mr—er—I don’t know your name.”

  “Ferguson.”

  “Mr. Ferguson.” Miss Van Schuyler uttered the name with definite distaste. “Any such idea is quite out of the question.”

  “You mean,” said Ferguson, “that I’m not good enough for her?”

  “I should think that would have been obvious to you.”

  “In what way am I not good enough?”

  Miss Van Schuyler again did not answer.

  “I’ve got two legs, two arms, good health, and quite reasonable brains. What’s wrong with that?”

  “There is such a thing as social position, Mr. Ferguson.”

  “Social position is bunk!”

  The door swung open and Cornelia came in. She stopped dead on seeing her redoubtable Cousin Marie in conversation with her would-be suitor.

  The outrageous Mr. Ferguson turned his head, grinned broadly and called out: “Come along, Cornelia. I’m asking for your hand in marriage in the best conventional manner.”

  “Cornelia,” said Miss Van Schuyler, and her voice was truly awful in quality, “have you encouraged this young man?”

  “I—no, of course not—at least—not exactly—I mean—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She hasn’t encouraged me,” said Mr. Ferguson helpfully. “I’ve done it all. She hasn’t actually pushed me in the face, because she’s got too kind a heart. Cornelia, your cousin says I’m not good enough for you. That, of course, is true, but not in the way she means it. My moral nature certainly doesn’t equal yours, but her point is that I’m hopelessly below you socially.”

  “That I think, is equally obvious to Cornelia,” said Miss Van Schuyler.

  “Is it?” Mr. Ferguson looked at her searchingly. “Is that why you won’t marry me?”

  “No, it isn’t.” Cornelia flushed. “If—if I liked you, I’d marry you no matter who you were.”

  “But you don’t like me?”

  “I—I think you’re just outrageous. The way you say things…The things you say…I—I’ve never met anyone the least like you. I—”

  Tears threatened to overcome her. She rushed from the room.

  “On the whole,” said Mr. Ferguson, “that’s not too bad for a start.” He leaned back in his chair, gazed at the ceiling, whistled, crossed his disreputable knees and remarked: “I’ll be calling you Cousin yet.”

  Miss Van Schuyler trembled with rage. “Leave this room at once, sir, or I’ll ring for the steward.”

  “I’ve paid for my ticket,” said Mr. Ferguson. “They can’t possibly turn me out of the public lounge. But I’ll humour you.” He sang softly, “Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.” Rising, he sauntered nonchalantly to the door and passed out.

  Choking with anger Miss Van Schuyler struggled to her feet. Poirot, discreetly emerging from retirement behind his magazine, sprang up and retrieved the ball of wool.

  “Thank you, Monsieur Poirot. If you would send Miss Bowers to me—I feel quite upset—that insolent young man.”

  “Rather eccentric, I’m afraid,” said Poirot. “Most of that family are. Spoilt, of course. Always inclined to tilt at windmills.” He added carelessly, “You recognized him, I suppose?”

  “Recognized him?”

  “Calls himself Ferguson and won’t use his title because of his advanced ideas.”

  “His title?” Miss Van Schuyler’s tone was sharp.

  “Yes, that’s young Lord Dawlish. Rolling in money, of course, but he became a communist when he was at Oxford.”

  Miss Van Schuyler, her face a battleground of contradictory emotions, said: “How long have you known this, Monsieur Poirot?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “There was a picture in one of these papers—I noticed the resemblance. Then I found a signet ring with a coat of arms on it. Oh, there’s no doubt about it, I assure you.”

  He quite enjoyed reading the conflicting expressions that succeeded each other on Miss Van Schuyler’s face. Finally, with a gracious inclination of the head, she said, “I am very much obliged to you, Monsieur Poirot.”

  Poirot looked after her and smiled as she went out of the saloon. Then he sat down and his face grew grave once more. He was following out a train of thought in his mind. From time to time he nodded his head.

  “Mais oui,” he said at last. “It all fits in.”

  Twenty-Six

  Race found him still sitting there.

  “Well, Poirot, what about it? Pennington’s due in ten minutes. I’m leaving this in your hands.”

  Poirot rose quickly to his feet. “First, get hold of young Fanthorp.”

  “Fanthorp?” Race looked surprised.

  “Yes. Bring him to my cabin.”

  Race nodded and went off. Poirot went along to his cabin. Race arrived with young Fanthorp a minute or two afterward.

  Poirot indicated chairs and offered cigarettes.

  “Now, Monsieur Fanthorp,” he said, “to our business! I perceive that you wear the same tie that my friend Hastings wears.”

  Jim Fanthorp looked down at his neckwear with some bewilderment.

  “It’s an O.E. tie,” he said.

  “Exactly. You must understand that, though I am a foreigner, I know something of the English point of view. I know, for instance, that there are ‘things which are done’ and ‘things which are not done.’”

  Jim Fanthorp grinned.

  “We don’t say that sort of thing much nowadays, sir.”

  “Perhaps not, but the custom, it still remains. The Old School Tie is the Old School Tie, and there are certain things (I know this from experience) that the Old School Tie does not do! One of those things, Monsieur Fanthorp, is to butt into a private conversation unasked when one does not know the people who are conducting it.”

  Fanthorp stared.

  Poirot went on: “But the other day, Monsieur Fanthorp, that is exactly what you did do. Certain persons were quietly transacting some private business in the observation saloon. You strolled near them, obviously in order to overhear what it was that was in progress, and presently you actually turned round and congratulated a lady—Madame Simon Doyle—on the soundness of her business methods.”

  Jim Fanthorp’s face got very red. Poirot swept on, not waiting for a comment.

  “Now that, Monsieur Fanthorp, was not at all the behaviour of one who wears a tie similar to that worn by my friend Hastings! Hastings is all delicacy, would die of shame before
he did such a thing! Therefore, taking that action of yours in conjunction with the fact that you are a very young man to be able to afford an expensive holiday, that you are a member of a country solicitor’s firm, and therefore probably not extravagantly well off, and that you show no signs of recent illness such as might necessitate a prolonged visit abroad, I ask myself—and am now asking you—what is the reason for your presence on this boat?”

  Jim Fanthorp jerked his head back.

  “I decline to give you any information whatever, Monsieur Poirot. I really think you must be mad.”

  “I am not mad. I am very, very sane. Where is your firm? In Northampton; that is not very far from Wode Hall. What conversation did you try to overhear? One concerning legal documents. What was the object of your remark—a remark which you uttered with obvious embarrassment and malaise? Your object was to prevent Madame Doyle from signing any document unread.”

  He paused.

  “On this boat we have had a murder, and following that murder two other murders in rapid succession. If I further give you the information that the weapon which killed Madame Otterbourne was a revolver owned by Monsieur Andrew Pennington, then perhaps you will realize that it is actually your duty to tell us all you can.”

  Jim Fanthorp was silent for some minutes. At last he said: “You have rather an odd way of going about things, Monsieur Poirot, but I appreciate the points you have made. The trouble is that I have no exact information to lay before you.”

  “You mean that it is a case, merely, of suspicion.”

  “Yes.”

  “And therefore you think it injudicious to speak? That may be true, legally speaking. But this is not a court of law. Colonel Race and myself are endeavouring to track down a murderer. Anything that can help us to do so may be valuable.”

  Again Jim Fanthorp reflected. Then he said: “Very well. What is it you want to know?”

  “Why did you come on this trip?”

  “My uncle, Mr. Carmichael, Mrs. Doyle’s English solicitor, sent me. He handled a good many of her affairs. In this way, he was often in correspondence with Mr. Andrew Pennington, who was Mrs. Doyle’s American trustee. Several small incidents (I cannot enumerate them all) made my uncle suspicious that all was not quite as it should be.”