Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - Кристи Агата - Страница 24

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,’ Poirot marked 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 February 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. 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 do not 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, am afraid…’

Chapter 11

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?’ said 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 onto 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.