Agatha Christie

Death on the Nile

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

To my old friend Sybil Bennett
who also loves wandering about the world

Authorâs Foreword

Death on the Nile was written after coming back from a winter in Egypt. When I read it now I feel myself back again on the steamer from Assuan to Wadi Halfa. There were quite a number of passengers on board, but the ones in this book travelled in my mind and became increasingly real to meâin the setting of a Nile steamer. The book has a lot of characters and a very elaborately worked out plot. I think the central situation is intriguing and has dramatic possibilities, and the three characters, Simon, Linnet, and Jacqueline, seem to me to be real and alive.

My friend, Francis L. Sullivan, liked the book so much that he kept urging me to adapt it for the stage, which in the end I did.

I think, myself, that the book is one of the best of my âforeign travelâ ones, and if detective stories are âescape literatureâ (and why shouldnât they be!) the reader can escape to sunny skies and blue water as well as to crime in the confines of an armchair.

One

I

âLinnet Ridgeway!â

âThatâs her!â said Mr. Burnaby, the landlord of the Three Crowns.

He nudged his companion.

The two men stared with round bucolic eyes and slightly open mouths.

A big scarlet Rolls-Royce had just stopped in front of the local post office.

A girl jumped out, a girl without a hat and wearing a frock that looked (but only looked) simple. A girl with golden hair and straight autocratic featuresâa girl with a lovely shapeâa girl such as was seldom seen in Malton-under-Wode.

With a quick imperative step she passed into the post office.

âThatâs her!â said Mr. Burnaby again. And he went on in a low awed voice: âMillions sheâs gotâ¦Going to spend thousands on the place. Swimming pools thereâs going to be, and Italian gardens and a ballroom and half of the house pulled down and rebuiltâ¦.â

âSheâll bring money into the town,â said his friend. He was a lean, seedy-looking man. His tone was envious and grudging.

Mr. Burnaby agreed.

âYes, itâs a great thing for Malton-under-Wode. A great thing it is.â

Mr. Burnaby was complacent about it.

âWake us all up proper,â he added.

âBit of difference from Sir George,â said the other.

âAh, it was the âorses did for him,â said Mr. Burnaby indulgently. âNever âad no luck.â

âWhat did he get for the place?â

âA cool sixty thousand, so Iâve heard.â

The lean man whistled.

Mr. Burnaby went on triumphantly: âAnd they say sheâll have spent another sixty thousand before sheâs finished!â

âWicked!â said the lean man. âWhereâd she get all that money from?â

âAmerica, so Iâve heard. Her mother was the only daughter of one of those millionaire blokes. Quite like the pictures, isnât it?â

The girl came out of the post office and climbed into the car.

As she drove off, the lean man followed her with his eyes. He muttered:

âIt seems all wrong to meâher looking like that. Money and looksâitâs too much! If a girlâs as rich as that sheâs no right to be a good-looker as well. And she is a good-lookerâ¦Got everything, that girl has. Doesnât seem fairâ¦.â

II

Extract from the Social column of the Daily Blague.

Among those supping at Chez Ma Tante I noticed beautiful Linnet Ridgeway. She was with the Hon. Joanna Southwood, Lord Windlesham and Mr. Toby Bryce. Miss Ridgeway, as everyone knows, is the daughter of Melhuish Ridgeway, who married Anna Hartz. She inherits from her grandfather, Leopold Hartz, an immense fortune. The lovely Linnet is the sensation of the moment and it is rumoured that an engagement may be announced shortly. Certainly Lord Windlesham seemed very Ã©pris!!

III

The Hon. Joanna Southwood said:

âDarling, I think itâs going to be all perfectly marvellous!â

She was sitting in Linnet Ridgewayâs bedroom at Wode Hall.

From the window the eye passed over the gardens to open country with blue shadows of woodlands.

âItâs rather perfect, isnât it?â said Linnet.

She leaned her arms on the window sill. Her face was eager, alive, dynamic. Beside her, Joanna Southwood seemed, somehow, a little dimâa tall thin young woman of twenty-seven, with a long clever face and freakishly plucked eyebrows.

âAnd youâve done so much in the time! Did you have lots of architects and things?â

âThree.â

âWhat are architects like? I donât think Iâve ever seen any.â

âThey were all right. I found them rather unpractical sometimes.â

âDarling, you soon put that right! You are the most practical creature!â

Joanna picked up a string of pearls from the dressing table.

âI suppose these are real, arenât they, Linnet?â

âOf course.â

âI know itâs âof courseâ to you, my sweet, but it wouldnât be to most people. Heavily cultured or even Woolworth! Darling, they really are incredible, so exquisitely matched. They must be worth the most fabulous sum!â

âRather vulgar, you think?â

âNo, not at allâjust pure beauty. What are they worth?â

âAbout fifty thousand.â

âWhat a lovely lot of money! Arenât you afraid of having them stolen?â

âNo, I always wear themâand anyway theyâre insured.â

âLet me wear them till dinnertime, will you, darling? It would give me such a thrill.â

Linnet laughed.

âOf course, if you like.â

âYou know, Linnet, I really do envy you. Youâve simply got everything. Here you are at twenty, your own mistress, with any amount of money, looks, superb health. Youâve even got brains! When are you twenty-one?â

âNext June. I shall have a grand coming-of-age party in London.â

âAnd then are you going to marry Charles Windlesham? All the dreadful little gossip writers are getting so excited about it. And he really is frightfully devoted.â

Linnet shrugged her shoulders.

âI donât know. I donât really want to marry anyone yet.â

âDarling, how right you are! Itâs never quite the same afterwards, is it?â

The telephone shrilled and Linnet went to it.

âYes? Yes?â

The butlerâs voice answered her:

âMiss de Bellefort is on the line. Shall I put her through?â

âBellefort? Oh, of course, yes, put her through.â

A click and a voice, an eager, soft, slightly breathless voice: âHullo, is that Miss Ridgeway? Linnet!â

âJackie darling! I havenât heard anything of you for ages and ages!â

âI know. Itâs awful. Linnet, I want to see you terribly.â

âDarling, canât you come down here? My new toy. Iâd love to show it to you.â

âThatâs just what I want to do.â

âWell, jump into a train or a car.â

âRight, I will. A frightfully dilapidated two-seater. I bought it for fifteen pounds, and some days it goes beautifully. But it has moods. If I havenât arrived by teatime youâll know itâs had a mood. So long, my sweet.â

Linnet replaced the receiver. She crossed back to Joanna.

âThatâs my oldest friend, Jacqueline de Bellefort. We were together at a convent in Paris. Sheâs had the most terrible bad luck. Her father was a French Count, her mother was Americanâa Southerner. The father went off with some woman, and her mother lost all her money in the Wall Street crash. Jackie was left absolutely broke. I donât know how sheâs managed to get along the last two years.â

Joanna was polishing her deep-blood-coloured nails with her friendâs nail pad. She leant back with her head on one side scrutinizing the effect.

âDarling,â she drawled, âwonât that be rather tiresome? If any misfortunes happen to my friends I always drop them at once! It sounds heartless, but it saves such a lot of trouble later! They always want to borrow money off you, or else they start a dressmaking business and you have to get the most terrible clothes from them. Or they paint lampshades, or do batik scarves.â

âSo, if I lost all my money, youâd drop me tomorrow?â

âYes, darling, I would. You canât say Iâm not honest about it! I only like successful people. And youâll find thatâs true of nearly everybodyâonly most people wonât admit it. They just say that really they canât put up with Mary or Emily or Pamela anymore! âHer troubles have made her so bitter and peculiar, poor dear!ââ

âHow beastly you are, Joanna!â

âIâm only on the make, like everyone else.â

âIâm not on the make!â

âFor obvious reasons! You donât have to be sordid when good-looking, middle-aged American trustees pay you over a vast allowance every quarter.â

âAnd youâre wrong about Jacqueline,â said Linnet. âSheâs not a sponge. Iâve wanted to help her, but she wonât let me. Sheâs as proud as the devil.â

âWhatâs she in such a hurry to see you for? Iâll bet she wants something! You just wait and see.â

âShe sounded excited about something,â admitted Linnet. âJackie always did get frightfully worked up over things. She once stuck a penknife into someone!â

âDarling, how thrilling!â

âA boy was teasing a dog. Jackie tried to get him to stop. He wouldnât. She pulled him and shook him, but he was much stronger than she was, and at last she whipped out a penknife and plunged it right into him. There was the most awful row!â

âI should think so. It sounds most uncomfortable!â

Linnetâs maid entered the room. With a murmured word of apology, she took down a dress from the wardrobe and went out of the room with it.

âWhatâs the matter with Marie?â asked Joanna.

âSheâs been crying.â

âPoor thing! You know I told you she wanted to marry a man who has a job in Egypt. She didnât know much about him, so I thought Iâd better make sure he was all right. It turned out that he had a wife alreadyâand three children.â

âWhat a lot of enemies you must make, Linnet.â

âEnemies?â Linnet looked surprised.

Joanna nodded and helped herself to a cigarette.

âEnemies, my sweet. Youâre so devastatingly efficient. And youâre so frightfully good at doing the right thing.â

Linnet laughed.

âWhy, I havenât got an enemy in the world.â

IV

Lord Windlesham sat under the cedar tree. His eyes rested on the graceful proportions of Wode Hall. There was nothing to mar its old-world beauty; the new buildings and additions were out of sight round the corner. It was a fair and peaceful sight bathed in the autumn sunshine. Nevertheless, as he gazed, it was no longer Wode Hall that Charles Windlesham saw. Instead, he seemed to see a more imposing Elizabethan mansion, a long sweep of park, a more bleak backgroundâ¦It was his own family seat, Charltonbury, and in the foreground stood a figureâa girlâs figure, with bright golden hair and an eager confident faceâ¦Linnet as mistress of Charltonbury!

He felt very hopeful. That refusal of hers had not been at all a definite refusal. It had been little more than a plea for time. Well, he could afford to wait a littleâ¦.

How amazingly suitable the whole thing was! It was certainly advisable that he should marry money, but not such a matter of necessity that he could regard himself as forced to put his own feelings on one side. And he loved Linnet. He would have wanted to marry her even if she had been practically penniless, instead of one of the richest girls in England. Only, fortunately, she was one of the richest girls in Englandâ¦.

His mind played with attractive plans for the future. The Mastership of the Roxdale perhaps, the restoration of the west wing, no need to let the Scotch shootingâ¦.

Charles Windlesham dreamed in the sun.

V

It was four oâclock when the dilapidated little two-seater stopped with a sound of crunching gravel. A girl got out of itâa small slender creature with a mop of dark hair. She ran up the steps and tugged at the bell.

A few minutes later she was being ushered into the long stately drawing room, and an ecclesiastical butler was saying with the proper mournful intonation: âMiss de Bellefort.â

âLinnet!â

âJackie!â

Windlesham stood a little aside, watching sympathetically as this fiery little creature flung herself open-armed upon Linnet.

âLord WindleshamâMiss de Bellefortâmy best friend.â

A pretty child, he thoughtânot really pretty but decidedly attractive, with her dark curly hair and her enormous eyes. He murmured a few tactful nothings and then managed unobtrusively to leave the two friends together.

Jacqueline pouncedâin a fashion that Linnet remembered as being characteristic of her.

âWindlesham? Windlesham? Thatâs the man the papers always say youâre going to marry! Are you, Linnet? Are you?â

Linnet murmured: âPerhaps.â

âDarlingâIâm so glad! He looks nice.â

âOh, donât make up your mind about itâI havenât made up my own mind yet.â

âOf course not! Queens always proceed with due deliberation to the choosing of a consort!â

âDonât be ridiculous, Jackie.â

âBut you are a queen, Linnet! You always were. Sa MajestÃ©, la reine Linette. Linette la blonde! And IâIâm the Queenâs confidante! The trusted Maid of Honour.â

âWhat nonsense you talk, Jackie darling! Where have you been all this time? You just disappear. And you never write.â

âI hate writing letters. Where have I been? Oh, about three parts submerged, darling. In JOBS, you know. Grim jobs with grim women!â

âDarling, I wish youâdââ

âTake the Queenâs bounty? Well, frankly, darling, thatâs what Iâm here for. No, not to borrow money. Itâs not got to that yet! But Iâve come to ask a great big important favour!â

âGo on.â

âIf youâre going to marry the Windlesham man, youâll understand, perhaps.â

Linnet looked puzzled for a minute; then her face cleared.

âJackie, do you meanâ?â

âYes, darling, Iâm engaged!â

âSo thatâs it! I thought you were looking particularly alive somehow. You always do, of course, but even more than usual.â

âThatâs just what I feel like.â

âTell me all about him.â

âHis nameâs Simon Doyle. Heâs big and square and incredibly simple and boyish and utterly adorable! Heâs poorâgot no money. Heâs what you call âcountyâ all rightâbut very impoverished countyâa younger son and all that. His people come from Devonshire. He loves the country and country things. And for the last five years heâs been in the City in a stuffy office. And now theyâre cutting down and heâs out of a job. Linnet, I shall die if I canât marry him! I shall die! I shall die! I shall dieâ¦.â

âDonât be ridiculous, Jackie.â

âI shall die, I tell you! Iâm crazy about him. Heâs crazy about me. We canât live without each other.â

âDarling, you have got it badly!â

âI know. Itâs awful, isnât it? This love business gets hold of you and you canât do anything about it.â

She paused for a minute. Her dark eyes dilated, looked suddenly tragic. She gave a little shiver.

âItâsâeven frightening sometimes! Simon and I were made for each other. I shall never care for anyone else. And youâve got to help us, Linnet. I heard youâd bought this place and it put an idea into my head. Listen, youâll have to have a land agentâperhaps two. I want you to give the job to Simon.â

âOh!â Linnet was startled.

Jacqueline rushed on: âHeâs got all that sort of thing at his fingertips. He knows all about estatesâwas brought up on one. And heâs got his business training too. Oh, Linnet, you will give him a job, wonât you, for love of me? If he doesnât make good, sack him. But he will. And we can live in a little house, and I shall see lots of you, and everything in the garden will be too, too divine.â

She got up.

âSay you will, Linnet. Say you will. Beautiful Linnet! Tall golden Linnet! My own very special Linnet! Say you will!â

âJackieââ

âYou will?â

Linnet burst out laughing.

âRidiculous Jackie! Bring along your young man and let me have a look at him and weâll talk it over.â

Jackie darted at her, kissing her exuberantly.

âDarling Linnetâyouâre a real friend! I knew you were. You wouldnât let me downâever. Youâre just the loveliest thing in the world. Good-bye.â

âBut, Jackie, youâre staying.â

âMe? No, Iâm not. Iâm going back to London, and tomorrow Iâll come back and bring Simon and weâll settle it all up. Youâll adore him. He really is a pet.â

âBut canât you wait and just have tea?â

âNo, I canât wait, Linnet. Iâm too excited. I must get back and tell Simon. I know Iâm mad, darling, but I canât help it. Marriage will cure me, I expect. It always seems to have a very sobering effect on people.â

She turned at the door, stood a moment, then rushed back for a last quick birdlike embrace.

âDear Linnetâthereâs no one like you.â

VI

M. Gaston Blondin, the proprietor of that modish little restaurant Chez Ma Tante, was not a man who delighted to honour many of his clientÃ¨le. The rich, the beautiful, the notorious, and the well-born might wait in vain to be singled out and paid special attention. Only in the rarest cases did M. Blondin, with gracious condescension, greet a guest, accompany him to a privileged table, and exchange with him suitable and apposite remarks.

On this particular night, M. Blondin had exercised his royal prerogative three timesâonce for a Duchess, once for a famous racing peer, and once for a little man of comical appearance with immense black moustaches, who, a casual onlooker would have thought, could bestow no favour on Chez Ma Tante by his presence there.

M. Blondin, however, was positively fulsome in his attentions. Though clients had been told for the last half hour that a table was not to be had, one now mysteriously appeared, placed in a most favourable position. M. Blondin conducted the client to it with every appearance of empressement.

âBut naturally, for you there is always a table, Monsieur Poirot! How I wish that you would honour us oftener!â

Hercule Poirot smiled, remembering that past incident wherein a dead body, a waiter, M. Blondin, and a very lovely lady had played a part.

âYou are too amiable, Monsieur Blondin,â he said.

âAnd you are alone, Monsieur Poirot?â

âYes, I am alone.â

âOh, well, Jules here will compose for you a little meal that will be a poemâpositively a poem! Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: They distract the mind from food! You will enjoy your dinner, Monsieur Poirot; I promise you that. Now as to wineââ

A technical conversation ensued, Jules, the maÃ®tre dâhotel, assisting.

Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially.

âYou have grave affairs on hand?â

Poirot shook his head.

âI am, alas, a man of leisure,â he said softly. âI have made the economies in my time and I have now the means to enjoy the life of idleness.â

âI envy you.â

âNo, no, you would be unwise to do so. I can assure you, it is not so gay as it sounds.â He sighed. âHow true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the strain of having to think.â

M. Blondin threw up his hands.

âBut there is so much! There is travel!â

âYes, there is travel. Already I have not done so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think. The climate, they say, is superb! One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of the constantly falling rain.â

âAh! Egypt,â breathed M. Blondin.

âOne can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel.â

âAh, the sea, it does not agree with you?â

Hercule Poirot shook his head and shuddered slightly.

âI, too,â said M. Blondin with sympathy. âCurious the effect it has upon the stomach.â

âBut only upon certain stomachs! There are people on whom the motion makes no impression whatever. They actually enjoy it!â

âAn unfairness of the good God,â said M. Blondin.

He shook his head sadly, and, brooding on the impious thought, withdrew.

Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters ministered to the table. Toast Melba, butter, an ice pail, all the adjuncts to a meal of quality.

The Negro orchestra broke into an ecstasy of strange discordant noises. London danced.

Hercule Poirot looked on, registered impressions in his neat orderly mind.

How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying themselvesâ¦whereas a patient endurance seemed to be the sentiment exhibited on their partnersâ faces. The fat woman in purple was looking radiantâ¦Undoubtedly the fat had certain compensations in lifeâ¦a zestâa gustoâdenied to those of more fashionable contours.

A good sprinkling of young peopleâsome vacant-lookingâsome boredâsome definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happinessâyouth, the time of greatest vulnerability!

His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pairâtall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in perfect rhythm of happiness. Happiness in the place, the hour, and in each other.

The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore the couple returned to their table close by Poirot. The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face, lifted laughing to her companion.

There was something else beside laughter in her eyes. Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

âShe cares too much, that little one,â he said to himself. It is not safe. No, it is not safe.â

And then a word caught his ear, âEgypt.â

Their voices came to him clearlyâthe girlâs young, fresh, arrogant, with just a trace of soft-sounding foreign Râs, and the manâs pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.

âIâm not counting my chickens before theyâre hatched, Simon. I tell you Linnet wonât let us down!â

âI might let her down.â

âNonsenseâitâs just the right job for you.â

âAs a matter of fact I think it isâ¦I havenât really any doubts as to my capability. And I mean to make goodâfor your sake!â

The girl laughed softly, a laugh of pure happiness.

âWeâll wait three monthsâto make sure you donât get the sackâand thenââ

âAnd then Iâll endow thee with my worldly goodsâthatâs the hang of it, isnât it?â

âAnd, as I say, weâll go to Egypt for our honeymoon. Damn the expense! Iâve always wanted to go to Egypt all my life. The Nile and the Pyramids and the sandâ¦.â

He said, his voice slightly indistinct: âWeâll see it together, Jackieâ¦together. Wonât it be marvellous?â

âI wonder. Will it be as marvellous to you as it is to me? Do you really careâas much as I do?â

Her voice was suddenly sharpâher eyes dilatedâalmost with fear.

The manâs answer came quickly crisp: âDonât be absurd, Jackie.â

But the girl repeated: âI wonderâ¦.â

Then she shrugged her shoulders. âLetâs dance.â

Hercule Poirot murmured to himself:

âUne qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer. Yes, I wonder too.â

VII

Joanna Southwood said: âAnd suppose heâs a terrible tough?â

Linnet shook her head. âOh, he wonât be. I can trust Jacquelineâs taste.â

Joanna murmured: âAh, but people donât run true to form in love affairs.â

Linnet shook her head impatiently. Then she changed the subject. âI must go and see Mr. Pierce about those plans.â

âPlans?â

âYes, some dreadful insanitary old cottages. Iâm having them pulled down and the people moved.â

âHow sanitary and public-spirited of you, darling!â

âTheyâd have had to go anyway. Those cottages would have overlooked my new swimming pool.â

âDo the people who live in them like going?â

âMost of them are delighted. One or two are being rather stupid about itâreally tiresome in fact. They donât seem to realize how vastly improved their living conditions will be!â

âBut youâre being quite high-handed about it, I presume.â

âMy dear Joanna, itâs to their advantage really.â

âYes, dear. Iâm sure it is. Compulsory benefit.â

Linnet frowned. Joanna laughed.

âCome now, you are a tyrant, admit it. A beneficent tyrant if you like!â

âIâm not the least bit of a tyrant.â

âBut you like your own way!â

âNot especially.â

âLinnet Ridgeway, can you look me in the face and tell me of any one occasion on which youâve failed to do exactly as you wanted?â

âHeaps of times.â

âOh, yes, âheaps of timesââjust like thatâbut no concrete example. And you simply canât think up one, darling, however hard you try! The triumphal progress of Linnet Ridgeway in her golden car.â

Linnet said sharply: âYou think Iâm selfish?â

âNoâjust irresistible. The combined effect of money and charm. Everything goes down before you. What you canât buy with cash you buy with a smile. Result: Linnet Ridgeway, the Girl Who Has Everything.â

âDonât be ridiculous, Joanna!â

âWell, havenât you got everything?â

âI suppose I haveâ¦It sounds rather disgusting, somehow!â

âOf course itâs disgusting, darling! Youâll probably get terribly bored and blasÃ© by and by. In the meantime, enjoy the triumphal progress in the golden car. Only I wonder, I really do wonder, what will happen when you want to go down a street which has a board saying âNo Thoroughfare.ââ

âDonât be idiotic, Joanna.â As Lord Windlesham joined them, Linnet said, turning to him: âJoanna is saying the nastiest things to me.â

âAll spite, darling, all spite,â said Joanna vaguely as she got up from her seat.

She made no apology for leaving them. She had caught the glint in Windleshamâs eye.

He was silent for a minute or two. Then he went straight to the point.

âHave you come to a decision, Linnet?â

Linnet said slowly: âAm I being a brute? I suppose, if Iâm not sure, I ought to say âNoâââ

He interrupted her:

âDonât say it. You shall have timeâas much time as you want. But I think, you know, we should be happy together.â

âYou see,â Linnetâs tone was apologetic, almost childish, âIâm enjoying myself so muchâespecially with all this.â She waved a hand. âI wanted to make Wode Hall into my real ideal of a country house, and I do think Iâve got it nice, donât you?â

âItâs beautiful. Beautifully planned. Everything perfect. Youâre very clever, Linnet.â

He paused a minute and went on: âAnd you like Charltonbury, donât you? Of course it wants modernizing and all thatâbut youâre so clever at that sort of thing. You enjoy it.â

âWhy, of course, Charltonburyâs divine.â

She spoke with ready enthusiasm, but inwardly she was conscious of a sudden chill. An alien note had sounded, disturbing her complete satisfaction with life. She did not analyse the feeling at the moment, but later, when Windlesham had left her, she tried to probe the recesses of her mind.

Charltonburyâyes, that was itâshe had resented the mention of Charltonbury. But why? Charltonbury was modestly famous. Windleshamâs ancestors had held it since the time of Elizabeth. To be mistress of Charltonbury was a position unsurpassed in society. Windlesham was one of the most desirable peers in England.

Naturally he couldnât take Wode seriouslyâ¦It was not in any way to be compared with Charltonbury.

Ah, but Wode was hers! She had seen it, acquired it, rebuilt and redressed it, lavished money on it. It was her own possessionâher kingdom.

But in a sense it wouldnât count if she married Windlesham. What would they want with two country places? And of the two, naturally Wode Hall would be the one to be given up.

She, Linnet Ridgeway, wouldnât exist any longer. She would be Countess of Windlesham, bringing a fine dowry to Charltonbury and its master. She would be queen consort, not queen any longer.

âIâm being ridiculous,â said Linnet to herself.

But it was curious how she did hate the idea of abandoning Wodeâ¦.

And wasnât there something else nagging at her?

Jackieâs voice with that queer blurred note in it saying: âI shall die if I canât marry him! I shall die. I shall dieâ¦.â

So positive, so earnest. Did she, Linnet, feel like that about Windlesham? Assuredly she didnât. Perhaps she could never feel like that about anyone. It must beârather wonderfulâto feel like thatâ¦.

The sound of a car came through the open window.

Linnet shook herself impatiently. That must be Jackie and her young man. Sheâd go out and meet them.

She was standing in the open doorway as Jacqueline and Simon Doyle got out of the car.

âLinnet!â Jackie ran to her. âThis is Simon. Simon, hereâs Linnet. Sheâs just the most wonderful person in the world.â

Linnet saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with very dark blue eyes, crisply curling brown hair, a square chin, and a boyish, appealing, simple smileâ¦.

She stretched out a hand. The hand that clasped hers was firm and warmâ¦She liked the way he looked at her, the naÃ¯ve genuine admiration.

Jackie had told him she was wonderful, and he clearly thought that she was wonderfulâ¦.

A warm sweet feeling of intoxication ran through her veins.

âIsnât this all lovely?â she said. âCome in, Simon, and let me welcome my new land agent properly.â

And as she turned to lead the way she thought: âIâm frightfullyâfrightfully happy. I like Jackieâs young manâ¦I like him enormouslyâ¦.â

And then a sudden pang: âLucky Jackieâ¦.â

VIII

Tim Allerton leant back in his wicker chair and yawned as he looked out over the sea. He shot a quick sidelong glance at his mother.

Mrs. Allerton was a good-looking, white-haired woman of fifty. By imparting an expression of pinched severity to her mouth every time she looked at her son, she sought to disguise the fact of her intense affection for him. Even total strangers were seldom deceived by this device and Tim himself saw through it perfectly.

He said: âDo you really like Majorca, Mother?â

âWell,â Mrs. Allerton considered, âitâs cheap.â

âAnd cold,â said Tim with a slight shiver.

He was a tall, thin young man, with dark hair and a rather narrow chest. His mouth had a very sweet expression: His eyes were sad and his chin was indecisive. He had long delicate hands.

Threatened by consumption some years ago, he had never displayed a really robust physique. He was popularly supposed âto write,â but it was understood among his friends that inquiries as to literary output were not encouraged.

âWhat are you thinking of, Tim?â

Mrs. Allerton was alert. Her bright, dark-brown eyes looked suspicious.

Tim Allerton grinned at her:

âI was thinking of Egypt.â

âEgypt?â Mrs. Allerton sounded doubtful.

âReal warmth, darling. Lazy golden sands. The Nile. Iâd like to go up the Nile, wouldnât you?â

âOh, Iâd like it.â Her tone was dry. âBut Egyptâs expensive, my dear. Not for those who have to count the pennies.â

Tim laughed. He rose, stretched himself. Suddenly he looked alive and eager. There was an excited note in his voice.

âThe expense will be my affair. Yes, darling. A little flutter on the Stock Exchange. With thoroughly satisfactory results. I heard this morning.â

âThis morning?â said Mrs. Allerton sharply. âYou only had one letter and thatââ

She stopped and bit her lip.

Tim looked momentarily undecided whether to be amused or annoyed. Amusement gained the day.

âAnd that was from Joanna,â he finished coolly. âQuite right, Mother. What a queen of detectives youâd make! The famous Hercule Poirot would have to look to his laurels if you were about.â

Mrs. Allerton looked rather cross.

âI just happened to see the handwritingââ

âAnd knew it wasnât that of a stockbroker? Quite right. As a matter of fact it was yesterday I heard from them. Poor Joannaâs handwriting is rather noticeableâsprawls about all over the envelope like an inebriated spider.â

âWhat does Joanna say? Any news?â

Mrs. Allerton strove to make her voice sound casual and ordinary. The friendship between her son and his second cousin, Joanna Southwood, always irritated her. Not, as she put it to herself, that there was âanything in it.â She was quite sure there wasnât. Tim had never manifested a sentimental interest in Joanna, nor she in him. Their mutual attraction seemed to be founded on gossip and the possession of a large number of friends and acquaintances in common. They both liked people and discussing people. Joanna had an amusing if caustic tongue.

It was not because Mrs. Allerton feared that Tim might fall in love with Joanna that she found herself always becoming a little stiff in manner if Joanna were present or when letters from her arrived.

It was some other feeling hard to defineâperhaps an unacknowledged jealousy in the unfeigned pleasure Tim always seemed to take in Joannaâs society. He and his mother were such perfect companions that the sight of him absorbed and interested in another woman always startled Mrs. Allerton slightly. She fancied, too, that her own presence on these occasions set some barrier between the two members of the younger generation. Often she had come upon them eagerly absorbed in some conversation and, at sight of her, their talk had wavered, had seemed to include her rather too purposefully and as if duty bound. Quite definitely, Mrs. Allerton did not like Joanna Southwood. She thought her insincere, affected, and essentially superficial. She found it very hard to prevent herself saying so in unmeasured tones.

In answer to her question, Tim pulled the letter out of his pocket and glanced through it. It was quite a long letter, his mother noted.

âNothing much,â he said. âThe Devenishes are getting a divorce. Old Montyâs been had up for being drunk in charge of a car. Windleshamâs gone to Canada. Seems he was pretty badly hit when Linnet Ridgeway turned him down. Sheâs definitely going to marry this land agent person.â

âHow extraordinary! Is he very dreadful?â

âNo, no, not at all. Heâs one of the Devonshire Doyles. No money, of courseâand he was actually engaged to one of Linnetâs best friends. Pretty thick, that.â

âI donât think itâs at all nice,â said Mrs. Allerton, flushing.

Tim flashed her a quick affectionate glance.

âI know, darling. You donât approve of snaffling other peopleâs husbands and all that sort of thing.â

âIn my day we had our standards,â said Mrs. Allerton. âAnd a very good thing too! Nowadays young people seem to think they can just go about doing anything they choose.â

Tim smiled. âThey donât only think it. They do it.

Vide Linnet Ridgeway!â

âWell, I think itâs horrid!â

Tim twinkled at her.

âCheer up, you old die-hard! Perhaps I agree with you. Anyway, I havenât helped myself to anyoneâs wife or fiancÃ©e yet.â

âIâm sure youâd never do such a thing,â said Mrs. Allerton. She added with spirit, âIâve brought you up properly.â

âSo the credit is yours, not mine.â

He smiled teasingly at her as he folded the letter and put it away again. Mrs. Allerton let the thought just flash across her mind: âMost letters he shows to me. He only reads me snippets from Joannaâs.â

But she put the unworthy thought away from her, and decided, as ever, to behave like a gentlewoman.

âIs Joanna enjoying life?â she asked.

âSo so. Says she thinks of opening a delicatessen shop in Mayfair.â

âShe always talks about being hard up,â said Mrs. Allerton with a tinge of spite, âbut she goes about everywhere and her clothes must cost her a lot. Sheâs always beautifully dressed.â

âAh, well,â said Tim, âshe probably doesnât pay for them. No, mother, I donât mean what your Edwardian mind suggests to you. I just mean quite literally that she leaves her bills unpaid.â

Mrs. Allerton sighed.

âI never know how people manage to do that.â

âItâs a kind of special gift,â said Tim. âIf only you have sufficiently extravagant tastes, and absolutely no sense of money values, people will give you any amount of credit.â

âYes, but you come to the Bankruptcy Court in the end like poor Sir George Wode.â

âYou have a soft spot for that old horse coperâprobably because he called you a rosebud in eighteen seventy-nine at a dance.â

âI wasnât born in eighteen seventy-nine,â Mrs. Allerton retorted with spirit. âSir George has charming manners, and I wonât have you calling him a horse coper.â

âIâve heard funny stories about him from people that know.â

âYou and Joanna donât mind what you say about people; anything will do so long as itâs sufficiently ill-natured.â

Tim raised his eyebrows.

âMy dear, youâre quite heated. I didnât know old Wode was such a favourite of yours.â

âYou donât realize how hard it was for him, having to sell Wode Hall. He cared terribly about that place.â

Tim suppressed the easy retort. After all, who was he to judge? Instead he said thoughtfully:

âYou know, I think youâre not far wrong there. Linnet asked him to come down and see what sheâd done to the place, and he refused quite rudely.â

âOf course. She ought to have known better than to ask him.â

âAnd I believe heâs quite venomous about herâmutters things under his breath whenever he sees her. Canât forgive her for having given him an absolutely top price for the worm-eaten family estate.â

âAnd you canât understand that?â Mrs. Allerton spoke sharply.

âFrankly,â said Tim calmly, âI canât. Why live in the past? Why cling on to things that have been?â

âWhat are you going to put in their place?â

He shrugged his shoulders. âExcitement, perhaps. Novelty. The joy of never knowing what may turn up from day to day. Instead of inheriting a useless tract of land, the pleasure of making money for yourselfâby your own brains and skill.â

âA successful deal on the Stock Exchange, in fact!â

He laughed. âWhy not?â

âAnd what about an equal loss on the Stock Exchange?â

âThat, dear, is rather tactless. And quite inappropriate todayâ¦What about this Egypt plan?â

âWellââ

He cut in smiling at her: âThatâs settled. Weâve both always wanted to see Egypt.â

âWhen do you suggest?â

âOh, next month. Januaryâs about the best time there. Weâll enjoy the delightful society in this hotel a few weeks longer.â

âTim,â said Mrs. Allerton reproachfully. Then she added guiltily: âIâm afraid I promised Mrs. Leech that youâd go with her to the police station. She doesnât understand any Spanish.â

Tim made a grimace.

âAbout her ring? The blood-red ruby of the horse-leechâs daughter? Does she still persist in thinking itâs been stolen? Iâll go if you like, but itâs a waste of time. Sheâll only get some wretched chambermaid into trouble. I distinctly saw it on her finger when she went into the sea that day. It came off in the water and she never noticed.â

âShe says she is quite sure she took it off and left it on her dressing table.â

âWell, she didnât. I saw it with my own eyes. The womanâs a fool. Any womanâs a fool who goes prancing into the sea in December, pretending the waterâs quite warm just because the sun happens to be shining rather brightly at the moment. Stout women oughtnât to be allowed to bathe anyway; they look so revolting in bathing dresses.â

Mrs. Allerton murmured, âI really feel I ought to give up bathing.â

Tim gave a shout of laughter.

âYou? You can give most of the young things points and to spare.â

Mrs. Allerton sighed and said, âI wish there were a few more young people for you here.â

Tim Allerton shook his head decidedly.

âI donât. You and I get along rather comfortably without outside distractions.â

âYouâd like it if Joanna were here.â

âI wouldnât.â His tone was unexpectedly resolute. âYouâre all wrong there. Joanna amuses me, but I donât really like her, and to have her around much gets on my nerves. Iâm thankful she isnât here. I should be quite resigned if I were never to see Joanna again.â

He added, almost below his breath, âThereâs only one woman in the world Iâve got a real respect and admiration for, and I think, Mrs. Allerton, you know very well who that woman is.â

His mother blushed and looked quite confused.

Tim said gravely: âThere arenât very many really nice women in the world. You happen to be one of them.â

IX

In an apartment overlooking Central Park in New York Mrs. Robson exclaimed: âIf that isnât just too lovely! You really are the luckiest girl, Cornelia.â

Cornelia Robson flushed responsively. She was a big clumsy looking girl with brown doglike eyes.

âOh, it will be wonderful!â she gasped.

Old Miss Van Schuyler inclined her head in a satisfied fashion at this correct attitude on the part of poor relations. âIâve always dreamed of a trip to Europe,â sighed Cornelia, âbut I just didnât feel Iâd ever get there.â

âMiss Bowers will come with me as usual, of course,â said Miss Van Schuyler, âbut as a social companion I find her limitedâvery limited. There are many little things that Cornelia can do for me.â

âIâd just love to, Cousin Marie,â said Cornelia eagerly.

âWell, well, then thatâs settled,â said Miss Van Schuyler. âJust run and find Miss Bowers, my dear. Itâs time for my eggnog.â

Cornelia departed. Her mother said: âMy dear Marie, Iâm really most grateful to you! You know I think Cornelia suffers a lot from not being a social success. It makes her feel kind of mortified. If I could afford to take her to placesâbut you know how itâs been since Ned died.â

âIâm very glad to take her,â said Miss Van Schuyler. âCornelia has always been a nice handy girl, willing to run errands, and not so selfish as some of these young people nowadays.â

Mrs. Robson rose and kissed her rich relativeâs wrinkled and slightly yellow face.

âIâm just ever so grateful,â she declared.

On the stairs she met a tall capable-looking woman who was carrying a glass containing a yellow foamy liquid.

âWell, Miss Bowers, so youâre off to Europe?â

âWhy, yes, Mrs. Robson.â

âWhat a lovely trip!â

âWhy, yes, I should think it would be very enjoyable.â

âBut youâve been abroad before?â

âOh, yes, Mrs. Robson. I went over to Paris with Miss Van Schuyler last fall. But Iâve never been to Egypt before.â

Mrs. Robson hesitated.

âI do hopeâthere wonât be anyâtrouble.â

She had lowered her voice. Miss Bowers, however, replied in her usual tone:

âOh, no, Mrs. Robson; I shall take good care of that. I keep a very sharp look out always.â

But there was still a faint shadow on Mrs. Robsonâs face as she slowly continued down the stairs.

X

In his office downtown Mr. Andrew Pennington was opening his personal mail. Suddenly his fist clenched itself and came down on his desk with a bang; his face crimsoned and two big veins stood out on his forehead. He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a smart-looking stenographer appeared with commendable promptitude.

âTell Mr. Rockford to step in here.â

âYes, Mr. Pennington.â

A few minutes later, Sterndale Rockford, Penningtonâs partner, entered the office. The two men were not unlikeâboth tall, spare, with greying hair and clean-shaven, clever faces.

âWhatâs up, Pennington?â

Pennington looked up from the letter he was rereading. He said. âLinnetâs marriedâ¦.â

âWhat?â

âYou heard what I said! Linnet Ridgewayâs married!â

âHow? When? Why didnât we hear about it?â

Pennington glanced at the calendar on his desk.

âShe wasnât married when she wrote this letter, but sheâs married now. Morning of the fourth. Thatâs today.â

Rockford dropped into a chair.

âWhew! No warning! Nothing? Whoâs the man?â

Pennington referred again to the letter.

âDoyle. Simon Doyle.â

âWhat sort of a fellow is he? Ever heard of him?â

âNo. She doesnât say muchâ¦â He scanned the lines of clear, upright handwriting. âGot an idea thereâs something hole-and-corner about this businessâ¦That doesnât matter. The whole point is, sheâs married.â

The eyes of the two men met. Rockford nodded.

âThis needs a bit of thinking out,â he said quietly.

âWhat are we going to do about it?â

âIâm asking you.â

The two men sat silent. Then Rockford asked, âGot any plan?â

Pennington said slowly: âThe Normandie sails today. One of us could just make it.â

âYouâre crazy! Whatâs the big idea?â

Pennington began: âThose British lawyersââ and stopped.

âWhat about âem. Surely youâre not going over to tackle âem? Youâre mad!â

âIâm not suggesting that youâor Iâshould go to England.â

âWhatâs the big idea, then?â

Pennington smoothed out the letter on the table.

âLinnetâs going to Egypt for her honeymoon. Expects to be there a month or moreâ¦.â

âEgyptâeh?â

Rockford considered. Then he looked up and met the otherâs glance.

âEgypt,â he said. âThatâs your idea!â

âYesâa chance meeting. Over on a trip. Linnet and her husbandâhoneymoon atmosphere. It might be done.â

Rockford said doubtfully: âSheâs sharp, Linnet isâ¦butââ

Pennington went on softly: âI think there might be ways ofâmanaging it.â

Again their eyes met. Rockford nodded.

âAll right, big boy.â

Pennington looked at the clock.

âWeâll have to hustleâwhichever of us is going.â

âYou go,â said Rockford promptly. âYou always made a hit with Linnet. âUncle Andrew.â Thatâs the ticket!â

Penningtonâs face had hardened. He said: âI hope I can pull it off.â

âYouâve got to pull it off,â his partner said.

âThe situationâs criticalâ¦.â

XI

William Carmichael said to the thin, weedy youth who opened the door inquiringly: âSend Mr. Jim to me, please.â

Jim Fanthorp entered the room and looked inquiringly at his uncle. The older man looked up with a nod and a grunt.

âHumph, there you are.â

âYou asked for me?â

âJust cast an eye over this.â

The young man sat down and drew the sheaf of papers towards him. The elder man watched him.

âWell?â

The answer came promptly. âLooks fishy to me, sir.â

Again the senior partner of Carmichael, Grant & Carmichael uttered his characteristic grunt.

Jim Fanthorp reread the letter which had just arrived by air mail from Egypt:

â¦It seems wicked to be writing business letters on such a day. We have spent a week at Mena House and made an expedition to the Fayum. The day after tomorrow we are going up the Nile to Luxor and Assuan by steamer, and perhaps on to Khartoum. When we went into Cookâs this morning to see about our tickets who do you think was the first person I saw?âmy American trustee, Andrew Pennington. I think you met him two years ago when he was over. I had no idea he was in Egypt and he had no idea that I was! Nor that I was married! My letter, telling him of my marriage, must just have missed him. He is actually going up the Nile on the same trip that we are. Isnât it a coincidence? Thank you so much for all you have done in this busy time. Iâ

As the young man was about to turn the page, Mr. Carmichael took the letter from him.

âThatâs all,â he said. âThe rest doesnât matter. Well, what do you think?â

His nephew considered for a momentâthen he said:

âWellâI thinkânot a coincidenceâ¦.â

The other nodded approval.

âLike a trip to Egypt?â he barked out.

âYou think thatâs advisable?â

âI think thereâs no time to lose.â

âBut, why me?â

âUse your brains, boy; use your brains. Linnet Ridgeway has never met you; no more has Pennington. If you go by air you may get there in time.â

âIâI donât like it.â

âPerhaps notâbut youâve got to do it.â

âItâsânecessary?â

âIn my opinion,â said Mr. Carmichael, âitâs absolutely vital.â

XII

Mrs. Otterbourne, readjusting the turban of native material that she wore draped round her head, said fretfully:

âI really donât see why we shouldnât go on to Egypt. Iâm sick and tired of Jerusalem.â

As her daughter made no reply, she said, âYou might at least answer when youâre spoken to.â

Rosalie Otterbourne was looking at a newspaper reproduction of a face. Below it was printed:

Mrs. Simon Doyle, who before her marriage was the well-known society beauty, Miss Linnet Ridgeway. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle are spending their holiday in Egypt. Rosalie said, âYouâd like to move on to Egypt, Mother?â

âYes, I would,â Mrs. Otterbourne snapped. âI consider theyâve treated us in a most cavalier fashion here. My being here is an advertisementâI ought to get a special reduction in terms. When I hinted as much, I consider they were most impertinentâmost impertinent. I told them exactly what I thought of them.â

The girl sighed. She said: âOne place is very like another. I wish we could get right away.â

âAnd this morning,â went on Mrs. Otterbourne, âthe manager actually had the impertinence to tell me that all the rooms had been booked in advance and that he would require ours in two daysâ time.â

âSo weâve got to go somewhere.â

âNot at all. Iâm quite prepared to fight for my rights.â

Rosalie murmured: âI suppose we might as well go on to Egypt. It doesnât make any difference.â

âItâs certainly not a matter of life or death,â agreed Mrs. Otterbourne.

But there she was quite wrongâfor a matter of life and death was exactly what it was.

Two

âThatâs Hercule Poirot, the detective,â said Mrs. Allerton.

She and her son were sitting in brightly painted scarlet basket chairs outside the Cataract Hotel in Assuan. They were watching the retreating figures of two peopleâa short man dressed in a white silk suit and a tall slim girl.

Tim Allerton sat up in an unusually alert fashion.

âThat funny little man?â he asked incredulously.

âThat funny little man!â

âWhat on earthâs he doing here?â Tim asked.

His mother laughed. âDarling, you sound quite excited. Why do men enjoy crime so much? I hate detective stories and never read them. But I donât think Monsieur Poirot is here with any ulterior motive. Heâs made a good deal of money and heâs seeing life, I fancy.â

âSeems to have an eye for the best-looking girl in the place.â

Mrs. Allerton tilted her head a little on one side as she considered the retreating backs of M. Poirot and his companion.

The girl by his side overtopped him by some three inches. She walked well, neither stiffly nor sloughingly.

âI suppose she is quite good-looking,â said Mrs. Allerton. She shot a little glance sideways at Tim. Somewhat to her amusement the fish rose at once.

âSheâs more than quite. Pity she looks so bad-tempered and sulky.â

âPerhaps thatâs just expression, dear.â

âUnpleasant young devil, I think. But sheâs pretty enough.â

The subject of these remarks was walking slowly by Poirotâs side. Rosalie Otterbourne was twirling an unopened parasol, and her expression certainly bore out what Tim had just said. She looked both sulky and bad-tempered. Her eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, and the scarlet line of her mouth was drawn downward.

They turned to the left out of the hotel gate and entered the cool shade of the public gardens.

Hercule Poirot was prattling gently, his expression that of beatific good humour. He wore a white silk suit, carefully pressed, and a panama hat, and carried a highly ornamental fly whisk with a sham amber handle.

ââit enchants me,â he was saying. âThe black rocks of Elephantine, and the sun, and the little boats on the river. Yes, it is good to be alive.â

He paused and then added: âYou do not find it so, Mademoiselle?â

Rosalie Otterbourne said shortly: âItâs all right, I suppose. I think Assuanâs a gloomy sort of place. The hotelâs half empty, and everyoneâs about a hundredââ

She stoppedâbiting her lip.

Hercule Poirotâs eyes twinkled.

âIt is true, yes, I have one leg in the grave.â

âIâI wasnât thinking of you,â said the girl.

âIâm sorry. That sounded rude.â

âNot at all. It is natural you should wish for companions of your own age. Ah, well, there is one young man, at least.â

âThe one who sits with his mother all the time? I like herâbut I think he looks dreadfulâso conceited!â

Poirot smiled.

âAnd Iâam I conceited?â

âOh, I donât think so.â

She was obviously uninterestedâbut the fact did not seem to annoy Poirot. He merely remarked with placid satisfaction:

âMy best friend says that I am very conceited.â

âOh, well,â said Rosalie vaguely, âI suppose you have something to be conceited about. Unfortunately crime doesnât interest me in the least.â

Poirot said solemnly, âI am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide.â

Just for a moment the sulky mask of her face was transformed as she shot him a swift questioning glance. Poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on:

âMadame, your mother, was not at lunch today. She is not indisposed, I trust?â

âThis place doesnât suit her,â said Rosalie briefly. âI shall be glad when we leave.â

âWe are fellow passengers, are we not? We both make the excursion up to Wadi Halfa and the Second Cataract?â

âYes.â

They came out from the shade of the gardens on to a dusty stretch of road bordered by the river. Five watchful bead-sellers, two vendors of postcards, three sellers of plaster scarabs, a couple of donkey boys and some detached but hopeful infantile riff-raff closed in upon them.

âYou want beads, sir? Very good, sir. Very cheapâ¦.â

âLady, you want scarab? Lookâgreat queenâvery luckyâ¦.â

âYou look, sirâreal lapis. Very good, very cheapâ¦.â

âYou want ride donkey, sir? This very good donkey. This donkey Whiskey and Soda, sirâ¦.â

âYou want to go granite quarries, sir? This very good donkey. Other donkey very bad, sir, that donkey fall downâ¦.â

âYou want postcardâvery cheapâvery niceâ¦.â

âLook, ladyâ¦Only ten piastresâvery cheapâlapisâthis ivoryâ¦.â

âThis very good fly whiskâthis all-amberâ¦.â

âYou go out in boat, sir? I got very good boat, sirâ¦.â

âYou go back to hotel, lady? This first-class donkeyâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot made vague gestures to rid himself of this human cluster of flies. Rosalie stalked through them like a sleepwalker.

âItâs best to pretend to be deaf and blind,â she remarked.

The infantile riff-raff ran alongside murmuring plaintively: âBakshish? Bakshish? Hip hip hurrahâvery good, very niceâ¦.â

Their gaily coloured rags trailed picturesquely, and the flies lay in clusters on their eyelids. They were the most persistent. The others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next corner.

Now Poirot and Rosalie only ran the gauntlet of the shopsâsuave, persuasive accents hereâ¦.

âYou visit my shop today, sir?â âYou want that ivory crocodile, sir?â âYou not been in my shop yet, sir? I show you very beautiful things.â

They turned into the fifth shop and Rosalie handed over several rolls of filmâthe object of the walk.

Then they came out again and walked towards the riverâs edge.

One of the Nile steamers was just mooring. Poirot and Rosalie looked interestedly at the passengers.

âQuite a lot, arenât there?â commented Rosalie.

She turned her head as Tim Allerton came up and joined them. He was a little out of breath as though he had been walking fast.

They stood there for a moment or two, and then Tim spoke.

âAn awful crowd as usual, I suppose,â he remarked disparagingly, indicating the disembarking passengers.

âTheyâre usually quite terrible,â agreed Rosalie.

All three wore the air of superiority assumed by people who are already in a place when studying new arrivals.

âHullo!â exclaimed Tim, his voice suddenly excited. âIâm damned if that isnât Linnet Ridgeway.â

If the information left Poirot unmoved, it stirred Rosalieâs interest. She leaned forward and her sulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked: âWhere? That one in white?â

âYes, there with the tall man. Theyâre coming ashore now. Heâs the new husband, I suppose. Canât remember his name now.â

âDoyle,â said Rosalie. âSimon Doyle. It was in all the newspapers. Sheâs simply rolling, isnât she?â

âOnly about the richest girl in England,â replied Tim cheerfully.

The three lookers-on were silent watching the passengers come ashore. Poirot gazed with interest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. He murmured: âShe is beautiful.â

âSome people have got everything,â said Rosalie bitterly.

There was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the gangplank.

Linnet Doyle was looking as perfectly turned out as if she were stepping on to the centre of the stage of a revue. She had something too of the assurance of a famous actress. She was used to being looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.

She was aware of the keen glances bent upon herâand at the same time almost unaware of them; such tributes were part of her life.

She came ashore playing a role, even though she played it unconsciously. The rich beautiful society bride on her honeymoon. She turned, with a little smile and a light remark, to the tall man by her side. He answered, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest Hercule Poirot. His eyes lit up and he drew his brows together.

The couple passed close to him. He heard Simon Doyle say:

âWeâll try and make time for it, darling. We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here.â

His face was turned towards her, eager, adoring, a little humble.

Poirotâs eyes ran over him thoughtfullyâthe square shoulders, the bronzed face, the dark blue eyes, the rather childlike simplicity of the smile.

âLucky devil,â said Tim after they had passed. âFancy finding an heiress who hasnât got adenoids and flat feet!â

âThey look frightfully happy,â said Rosalie with a note of envy in her voice. She added suddenly, but so low that Tim did not catch the words, âIt isnât fair.â

Poirot heard, however. He had been frowning somewhat perplexedly, but now he flashed a quick glance towards her.

Tim said: âI must collect some stuff for my mother now.â

He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie retraced their steps slowly in the direction of the hotel, waving aside fresh proffers of donkeys.

âSo it is not fair, Mademoiselle?â asked Poirot gently.

The girl flushed angrily.

âI donât know what you mean.â

âI am repeating what you said just now under your breath. Oh, yes, you did.â

Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged her shoulders.

âIt really seems a little too much for one person. Money, good looks, marvellous figure andââ

She paused and Poirot said:

âAnd love? Eh? And love? But you do not knowâshe may have been married for her money!â

âDidnât you see the way he looked at her?â

âOh, yes, Mademoiselle. I saw all there was to seeâindeed I saw something that you did not.â

âWhat was that?â

Poirot said slowly: âI saw, Mademoiselle, dark lines below a womanâs eyes. I saw a hand that clutched a sunshade so tight that the knuckles were whiteâ¦.â

Rosalie was staring at him.

âWhat do you mean?â

âI mean that all is not the gold that glitters. I mean that, though this lady is rich and beautiful and beloved, there is all the same something that is not right. And I know something else.â

âYes?â

âI know,â said Poirot, frowning, âthat somewhere, at some time, I have heard that voice beforeâthe voice of Monsieur Doyleâand I wish I could remember where.â

But Rosalie was not listening. She had stopped dead. With the point of her sunshade she was tracing patterns in the loose sand. Suddenly she broke out fiercely:

âIâm odious. Iâm quite odious. Iâm just a beast through and through. Iâd like to tear the clothes off her back and stamp on her lovely, arrogant, self-confident face. Iâm just a jealous catâbut thatâs what I feel like. Sheâs so horribly successful and poised and assured.â

Hercule Poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. He took her by the arm and gave her a friendly little shake.

âTenezâyou will feel better for having said that!â

âI just hate her! Iâve never hated anyone so much at first sight.â

âMagnificent!â

Rosalie looked at him doubtfully. Then her mouth twitched and she laughed.

âBien,â said Poirot, and laughed too.

They proceeded amicably back to the hotel.

âI must find Mother,â said Rosalie, as they came into the cool dim hall.

Poirot passed out on the other side on to the terrace overlooking the Nile. Here were little tables set for tea, but it was early still. He stood for a few moments looking at the river, then strolled down through the garden.

Some people were playing tennis in the hot sun. He paused to watch them for a while, then went on down the steep path. It was here, sitting on a bench overlooking the Nile, that he came upon the girl of Chez Ma Tante. He recognized her at once. Her face, as he had seen it that night, was securely etched upon his memory. The expression on it now was very different. She was paler, thinner, and there were lines that told of a great weariness and misery of spirit.

He drew back a little. She had not seen him, and he watched her for a while without her suspecting his presence. Her small foot tapped impatiently on the ground. Her eyes, dark with a kind of smouldering fire, had a queer kind of suffering dark triumph in them. She was looking out across the Nile where the white-sailed boats glided up and down the river.

A faceâand a voice. He remembered them both. This girlâs face and the voice he had heard just now, the voice of a newly made bridegroomâ¦.

And even as he stood there considering the unconscious girl, the next scene in the drama was played.

Voices sounded above. The girl on the seat started to her feet. Linnet Doyle and her husband came down the path. Linnetâs voice was happy and confident. The look of strain and tenseness of muscle had quite disappeared, Linnet was happy.

The girl who was standing there took a step or two forward. The other two stopped dead.

âHullo, Linnet,â said Jacqueline de Bellefort. âSo here you are! We never seem to stop running into each other. Hullo, Simon, how are you?â

Linnet Doyle had shrunk back against the rock with a little cry. Simon Doyleâs good-looking face was suddenly convulsed with rage. He moved forward as though he would have liked to strike the slim girlish figure.

With a quick birdlike turn of her head she signalled her realization of a strangerâs presence. Simon turned his head and noticed Poirot. He said awkwardly: âHullo, Jacqueline; we didnât expect to see you here.â

The words were unconvincing in the extreme.

The girl flashed white teeth at them.

âQuite a surprise?â she asked. Then, with a little nod, she walked up the path.

Poirot moved delicately in the opposite direction. As he went, he heard Linnet Doyle say:

âSimonâfor Godâs sake! Simonâwhat can we do?â

Three

Dinner was over. The terrace outside the Cataract Hotel was softly lit. Most of the guests staying at the hotel were sitting at little tables.

Simon and Linnet Doyle came out, a tall, distinguished looking grey-haired man, with a keen, clean-shaven American face, beside them. As the little group hesitated in the doorway, Tim Allerton rose from his chair nearby and came forward.

âYou donât remember me Iâm sure,â he said pleasantly to Linnet, âbut Iâm Joanna Southwoodâs cousin.â

âOf courseâhow stupid of me! Youâre Tim Allerton. This is my husbandââa faint tremor in the voice, pride, shyness?ââand this is my American trustee, Mr. Pennington.â

Tim said: âYou must meet my mother.â

A few minutes later they were sitting together in a partyâLinnet in the corner, Tim and Pennington each side of her, both talking to her, vying for her attention. Mrs. Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.

The swing doors revolved. A sudden tension came into the beautiful upright figure sitting in the corner between the two men. Then it relaxed as a small man came out and walked across the terrace.

Mrs. Allerton said: âYouâre not the only celebrity here, my dear. That funny little man is Hercule Poirot.â

She had spoken lightly, just out of instinctive social tact to bridge an awkward pause, but Linnet seemed struck by the information.

âHercule Poirot? Of courseâIâve heard of himâ¦.â

She seemed to sink into a fit of abstraction. The two men on either side of her were momentarily at a loss.

Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace, but his attention was immediately solicited.

âSit down, Monsieur Poirot. What a lovely night!â

He obeyed.

âMais oui, Madame, it is indeed beautiful.â

He smiled politely at Mrs. Otterbourne. What draperies of black ninon and that ridiculous turban effect! Mrs. Otterbourne went on in her high complaining voice:

âQuite a lot of notabilities here now, arenât there? I expect we shall see a paragraph about it in the papers soon. Society beauties, famous novelistsââ

She paused with a slight mock-modest laugh.

Poirot felt, rather than saw, the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch and set her mouth in a sulkier line than before.

âYou have a novel on the way at present, Madame?â he inquired.

Mrs. Otterbourne gave her little self-conscious laugh again.

âIâm being dreadfully lazy. I really must set to. My public is getting terribly impatientâand my publisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables!â

Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.

âI donât mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot, I am partly here for local colour. Snow on the Desertâs Faceâthat is the title of my new book. Powerfulâsuggestive. Snowâon the desertâmelted in the first flaming breath of passion.â

Rosalie got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.

âOne must be strong,â went on Mrs. Otterbourne, wagging the turban emphatically. âStrong meatâthat is what my books areâall important. Libraries bannedâno matter! I speak the truth. Sexâah! Monsieur Poirotâwhy is everyone so afraid of sex? The pivot of the universe! You have read my books?â

âAlas, Madame! You comprehend, I do not read many novels. My workââ

Mrs. Otterbourne said firmly: âI must give you a copy of Under the Fig Tree. I think you will find it significant. It is outspokenâbut it is real!â

âThat is most kind of you, Madame. I will read it with pleasure.â

Mrs. Otterbourne was silent a minute or two. She fidgeted with a long chain of beads that was wound twice round her neck. She looked swiftly from side to side.

âPerhapsâIâll just slip up and get it for you now.â

âOh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself. Laterââ

âNo, no. Itâs no trouble.â She rose. âIâd like to show youââ

âWhat is it, Mother?â

Rosalie was suddenly at her side.

âNothing, dear. I was just going up to get a book for Monsieur Poirot.â

âThe Fig Tree? Iâll get it.â

âYou donât know where it is, dear. Iâll go.â

âYes, I do.â

The girl went swiftly across the terrace and into the hotel.

âLet me congratulate you, Madame, on a very lovely daughter,â said Poirot, with a bow.

âRosalie? Yes, yesâshe is good-looking. But sheâs very hard, Monsieur Poirot. And no sympathy with illness. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myselfââ

Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.

âA liqueur, Madame? A chartreuse? A crÃ¨me de menthe?â

Mrs. Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.

âNo, no. I am practically a teetotaller. You may have noticed I never drink anything but waterâor perhaps lemonade. I cannot bear the taste of spirits.â

âThen may I order you a lemon squash, Madame?â

He gave the orderâone lemon squash and one benedictine.

The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came towards them, a book in her hand.

âHere you are,â she said. Her voice was quite expressionlessâalmost remarkably so.

âMonsieur Poirot has just ordered me a lemon squash,â said her mother.

âAnd you, Mademoiselle, what will you take?â

âNothing.â She added, suddenly conscious of the curtness: âNothing, thank you.â

Poirot took the volume which Mrs. Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, a gaily coloured affair representing a lady, with smartly shingled hair and scarlet fingernails, sitting on a tiger skin, in the traditional costume of Eve. Above her was a tree with the leaves of an oak, bearing large and improbably coloured apples.

It was entitled Under the Fig Tree, by Salome Otterbourne. On the inside was a publisherâs blurb. It spoke enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modern womanâs love life. âFearless, unconventional, realistic,â were the adjectives used.

Poirot bowed and murmured: âI am honoured, Madame.â

As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoressâs daughter. Almost involuntarily he made a little movement. He was astonished and grieved at the eloquent pain they revealed.

It was at that moment that the drinks arrived and created a welcome diversion.

Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.

âA votre santÃ©, MadameâMademoiselle.â

Mrs. Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade, murmured, âSo refreshingâdelicious!â

Silence fell on the three of them. They looked down to the shining black rocks in the Nile. There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like vast prehistoric monsters lying half out of the water. A little breeze came up suddenly and as suddenly died away. There was a feeling in the air of hushâof expectancy.

Hercule Poirot brought his gaze back to the terrace and its occupants. Was he wrong, or was there the same hush of expectancy there? It was like a moment on the stage when one is waiting for the entrance of the leading lady.

And just at that moment the swing doors began to revolve once more. This time it seemed as though they did so with a special air of importance. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking towards them.

A dark slender girl in a wine-coloured evening frock came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table. There was nothing flaunting, nothing out of the way about her demeanour, and yet it had somehow the studied effect of a stage entrance.

âWell,â said Mrs. Otterbourne. She tossed her turbaned head. âShe seems to think she is somebody, that girl!â

Poirot did not answer. He was watching. The girl had sat down in a place where she could look deliberately across at Linnet Doyle. Presently, Poirot noticed, Linnet Doyle leant forward and said something and a moment later got up and changed her seat. She was now sitting facing in the opposite direction.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully to himself.

It was about five minutes later that the other girl changed her seat to the opposite side of the terrace. She sat smoking and smiling quietly, the picture of contented ease. But always, as though unconsciously, her meditative gaze was on Simon Doyleâs wife.

After a quarter of an hour Linnet Doyle got up abruptly and went into the hotel. Her husband followed her almost immediately.

Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and twisted her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.

Four

âMonsieur Poirot.â

Poirot got hastily to his feet. He had remained sitting out on the terrace alone after everyone else had left. Lost in meditation he had been staring at the smooth shiny black rocks when the sound of his name recalled him to himself.

It was a well-bred, assured voice, a charming voice, although perhaps a trifle arrogant.

Hercule Poirot, rising quickly, looked into the commanding eyes of Linnet Doyle. She wore a wrap of rich purple velvet over her white satin gown and she looked more lovely and more regal than Poirot had imagined possible.

âYou are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?â said Linnet.

It was hardly a question.

âAt your service, Madame.â

âYou know who I am, perhaps?â

âYes, Madame. I have heard your name. I know exactly who you are.â

Linnet nodded. That was only what she had expected. She went on, in her charming autocratic manner: âWill you come with me into the card room, Monsieur Poirot? I am very anxious to speak to you.â

âCertainly, Madame.â

She led the way into the hotel. He followed. She led him into the deserted card room and motioned him to close the door. Then she sank down on a chair at one of the tables and he sat down opposite her.

She plunged straightaway into what she wanted to say. There were no hesitations. Her speech came flowingly.

âI have heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Poirot, and I know that you are a very clever man. It happens that I am urgently in need of someone to help meâand I think very possibly that you are the man who would do it.â

Poirot inclined his head.

âYou are very amiable, Madame, but you see, I am on holiday, and when I am on holiday I do not take cases.â

âThat could be arranged.â

It was not offensively saidâonly with the quiet confidence of a young woman who had always been able to arrange matters to her satisfaction.

Linnet Doyle went on: âI am the subject, Monsieur Poirot, of an intolerable persecution. That persecution has got to stop! My own idea was to go to the police about it, but myâmy husband seems to think that the police would be powerless to do anything.â

âPerhapsâif you would explain a little further?â murmured Poirot politely.

âOh, yes, I will do so. The matter is perfectly simple.â

There was still no hesitationâno faltering. Linnet Doyle had a clear-cut businesslike mind. She only paused a minute so as to present the facts as concisely as possible.

âBefore I met my husband, he was engaged to a Miss de Bellefort. She was also a friend of mine. My husband broke off his engagement to herâthey were not suited in any way. She, I am sorry to say, took it rather hardâ¦Iâam very sorry about thatâbut these things cannot be helped. She made certainâwell, threatsâto which I paid very little attention, and which, I may say, she has not attempted to carry out. But instead she has adopted the extraordinary course ofâof following us about wherever we go.â

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

âAhârather an unusualâerârevenge.â

âVery unusualâand very ridiculous! But alsoâannoying.â

She bit her lip.

Poirot nodded.

âYes, I can imagine that. You are, I understand, on your honeymoon?â

âYes. It happenedâthe first timeâat Venice. She was thereâat Danielliâs. I thought it was just coincidence. Rather embarrassing, but that was all. Then we found her on board the boat at Brindisi. Weâwe understood that she was going on to Palestine. We left her, as we thought, on the boat. Butâbut when we got to Mena House she was thereâwaiting for us.â

Poirot nodded.

âAnd now?â

âWe came up the Nile by boat. IâI was half expecting to find her on board. When she wasnât there I thought she had stopped being soâso childish. But when we got hereâsheâshe was hereâwaiting.â

Poirot eyed her keenly for a moment. She was still perfectly composed, but the knuckles of the hand that was gripping the table were white with the force of her grip.

He said: âAnd you are afraid this state of things may continue?â

âYes.â She paused. âOf course the whole thing is idiotic! Jacqueline is making herself utterly ridiculous. I am surprised she hasnât got more prideâmore dignity.â

Poirot made a slight gesture.

âThere are times, Madame, when pride and dignityâthey go by the board! There are otherâstronger emotions.â

âYes, possibly.â Linnet spoke impatiently. âBut what on earth can she hope to gain by all this?â

âIt is not always a question of gain, Madame.â

Something in his tone struck Linnet disagreeably. She flushed and said quickly: âYou are right. A discussion of motives is beside the point. The crux of the matter is that this has got to be stopped.â

âAnd how do you propose that that should be accomplished, Madame?â Poirot asked.

âWellânaturallyâmy husband and I cannot continue being subjected to this annoyance. There must be some kind of legal redress against such a thing.â

She spoke impatiently. Poirot looked at her thoughtfully as he asked: âHas she threatened you in actual words in public? Used insulting language? Attempted any bodily harm?â

âNo.â

âThen, frankly, Madame, I do not see what you can do. If it is a young ladyâs pleasure to travel in certain places, and those places are the same where you and your husband find themselvesâeh bienâwhat of it? The air is free to all! There is no question of her forcing herself upon your privacy? It is always in public that these encounters take place?â

âYou mean there is nothing that I can do about it?â

Linnet sounded incredulous.

Poirot said placidly: âNothing at all, as far as I can see. Mademoiselle de Bellefort is within her rights.â

âButâbut it is maddening! It is intolerable that I should have to put up with this!â

Poirot said dryly: âI must sympathize with you, Madameâespecially as I imagine that you have not often had to put up with things.â

Linnet was frowning.

âThere must be some way of stopping it,â she murmured.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âYou can always leaveâmove on somewhere else,â he suggested.

âThen she will follow!â

âVery possiblyâyes.â

âItâs absurd!â

âPrecisely.â

âAnyway, why should Iâweârun away? As thoughâas thoughââ

She stopped.

âExactly, Madame. As thoughâ! It is all there, is it not?â

Linnet lifted her head and stared at him.

âWhat do you mean?â

Poirot altered his tone. He leant forward; his voice was confidential, appealing. He said very gently: âWhy do you mind so much, Madame?â

âWhy? But itâs maddening! Irritating to the last degree! Iâve told you why!â

Poirot shook his head.

âNot altogether.â

âWhat do you mean?â Linnet asked again.

Poirot leant back, folded his arms and spoke in a detached impersonal manner.

âEcoutez, Madame. I will recount to you a little history. It is that one day, a month or two ago, I am dining in a restaurant in London. At the table next to me are two people, a man and a girl. They are very happy, so it seems, very much in love. They talk with confidence of the future. It is not that I listen to what is not meant for me; they are quite oblivious of who hears them and who does not. The manâs back is to me, but I can watch the girlâs face. It is very intense. She is in loveâheart, soul, and bodyâand she is not of those who love lightly and often. With her it is clearly the life and the death. They are engaged to be married, these two; that is what I gather; and they talk of where they shall pass the days of their honeymoon. They plan to go to Egypt.â

He paused. Linnet said sharply: âWell?â

Poirot went on: âThat is a month or two ago, but the girlâs faceâI do not forget it. I know that I shall remember if I see it again. And I remember too the manâs voice. And I think you can guess, Madame, when it is I see the one and hear the other again. It is here in Egypt. The man is on his honeymoon, yesâbut he is on his honeymoon with another woman.â

Linnet said sharply: âWhat of it? I had already mentioned the facts.â

âThe factsâyes.â

âWell then?â

Poirot said slowly: âThe girl in the restaurant mentioned a friendâa friend who, she was very positive, would not let her down. That friend, I think, was you, Madame.â

âYes. I told you we had been friends.â

Linnet flushed.

âAnd she trusted you?â

âYes.â

She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip impatiently; then, as Poirot did not seem disposed to speak, she broke out:

âOf course the whole thing was very unfortunate. But these things happen, Monsieur Poirot.â

âAh! Yes, they happen, Madame.â He paused. âYou are of the Church of England, I presume?â

âYes.â Linnet looked slightly bewildered.

âThen you have heard portions of the Bible read aloud in church. You have heard of King David and of the rich man who had many flocks and herds and the poor man who had one ewe lambâand of how the rich man took the poor manâs one ewe lamb. That was something that happened, Madame.â

Linnet sat up. Her eyes flashed angrily.

âI see perfectly what you are driving at, Monsieur Poirot! You think, to put it vulgarly, that I stole my friendâs young man. Looking at the matter sentimentallyâwhich is, I suppose, the way people of your generation cannot help looking at thingsâthat is possibly true. But the real hard truth is different. I donât deny that Jackie was passionately in love with Simon, but I donât think you take into account that he may not have been equally devoted to her. He was very fond of her, but I think that even before he met me he was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake. Look at it clearly, Monsieur Poirot. Simon discovers that it is I he loves, not Jackie. What is he to do? Be heroically noble and marry a woman he does not care forâand thereby probably ruin three livesâfor it is doubtful whether he could make Jackie happy under those circumstances? If he were actually married to her when he met me I agree that it might be his duty to stick to herâthough Iâm not really sure of that. If one person is unhappy the other suffers too. But an engagement is not really binding. If a mistake has been made, then surely it is better to face the fact before it is too late. I admit that it was very hard on Jackie, and Iâm very sorry about itâbut there it is. It was inevitable.â

âI wonder.â

She stared at him.

âWhat do you mean?â

âIt is very sensible, very logicalâall that you say! But it does not explain one thing.â

âWhat is that?â

âYour own attitude, Madame. See you, this pursuit of you, you might take it in two ways, It might cause you annoyanceâyes, or it might stir your pityâthat your friend should have been so deeply hurt as to throw all regard for the conventions aside. But that is not the way you react. No, to you this persecution is intolerableâand why? It can be for one reason onlyâthat you feel a sense of guilt.â

Linnet sprang to her feet.

âHow dare you? Really, Monsieur Poirot, this is going too far.â

âBut I do dare, Madame! I am going to speak to you quite frankly. I suggest to you that, although you may have endeavoured to gloss over the fact to yourself, you did deliberately set about taking your husband from your friend. I suggest that you felt strongly attracted to him at once. But I suggest that there was a moment when you hesitated, when you realized that there was a choiceâthat you could refrain or go on. I suggest that the initiative rested with youânot with Monsieur Doyle. You are beautiful, Madame; you are rich; you are clever; intelligentâand you have charm. You could have exercised that charm or you could have restrained it. You had everything, Madame, that life can offer. Your friendâs life was bound up in one person. You knew that, but, though you hesitated, you did not hold your hand. You stretched it out and, like the rich man in the Bible, you took the poor manâs one ewe lamb.â

There was a silence. Linnet controlled herself with an effort and said in a cold voice: âAll this is quite beside the point!â

âNo, it is not beside the point. I am explaining to you just why the unexpected appearances of Mademoiselle de Bellefort have upset you so much. It is because though she may be unwomanly and undignified in what she is doing, you have the inner conviction that she has right on her side.â

âThatâs not true.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âYou refuse to be honest with yourself.â

âNot at all.â

Poirot said gently: âI should say, Madame, that you have had a happy life, that you have been generous and kindly in your attitude towards others.â

âI have tried to be,â said Linnet. The impatient anger died out of her face. She spoke simplyâalmost forlornly.

âAnd that is why the feeling that you have deliberately caused injury to someone upsets you so much, and why you are so reluctant to admit the fact. Pardon me if I have been impertinent, but the psychology, it is the most important fact in a case.â

Linnet said slowly: âEven supposing what you say were trueâand I donât admit it, mindâwhat can be done about it now? One canât alter the past; one must deal with things as they are.â

Poirot nodded.

âYou have the clear brain. Yes, one cannot go back over the past. One must accept things as they are. And sometimes, Madame, that is all one can doâaccept the consequences of oneâs past deeds.â

âYou mean,â asked Linnet incredulously, âthat I can do nothingânothing?â

âYou must have courage, Madame; that is what it seems like to me.â

Linnet said slowly:

âCouldnât youâtalk to Jackieâto Miss de Bellefort? Reason with her?â

âYes, 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.â

âBut surely we can do something to extricate ourselves?â

âYou could, of course, return to England and establish yourselves in your own house.â

âEven 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.â

âTrue.â

âBesides,â said Linnet slowly, âI donât think that Simon would agree to run away.â

âWhat is his attitude in this?â

âHeâs furiousâsimply furious.â

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Linnet said appealingly, âYou willâtalk to her?â

âYes, I will do that. But it is my opinion that I shall not be able to accomplish anything.â

Linnet said violently: âJackie is extraordinary! One canât tell what she will do!â

âYou spoke just now of certain threats she had made. Would you tell me what those threats were?â

Linnet shrugged her shoulders.

âShe threatened toâwellâkill us both. Jackie can be ratherâLatin sometimes.â

âI see.â Poirotâs tone was grave.

Linnet turned to him appealingly.

âYou will act for me?â

âNo, Madame.â His tone was firm. âI 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 upâbut I am not very sanguine as to my chance of success.â

Linnet Doyle said slowly: âBut you will not act for me?â

âNo, Madame,â 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.

âMademoiselle de Bellefort?â asked Poirot. âYou permit that I speak to you for a little moment?â

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

âCertainly,â she said. âYou 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.â

Poirot sat down on the bench near her.

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

âOh!â

Jacqueline studied him attentively.

âThen why have you come?â she asked abruptly.

Hercule Poirotâs reply was in the form of another question.

âHave you ever seen me before, Mademoiselle?â

She shook her head.

âNo, I do not think so.â

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

A strange masklike expression came over the girlâs face. She said, âI remember that eveningâ¦.â

âSince then,â said Poirot, âmany things have occurred.â

âAs you say, many things have occurred.â

Her voice was hard with an undertone of desperate bitterness.

âMademoiselle, I speak as a friend. Bury your dead!â

She looked startled.

âWhat do you mean?â

âGive up the past! Turn to the future! What is done is done. Bitterness will not undo it.â

âIâm sure that that would suit dear Linnet admirably.â

Poirot made a gesture.

âI am not thinking of her at this moment! I am thinking of you. You have sufferedâyesâbut what you are doing now will only prolong the suffering.â

She shook her head.

âYouâre wrong. There are times when I almost enjoy myself.â

âAnd that, Mademoiselle, is the worst of all.â

She looked up swiftly.

âYouâre not stupid,â she said. She added slowly, âI believe you mean to be kind.â

âGo home, Mademoiselle. You are young; you have brains, the world is before you.â

Jacqueline shook her head slowly.

âYou donât understandâor you wonât. Simon is my world.â

âLove is not everything, Mademoiselle,â Poirot said gently. âIt is only when we are young that we think it is.â

But the girl still shook her head.

âYou donât understand.â She shot him a quick look. âYou know all about it, of course? Youâve talked to Linnet? And you were in the restaurant that nightâ¦Simon and I loved each other.â

âI know that you loved him.â

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

âWe loved each other. And I loved Linnetâ¦I trusted her. She was my best friend. All her life Linnet has been able to buy everything she wanted. Sheâs never denied herself anything. When she saw Simon she wanted himâand she just took him.â

âAnd he allowed himself to beâbought?â

Jacqueline shook her dark head slowly.

âNo, itâs not quite like that. If it were, I shouldnât be here nowâ¦Youâre suggesting that Simon isnât worth caring forâ¦If heâd married Linnet for her money, that would be true. But he didnât marry her for her money. Itâs more complicated than that. Thereâs such a thing as glamour, Monsieur Poirot. And money helps that. Linnet had an âatmosphere,â you see. She was the queen of a kingdomâthe young princessâluxurious 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 Doyleâ¦Do you wonder it went to his head?â She made a sudden gesture. âLook at the moon up there. You see her very plainly, donât you? Sheâs very real. But if the sun were to shine you wouldnât be able to see her at all. It was rather like that. I was the moonâ¦When the sun came out, Simon couldnât see me anymoreâ¦He was dazzled. He couldnât see anything but the sunâLinnet.â

She paused and then she went on: âSo you see it wasâglamour. She went to his head. And then thereâs her complete assuranceâher habit of command. Sheâs so sure of herself that she makes other people sure. Simon was weak, perhaps, but then heâs a very simple person. He would have loved me and me only if Linnet hadnât come along and snatched him up in her golden chariot. And I knowâI know perfectlyâthat he wouldnât ever have fallen in love with her if she hadnât made him.â

âThat is what you thinkâyes.â

âI know it. He loved meâhe will always love me.â

Poirot said: âEven now?â

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: âYes, I know. He hates me now. Yes, hates meâ¦Heâd better be careful!â

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 pistolâa dainty toy it looked.

âNice little thing, isnât it? she said. âLooks too foolish to be real, but it is real! One of those bullets would kill a man or a woman. And Iâm a good shot.â She smiled a faraway, reminiscent smile.

âWhen 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 shootingâespecially where honour is concerned. My father, too, he fought several duels as a young man. He was a good swordsman. He killed a man once. That was over a woman. So you see, Monsieur Poirotââshe met his eyes squarelyââIâve hot blood in me! I bought this when it first happened. I meant to kill one or other of themâthe trouble was I couldnât decide which. Both of them would have been unsatisfactory. If Iâd thought Linnet would have looked afraidâbut sheâs got plenty of physical courage. She can stand up to physical action. And then I thought Iâdâwait! That appealed to me more and more. After all, I could do it any time; it would be more fun to wait andâthink about it! And then this idea came to my mindâto follow them! Whenever they arrived at some faraway spot and were together and happy, they should see Me! And it worked. It got Linnet badlyâin a way nothing else could have done! It got right under her skinâ¦That was when I began to enjoy myselfâ¦And thereâs nothing she can do about it! Iâm always perfectly pleasant and polite! Thereâs not a word they can take hold of! Itâs poisoning everythingâeverythingâfor them.â Her laugh rang out, clear and silvery.

Poirot grasped her arm.

âBe quiet. Quiet, I tell you.â

Jacqueline looked at him.

âWell?â she asked. Her smile was definitely challenging.

âMademoiselle, I beseech you, do not do what you are doing.â

âLeave dear Linnet alone, you mean!â

âIt is deeper than that. Do not open your heart to evil.â

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

Poirot went on gravely: âBecauseâif you doâevil will comeâ¦Yes, very surely evil will comeâ¦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.â

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

She said: âIâdonât knowââ Then she cried out definitely, âYou canât stop me.â

âNo,â said Hercule Poirot. âI cannot stop you.â His voice was sad.

âEven if I were toâkill her, you couldnât stop me.â

âNoânot if you were willing to pay the price.â

Jacqueline de Bellefort laughed.

âOh, Iâm not afraid of death! What have I got to live for, after all? I suppose you believe itâs very wrong to kill a person who has injured youâeven if theyâve taken away everything you had in the world?â

Poirot said steadily: âYes, Mademoiselle. I believe it is the unforgivable offenceâto kill.â

Jacqueline laughed again.

âThen you ought to approve of my present scheme of revenge; because, you see, as long as it works, I shanât use that pistolâ¦But Iâm afraidâyes, afraid sometimesâit all goes redâI want to hurt herâto stick a knife into her, to put my dear little pistol close against her head and thenâjust press with my fingerâOh!â

The exclamation startled him.

âWhat is it, Mademoiselle!â

She turned her head and was staring into the shadows.

âSomeoneâstanding over there. Heâs gone now.â

Hercule Poirot looked round sharply.

The place seemed quite deserted.

âThere seems no one here but ourselves, Mademoiselle.â He got up. âIn any case I have said all I came to say. I wish you good night.â

Jacqueline got up too. She said almost pleadingly, âYou do understandâthat I canât do what you ask me to do?â

Poirot shook his head.

âNoâfor you could do it! There is always a moment! Your friend Linnetâthere was a moment, too, in which she could have held her handâ¦She let it pass by. And if one does that, then one is committed to the enterprise and there comes no second chance.â

âNo second chanceâ¦â said Jacqueline de Bellefort.

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

âGood night, Monsieur Poirot.â

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.

âGood morning, Monsieur Poirot.â

âGood morning, Monsieur Doyle.â

âYou going to the town? Mind if I stroll along with you?â

âBut certainly. I shall be delighted.â

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, âI understand, Monsieur Poirot, that my wife had a talk with you last night?â

âThat is so.â

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.

âIâm glad of one thing,â he said. âYouâve made her realize that weâre more or less powerless in the matter.â

âThere is clearly no legal redress,â agreed Poirot.

âExactly. Linnet didnât seem to understand that.â He gave a faint smile. âLinnetâs been brought up to believe that every annoyance can automatically be referred to the police.â

âIt would be pleasant if such were the case,â said Poirot.

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

âItâsâitâs infamous that she should be victimized like this! Sheâs done nothing! If anyone likes to say I behaved like a cad, theyâre welcome to say so! I suppose I did. But I wonât have the whole thing visited on Linnet. She had nothing whatever to do with it.â

Poirot bowed his head gravely but said nothing.

âDid youâerâhave youâtalked to JackieâMiss de Bellefort?â

âYes, I have spoken with her.â

âDid you get her to see sense?â

âIâm afraid not.â

Simon broke out irritably: âCanât she see what an ass sheâs making of herself? Doesnât she realize that no decent woman would behave as she is doing? Hasnât she got any pride or self-respect?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âShe has only a sense ofâinjury, shall we say?â he replied.

âYes, but damn it all, man, decent girls donât 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 roundâitâsâitâs indecent! Making a show of herself! What the devil does she hope to get out of it?â

âPerhapsârevenge!â

âIdiotic! Iâd really understand better if sheâd tried to do something melodramaticâlike taking a pot shot at me.â

âYou think that would be more like herâyes?â

âFrankly I do. Sheâs hot-bloodedâand sheâs got an ungovernable temper. I shouldnât be surprised at her doing anything while she was in a white-hot rage. But this spying businessââ He shook his head.

âIt is more subtleâyes! It is intelligent!â

Doyle stared at him.

âYou donât understand. Itâs playing hell with Linnetâs nerves.â

âAnd yours?â

Simon looked at him with momentary surprise.

âMe? Iâd like to wring the little devilâs neck.â

âThere is nothing, then, of the old feeling left?â

âMy dear Monsieur Poirotâhow can I put it? Itâs like the moon when the sun comes out. You donât know itâs there anymore. When once Iâd met LinnetâJackie didnât exist.â

âTiens, câest drÃ´le, Ã§a!â muttered Poirot.

âI beg your pardon?â

âYour simile interested me, that is all.â

Again flushing, Simon said: âI suppose Jackie told you that Iâd only married Linnet for her money? Well, thatâs a damned lie! I wouldnât marry any woman for money! What Jackie doesnât understand is that itâs difficult for a fellow whenâwhenâa woman cares for him as she cared for me.â

âAh?â

Poirot looked up sharply.

Simon blundered on: âItâitâsounds a caddish thing to say, but Jackie was too fond of me!â

âUne qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer,â murmured Poirot.

âEh? Whatâs that you say? You see, a man doesnât want to feel that a woman cares more for him than he does for her.â His voice grew warm as he went on. âHe doesnât want to feel owned, body and soul. Itâs the damned possessive attitude! This man is mineâhe belongs to me! Thatâs the sort of thing I canât stickâno man could stick! He wants to get awayâto get free. He wants to own his woman; he doesnât want her to own him.â

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

Poirot said: âAnd it is like that that you felt with Mademoiselle Jacqueline?â

âEh?â Simon stared and then admitted: âErâyesâwell, yes, as a matter of fact I did. She doesnât realize that, of course. And itâs not the sort of thing I could ever tell her. But I was feeling restlessâand then I met Linnet, and she just swept me off my feet! Iâd never seen anything so lovely. It was all so amazing. Everyone kowtowing to herâand then her singling out a poor chump like me.â

His tone held boyish awe and astonishment.

âI see,â said Poirot. He nodded thoughtfully. âYesâI see.â

âWhy canât Jackie take it like a man?â demanded Simon resentfully.

A very faint smile twitched Poirotâs upper lip.

âWell, you see, Monsieur Doyle, to begin with she is not a man.â

âNo, noâbut I meant take it like a good sport! After all, youâve got to take your medicine when it comes to you. The faultâs mine, I admit. But there it is! If you no longer care for a girl, itâs simply madness to marry her. And, now that I see what Jackieâs really like and the lengths she is likely to go to, I feel Iâve had rather a lucky escape.â

âThe lengths she is likely to go to,â Poirot repeated thoughtfully. âHave you an idea, Monsieur Doyle, what those lengths are?â

Simon looked at him rather startled.

âNoâat least, what do you mean?â

âYou know she carries a pistol about with her?â

Simon frowned, then shook his head.

âI donât believe sheâll use thatânow. She might have done so earlier. But I believe itâs got past that. Sheâs just spiteful nowâtrying to take it out on us both.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âIt may be so,â he said doubtfully.

âItâs Linnet Iâm worrying about,â declared Simon, somewhat unnecessarily.

âI quite realize that,â said Poirot.

âIâm not really afraid of Jackie doing any melodramatic shooting stuff, but this spying and following business has absolutely got Linnet on the raw. Iâll tell you the plan Iâve made, and perhaps you can suggest improvements on it. To begin with, Iâve announced fairly openly that weâre 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 weâll go on an excursion to Philae. Linnetâs maid can take the luggage. Weâll join the Karnak at Shellal. When Jackie finds we donât come back, it will be too lateâwe shall be well on our way. Sheâll 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 wonât help her, because our names wonât appear. How does that strike you?â

âIt is well imagined, yes. And suppose she waits here till you return?â

âWe may not return. We would go on to Khartoum and then perhaps by air to Kenya. She canât follow us all over the globe.â

âNo; there must come a time when financial reasons forbid. She has very little money, I understand.â

Simon looked at him with admiration.

âThatâs clever of you. Do you know, I hadnât thought of that. Jackieâs as poor as they make them.â

âAnd yet she has managed to follow you so far?â

Simon said doubtfully:

âSheâs got a small income, of course. Something under two hundred a year, I imagine. I supposeâyes, I suppose she must have sold out the capital to do what sheâs doing.â

âSo that the time will come when she has exhausted her resources and is quite penniless?â

âYesâ¦.â

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

âNo,â he remarked. âNo, it is not a pretty thoughtâ¦.â

Simon said rather angrily, âWell, I canât help it!â Then he added, âWhat do you think of my plan?â

âI think it may work, yes. But it is, of course, a retreat.â

Simon flushed.

âYou mean, weâre running away? Yes, thatâs trueâ¦But Linnetââ

Poirot watched him, then gave a short nod.

âAs you say, it may be the best way. But remember, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has brains.â

Simon said sombrely: âSome day, I feel, weâve got to make a stand and fight it out. Her attitude isnât reasonable.â

âReasonable, mon Dieu!â cried Poirot.

âThereâs no reason why women shouldnât behave like rational beings,â Simon asserted stolidly.

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

âOh!â Simon hesitated, then said, choosing his words with some embarrassment: âThat isnâtâisnâtâerâon our account in any way? I mean I wouldnât like to thinkââ

Poirot disabused him quickly:

âNot at all. It was all arranged before I left London. I always make my plans well in advance.â

âYou donât just move on from place to place as the fancy takes you? Isnât the latter really pleasanter?â

âPerhaps. But to succeed in life every detail should be arranged well beforehand.â

Simon laughed and said: âThat is how the more skilful murderer behaves, I suppose.â

âYesâthough 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.â

Simon said boyishly: âYou must tell us something about your cases on board the Karnak.â

âNo, no; that would be to talkâwhat do you call it?âthe shop.â

âYes, but your kind of shop is rather thrilling. Mrs. Allerton thinks so. Sheâs longing to get a chance to cross-question you.â

âMrs. Allerton? That is the charming grey-haired woman who has such a devoted son?â

âYes. Sheâll be on the Karnak too.â

âDoes she know that youâ?â

âCertainly not,â said Simon with emphasis. âNobody knows. Iâve gone on the principle that itâs better not to trust anybody.â

âAn admirable sentimentâand one which I always adopt. By the way, the third member of your party, the tall grey-haired manââ

âPennington?â

âYes. He is travelling with you?â

Simon said grimly: âNot very usual on a honeymoon, you were thinking? Pennington is Linnetâs American trustee. We ran across him by chance in Cairo.â

âAh, vraiment! You permit a question? She is of age, Madame your wife?â

Simon looked amused.

âShe isnât actually twenty-one yetâbut she hadnât got to ask anyoneâs consent before marrying me. It was the greatest surprise to Pennington. He left New York on the Carmanic two days before Linnetâs letter got there telling him of our marriage, so he knew nothing about it.â

âThe Carmanicââ murmured Poirot.

âIt was the greatest surprise to him when we ran into him at Shepheardâs in Cairo.â

âThat was indeed the coincident!â

âYes, and we found that he was coming on this Nile tripâso naturally we foregathered; couldnât have done anything else decently. Besides that, itâs beenâwell, a relief in some ways.â He looked embarrassed again. âYou see, Linnetâs been all strung upâexpecting Jackie to turn up anywhere and everywhere. While we were alone together, the subject kept coming up. Andrew Penningtonâs a help that way, we have to talk of outside matters.â

âYour wife has not confided in Mr. Pennington?â

âNo.â Simonâs jaw looked aggressive. âItâs nothing to do with anyone else. Besides, when we started on this Nile trip we thought weâd seen the end of the business.â

Poirot shook his head.

âYou have not seen the end of it yet. Noâthe end is not yet at hand. I am very sure of that.â

âI say, Monsieur Poirot, youâre not very encouraging.â

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

Linnet DoyleâJacqueline de Bellefortâboth of them took the business seriously enough. But in Simonâs attitude he could find nothing but male impatience and annoyance. He said: âYou will permit me an impertinent question? Was it your idea to come to Egypt for your honeymoon?â

Simon flushed.

âNo, of course not. As a matter of fact Iâd rather have gone anywhere else, but Linnet was absolutely set upon it. And soâand soââ

He stopped rather lamely.

âNaturally,â said Poirot gravely.

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

He thought to himself: âI have now heard three separate accounts of the affairâLinnet Doyleâs, Jacqueline de Bellefortâs, Simon Doyleâs. Which of them is nearest to the truth?â

Seven

Simon and Linnet Doyle set off on their expedition to Philae about eleven oâclock 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 carâladen with luggage, and in which sat a demure-looking maidâfrom 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 other. 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: âSignor Guido Richetti, Archeologo.â

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.

âGood morning,â she said. âI suppose it would be quite impossible to get rid of some of these awful children.â

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

âI thought theyâd get tired of me,â said Mrs. Allerton sadly. âTheyâve been watching me for over two hours nowâand they close in on me little by little; and then I yell âImshiâ 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 donât believe I really like childrenânot unless theyâre more or less washed and have the rudiments of manners.â

She laughed ruefully.

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

âIf there were only any peace in Egypt, I should like it better,â said Mrs. Allerton. âBut 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.â

âIt is the great disadvantage, that is true,â said Poirot.

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

âYour son is not with you this morning?â he went on.

âNo, Tim had some letters to get off before we leave. Weâre doing the trip to the Second Cataract, you know.â

âI, too.â

âIâm so glad. I want to tell you that Iâm 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. Sheâd lost a ruby ring bathing, and she was just lamenting that you werenât there to find it for her.

âAh, parbleu, but I am not the diving seal!â

They both laughed.

Mrs. Allerton went on.

âI saw you from my window walking down the drive with Simon Doyle this morning. Do tell me what you make of him! Weâre so excited about him.â

âAh? Truly?â

âYes. 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!â

âYou know her well, Madame?â

âNo, but a cousin of mine, Joanna Southwood, is one of her best friends.â

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

âOh, she knows how to advertise herself all right,â snapped Mrs. Allerton.

âYou do not like her, Madame?â

âThat was a nasty remark of mine.â Mrs. Allerton looked penitent. âYou see Iâm old-fashioned. I donât like her much. Tim and she are the greatest of friends, though.â

âI see,â said Poirot.

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

âHow 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.â

âWhy is that, Madame?â

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

âYes, she is not happy, poor little one.â

âTim and I call her the âsulky girl.â Iâve tried to talk to her once or twice, but sheâs snubbed me on each occasion. However, I believe sheâs going on this Nile trip too, and I expect weâll have to be more or less all matey together, shanât we?â

âIt is a possible contingency, Madame.â

âIâm very matey reallyâpeople interest me enormously. All the different types.â She paused, then said: âTim tells me that that dark girlâher name is de Bellefortâis the girl who was engaged to Simon Doyle. Itâs rather awkward for themâmeeting like this.â

âIt is awkwardâyes,â agreed Poirot.

âYou know, it may sound foolish, but she almost frightened me. She looked soâintense.â

Poirot nodded his head slowly.

âYou were not far wrong, Madame. A great force of emotion is always frightening.â

âDo people interest you too, Monsieur Poirot? Or do you reserve your interest for potential criminals?â

âMadameâthat category would not leave many people outside it.â

Mrs. Allerton looked a trifle startled.

âDo you really mean that?â

âGiven the particular incentive, that is to say,â Poirot added.

âWhich would differ?â

âNaturally.â

Mrs. Allerton hesitatedâa little smile on her lips.

âEven I perhaps?â

âMothers, Madame, are particularly ruthless when their children are in danger.â

She said gravely, âI think thatâs trueâyes, youâre quite right.â

She was silent a minute or two, then she said, smiling: Iâm trying to imagine motives for crime suitable for everyone in the hotel. Itâs quite entertaining. Simon Doyle, for instance?â

Poirot said, smiling: âA very simple crimeâa direct shortcut to his objective. No subtlety about it.â

âAnd therefore very easily detected?â

âYes; he would not be ingenious.â

âAnd Linnet?â

âThat would be like the Queen in your Alice in Wonderland, âOff with her head.ââ

âOf course. The divine right of monarchy! Just a little bit of the Nabothâs vineyard touch. And the dangerous girlâJacqueline de Bellefortâcould she do a murder?â

Poirot hesitated for a minute or two, then he said doubtfully, âYes, I think she could.â

âBut youâre not sure?â

âNo. She puzzles me, that little one.â

âI donât think Mr. Pennington could do one, do you? He looks so desiccated and dyspepticâwith no red blood in him.â

âBut possibly a strong sense of self-preservation.â

âYes, I suppose so. And poor Mrs. Otterbourne in her turban?â

âThere is always vanity.â

âAs a motive for murder?â Mrs. Allerton asked doubtfully.

âMotives for murder are sometimes very trivial, Madame.â

âWhat are the most usual motives, Monsieur Poirot?â

âMost frequentâmoney. That is to say, gain in its various ramifications. Then there is revengeâand love, and fear, and pure hate, and beneficenceââ

âMonsieur Poirot!â

âOh, yes, Madame. I have known ofâshall we say A?âbeing 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.â

He spoke gravely.

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

âThere is a danger in thinking like that, Madame.â

She adopted a lighter tone.

âAfter this conversation, Monsieur Poirot, I shall wonder that there is anyone left alive!â

She got up.

âWe must be getting back. We have to start immediately after lunch.â

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.

âThere are very wonderful things to be seen in Egypt, are there not?â

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: âThey make me sick.â

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

âIndeed? And why is that?â Poirot asked.

âTake 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.â

Mrs. Allerton said cheerfully: âYouâd rather have no Pyramids, no Parthenon, no beautiful tombs or templesâjust the solid satisfaction of knowing that people got three meals a day and died in their beds.â

The young man directed his scowl in her direction.

âI think human beings matter more than stones.â

âBut they do not endure as well,â remarked Hercule Poirot.

âIâd rather see a well fed worker than any so-called work of art. What matters is the futureânot the past.â

This was too much for Signor Richetti, who burst into a torrent of impassioned speech not too easy to follow.

The young man retorted by telling everybody exactly what he thought of the capitalist system. He spoke with the utmost venom.

When the tirade was over they had arrived at the hotel landing stage.

Mrs. Allerton murmured cheerfully: âWell, well,â and stepped ashore. The young man directed a baleful glance after her.

In the hall of the hotel Poirot encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was dressed in riding clothes. She gave him an ironical little bow.

âIâm going donkey-riding. Do you recommend the native villages, Monsieur Poirot?â

âIs that your excursion today, Mademoiselle? Eh bien, they are picturesqueâbut do not spend large sums on native curios.â

âWhich are shipped here from Europe? No, I am not so easy to deceive as that.â

With a little nod she passed out into the brilliant sunshine.

Poirot completed his packingâa very simple affair, since his possessions were always in the most meticulous order. Then he repaired to the dining room and ate an early lunch.

After lunch the hotel bus took the passengers for the Second Cataract to the station where they were to catch the daily express from Cairo to Shellalâa ten-minute run.

The Allertons, Poirot, the young man in the dirty flannel trousers and the Italian were the passengers. Mrs. Otterbourne and her daughter had made the expedition to the Dam and to Philae and would join the steamer at Shellal.

The train from Cairo and Luxor was about twenty minutes late. However, it arrived at last, and the usual scenes of wild activity occurred. Native porters taking suitcases out of the train collided with other porters putting them in.

Finally, somewhat breathless, Poirot found himself, with an assortment of his own, the Allertonsâ, and some totally unknown luggage, in one compartment, while Tim and his mother were elsewhere with the remains of the assorted baggage.

The compartment in which Poirot found himself was occupied by an elderly lady with a very wrinkled face, a stiff white stock, a good many diamonds and an expression of reptilian contempt for the majority of mankind.

She treated Poirot to an aristocratic glare and retired behind the pages of an American magazine. A big, rather clumsy young woman of under thirty was sitting opposite her. She had eager brown eyes, rather like a dogâs, untidy hair, and a terrific air of willingness to please. At intervals the old lady looked over the top of her magazine and snapped an order at her.

âCornelia, collect the rugs.â âWhen we arrive look after my dressing-case. On no account let anyone else handle it.â âDonât forget my paper-cutter.â

The train run was brief. In ten minutesâ time they came to rest on the jetty where the S.S. Karnak was awaiting them. The Otterbournes were already on board.

The Karnak was a smaller steamer than the Papyrus and the Lotus, the First Cataract steamers, which are too large to pass through the locks of the Assuan dam. The passengers went on board and were shown their accommodation. Since the boat was not full, most of the passengers had accommodation on the promenade deck. The entire forward part of this deck was occupied by an observation saloon, all glass-enclosed, where the passengers could sit and watch the river unfold before them. On the deck below were a smoking room and a small drawing room and on the deck below that, the dining saloon.

Having seen his possessions disposed in his cabin, Poirot came out on the deck again to watch the process of departure. He joined Rosalie Otterbourne, who was leaning over the side.

âSo now we journey into Nubia. You are pleased, Mademoiselle?â

The girl drew a deep breath.

âYes. I feel that oneâs really getting away from things at last.â

She made a gesture with her hand. There was a savage aspect about the sheet of water in front of them, the masses of rock without vegetation that came down to the waterâs edgeâhere and there a trace of houses, abandoned and ruined as a result of the damming up of the waters. The whole scene had a melancholy, almost sinister charm.

âAway from people,â said Rosalie Otterbourne.

âExcept those of our own number, Mademoiselle?â

She shrugged her shoulders. Then she said: âThereâs something about this country that makes me feelâwicked. It brings to the surface all the things that are boiling inside one. Everythingâs so unfairâso unjust.â

âI wonder. You cannot judge by material evidence.â

Rosalie muttered: âLook atâat some peopleâs mothersâand look at mine. There is no God but Sex, and Salome Otterbourne is its Prophet.â She stopped. âI shouldnât have said that, I suppose.â

Poirot made a gesture with his hands.

âWhy not say itâto me? I am one of those who hear many things. If, as you say, you boil insideâlike the jamâeh bien, let the scum come to the surface, and then one can take it off with a spoon, so.â

He made a gesture of dropping something into the Nile.

âThen, it has gone.â

âWhat an extraordinary man you are!â Rosalie said. Her sulky mouth twisted into a smile. Then she suddenly stiffened as she exclaimed: âWell, here are Mrs. Doyle and her husband! Iâd no idea they were coming on this trip!â

Linnet had just emerged from a cabin halfway down the deck. Simon was behind her. Poirot was almost startled by the look of herâso radiant, so assured. She looked positively arrogant with happiness. Simon Doyle, too, was a transformed being. He was grinning from ear to ear and looking like a happy schoolboy.

âThis is grand,â he said as he too leaned on the rail. âIâm really looking forward to this trip, arenât you, Linnet? It feels, somehow, so much less touristyâas though we were really going into the heart of Egypt.â

His wife responded quickly: âI know. Itâs so muchâwilder, somehow.â

Her hand slipped through his arm. He pressed it close to his side.

âWeâre off, Lin,â he murmured.

The steamer was drawing away from the jetty. They had started on their seven-day journey to the Second Cataract and back.

Behind them a light silvery laugh rang out. Linnet whipped round.

Jacqueline de Bellefort was standing there. She seemed amused.

âHullo, Linnet! I didnât expect to find you here. I thought you said you were staying in Assuan another ten days. This is a surprise!â

âYouâyou didnâtââ Linnetâs tongue stammered. She forced a ghastly conventional smile. âIâI didnât expect to see you either.â

âNo?â

Jacqueline moved away to the other side of the boat. Linnetâs grasp on her husbandâs arm tightened.

âSimonâSimonââ

All Doyleâs good-natured pleasure had gone. He looked furious. His hands clenched themselves in spite of his effort at self-control.

The two of them moved a little away. Without turning his head Poirot caught scraps of disjointed words:

ââ¦turn backâ¦impossibleâ¦we couldâ¦â and then, slightly louder, Doyleâs voice, despairing but grim: âWe canât run away forever, Lin. Weâve got to go through with it nowâ¦.â

It was some hours later. Daylight was just fading. Poirot stood in the glass-enclosed saloon looking straight ahead. The Karnak was going through a narrow gorge. The rocks came down with a kind of sheer ferocity to the river flowing deep and swift between them. They were in Nubia now.

He heard a movement and Linnet Doyle stood by his side. Her fingers twisted and untwisted themselves; she looked as he had never yet seen her look. There was about her the air of a bewildered child. She said:

âMonsieur Poirot, Iâm afraidâIâm afraid of everything. Iâve never felt like this before. All these wild rocks and the awful grimness and starkness. Where are we going? Whatâs going to happen? Iâm afraid, I tell you. Everyone hates me. Iâve never felt like that before. Iâve always been nice to peopleâIâve done things for themâand they hate meâlots of people hate me. Except for Simon, Iâm surrounded by enemiesâ¦Itâs terrible to feelâthat there are people who hate youâ¦.â

âBut what is all this, Madame?â

She shook her head.

âI supposeâitâs nervesâ¦I just feel thatâeverythingâs unsafe all round me.â

She cast a quick nervous glance over his shoulder Then she said abruptly: âHow will all this end? Weâre caught here. Trapped! Thereâs no way out. Weâve got to go on. IâI donât know where I am.â

She slipped down on to a seat. Poirot looked down on her gravely; his glance was not untinged with compassion.

âHow did she know we were coming on this boat?â she said. âHow could she have known?â

Poirot shook his head as he answered: âShe has brains, you know.â

âI feel as though I shall never escape from her.â

Poirot said: âThere is one plan you might have adopted. In fact I am surprised that it did not occur to you. After all, with you, Madame, money is no object. Why did you not engage in your own private dahabiyeh?â

âIf weâd known about all thisâbut you see we didnâtâthen. And it was difficultâ¦â She flashed out with sudden impatience: âOh! you donât understand half my difficulties. Iâve got to be careful with Simonâ¦Heâsâheâs absurdly sensitiveâabout money. About my having so much! He wanted me to go to some little place in Spain with himâheâhe wanted to pay all our honeymoon expenses himself. As if it mattered! Men are stupid! Heâs got to get used toâtoâliving comfortably. The mere idea of a dahabiyeh upset himâtheâthe needless expense. Iâve got to educate himâgradually.â

She looked up, bit her lip vexedly, as though feeling that she had been led into discussing her difficulties rather too unguardedly.

She got up.

âI must change. Iâm sorry, Monsieur Poirot. Iâm afraid Iâve been talking a lot of foolish nonsense.â

Eight

Mrs. Allerton, looking quiet and distinguished in her simple black lace evening gown, descended two decks to the dining room. At the door of it her son caught her up.

âSorry, darling. I thought I was going to be late.â

âI wonder where we sit.â The saloon was dotted with little tables. Mrs. Allerton paused till the steward, who was busy seating a party of people, could attend to them.

âBy the way,â she added, âI asked little Hercule Poirot to sit at our table.â

âMother, you didnât!â Tim sounded really taken aback and annoyed.

His mother stared at him in surprise. Tim was usually so easy-going.

âMy dear, do you mind?â

âYes, I do. Heâs an unmitigated little bounder!â

âOh, no, Tim! I donât agree with you.â

âAnyway, what do we want to get mixed up with an outsider for? Cooped up like this on a small boat, that sort of thing is always a bore. Heâll be with us morning, noon, and night.â

âIâm sorry, dear.â Mrs. Allerton looked distressed. âI thought really it would amuse you. After all, he must have had a varied experience. And you love detective stories.â

Tim grunted.

âI wish you wouldnât have these bright ideas, Mother. We canât get out of it now, I suppose?â

âReally, Tim, I donât see how we can.â

âOh, well, we shall have to put up with it, I suppose.â

The steward came to them at this minute and led them to a table. Mrs. Allertonâs face wore rather a puzzled expression as she followed him. Tim was usually so easy-going and good-tempered. This outburst was quite unlike him. It wasnât as though he had the ordinary Britisherâs dislikeâand mistrustâof foreigners. Tim was very cosmopolitan. Oh, wellâshe sighed. Men were incomprehensible! Even oneâs nearest and dearest had unsuspected reactions and feelings.

As they took their places, Hercule Poirot came quickly and silently into the dining saloon. He paused with his hand on the back of the third chair.

âYou really permit, Madame, that I avail myself of your kind suggestion?â

âOf course. Sit down, Monsieur Poirot.â

âYou are most amiable.â

She was uneasily conscious that, as he seated himself, he shot a swift glance at Tim, and that Tim had not quite succeeded in masking a somewhat sullen expression.

Mrs. Allerton set herself to produce a pleasant atmosphere. As they drank their soup, she picked up the passenger list which had been placed beside her plate.

âLetâs try and identify everybody,â she suggested cheerfully. âI always think thatâs rather fun.â

She began reading: âMrs. Allerton, Mr. T. Allerton. Thatâs easy enough! Miss de Bellefort. Theyâve put her at the same table as the Otterbournes, I see. I wonder what she and Rosalie will make of each other. Who comes next? Dr. Bessner. Dr. Bessner? Who can identify Dr. Bessner?â

She bent her glance on a table at which four men sat together.

âI think he must be the fat one with the closely shaved head and the moustache. A German, I should imagine. He seems to be enjoying his soup very much.â Certain succulent noises floated across to them.

Mrs. Allerton continued: âMiss Bowers? Can we make a guess at Miss Bowers? There are three or four womenâno, weâll leave her for the present. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle. Yes, indeed, the lions of this trip. She really is very beautiful, and what a perfectly lovely frock she is wearing.â

Tim turned round in his chair. Linnet and her husband and Andrew Pennington had been given a table in the corner. Linnet was wearing a white dress and pearls.

âIt looks frightfully simple to me,â said Tim. âJust a length of stuff with a kind of cord round the middle.â

âYes, darling,â said his mother. âA very nice manly description of an eighty-guinea model.â

âI canât think why women pay so much for their clothes,â Tim said. âIt seems absurd to me.â

Mrs. Allerton proceeded with her study of her fellow passengers.

âMr. Fanthorp must be one of the four at that table. The intensely quiet young man who never speaks. Rather a nice face, cautious and intelligent.â

Poirot agreed.

âHe is intelligentâyes. He does not talk, but he listens very attentively, and he also watches. Yes, he makes good use of his eyes. Not quite the type you would expect to find travelling for pleasure in this part of the world. I wonder what he is doing here.â

âMr. Ferguson,â read Mrs. Allerton. âI feel that Ferguson must be our anti-capitalist friend. Mrs. Otterbourne, Miss Otterbourne. We know all about them. Mr. Pennington? Alias Uncle Andrew. Heâs a good-looking man, I thinkââ

âNow, Mother,â said Tim.

âI think heâs very good-looking in a dry sort of way,â said Mrs. Allerton. âRather a ruthless jaw. Probably the kind of man one reads about in the paper, who operates on Wall Streetâor is it in Wall Street? Iâm sure he must be extremely rich. NextâMonsieur Hercule Poirotâwhose talents are really being wasted. Canât you get up a crime for Monsieur Poirot, Tim?â

But her well-meant banter only seemed to annoy her son anew. He scowled and Mrs. Allerton hurried on: âMr. Richetti. Our Italian archaeological friend. Then Miss Robson and last of all Miss Van Schuyler. The lastâs easy. The very ugly old American lady who is clearly going to be very exclusive and speak to nobody who doesnât come up to the most exacting standards! Sheâs rather marvellous, isnât she, really? A kind of period piece. The two women with her must be Miss Bowers and Miss Robsonâperhaps a secretary, the thin one with pince-nez, and a poor relation, the rather pathetic young woman who is obviously enjoying herself in spite of being treated like a black slave. I think Robsonâs the secretary woman and Bowers is the poor relation.â

âWrong, Mother,â said Tim, grinning. He had suddenly recovered his good humour.

âHow do you know?â

âBecause I was in the lounge before dinner and the old bean said to the companion woman: âWhereâs Miss Bowers? Fetch her at once, Cornelia.â And away trotted Cornelia like an obedient dog.â

âI shall have to talk to Miss Van Schuyler,â mused Mrs. Allerton.

Tim grinned again.

âSheâll snub you, Mother.â

âNot at all. I shall pave the way by sitting near her and conversing, in low (but penetrating), well-bred tones, about any titled relations and friends I can remember. I think a casual mention of your second cousin, once removed, the Duke of Glasgow, would probably do the trick.â

âHow unscrupulous you are, Mother!â

Events after dinner were not without their amusing side to a student of human nature.

The socialistic young man (who turned out to be Mr. Ferguson as deduced) retired to the smoking room, scorning the assemblage of passengers in the observation saloon on the top deck.

Miss Van Schuyler duly secured the best and most undraughty position there by advancing firmly on a table at which Mrs. Otterbourne was sitting and saying, âYouâll excuse me, I am sure, but I think my knitting was left here!â

Fixed by a hypnotic eye, the turban rose and gave ground. Miss Van Schuyler established herself and her suite. Mrs. Otterbourne sat down nearby and hazarded various remarks, which were met with such chilling politeness that she soon gave up. Miss Van Schuyler then sat in glorious isolation. The Doyles sat with the Allertons. Dr. Bessner retained the quiet Mr. Fanthorp as a companion. Jacqueline de Bellefort sat by herself with a book. Rosalie Otterbourne was restless. Mrs. Allerton spoke to her once or twice and tried to draw her into their group, but the girl responded ungraciously.

M. Hercule Poirot spent his evening listening to an account of Mrs. Otterbourneâs mission as a writer.

On his way to his cabin that night he encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was leaning over the rail and, as she turned her head, he was struck by the look of acute misery on her face. There was now no insouciance, no malicious defiance, no dark flaming triumph.

âGood night, Mademoiselle.â

âGood night, Monsieur Poirot.â She hesitated, then said: âYou were surprised to find me here?â

âI was not so much surprised as sorryâvery sorryâ¦.â

He spoke gravely.

âYou mean sorryâfor me?â

âThat is what I meant. You have chosen, Mademoiselle, the dangerous courseâ¦As we here in this boat have embarked on a journey, so you too have embarked on your own private journeyâa journey on a swift moving river, between dangerous rocks, and heading for who knows what currents of disasterâ¦.â

âWhy do you say this?â

âBecause it is trueâ¦You have cut the bonds that moored you to safety. I doubt now if you could turn back if you would.â

She said very slowly: âThat is trueâ¦.â

Then she flung her head back.

âAh, wellâone must follow oneâs star, wherever it leads.â

âBeware, Mademoiselle, that it is not a false starâ¦.â

She laughed and mimicked the parrot cry of the donkey boys:

âThat very bad star, sir! That star fall downâ¦.â

He was just dropping off to sleep when the murmur of voices awoke him. It was Simon Doyleâs voice he heard, repeating the same words he had used when the steamer left Shellal.

âWeâve got to go through with it nowâ¦.â

âYes,â thought Hercule Poirot to himself, âwe have got to go through with it nowâ¦.â

He was not happy.

Nine

I

The steamer arrived early next morning at Ez-Zebua.

Cornelia Robson, her face beaming, a large flapping hat on her head, was one of the first to hurry on shore. Cornelia was not good at snubbing people. She was of an amiable disposition and disposed to like all her fellow creatures.

The sight of Hercule Poirot, in a white suit, pink shirt, large black bow tie and a white topee, did not make her wince as the aristocratic Miss Van Schuyler would assuredly have winced. As they walked together up an avenue of sphinxes, she responded readily to his conventional opening, âYour companions are not coming ashore to view the temple?â

âWell, you see, Cousin Marieâthatâs Miss Van Schuylerânever gets up very early. She has to be very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers, thatâs her hospital nurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isnât one of the best templesâbut she was frightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.â

âThat was very gracious of her,â said Poirot dryly.

The ingenuous Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.

âOh, sheâs very kind. Itâs simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel Iâm a lucky girl. I just could hardly believe it when she suggested to Mother that I should come too.â

âAnd you have enjoyed itâyes?â

âOh, itâs been wonderful! Iâve seen ItalyâVenice and Padua and Pisaâand then Cairoâonly cousin Marie wasnât very well in Cairo, so I couldnât get round much, and now this wonderful trip up the Wadi Halfa and back.â

Poirot said, smiling, âYou have the happy nature, Mademoiselle.â

He looked thoughtfully from her to silent, frowning Rosalie, who was walking ahead by herself.

âSheâs very nice-looking, isnât she?â said Cornelia, following his glance. âOnly kind of scornful-looking. Sheâs very English, of course. Sheâs not as lovely as Mrs. Doyle. I think Mrs. Doyleâs the loveliest, the most elegant woman Iâve ever seen! And her husband just worships the ground she walks on, doesnât he? I think that grey-haired lady is kind of distinguished-looking, donât you? Sheâs a cousin of a Duke, I believe. She was talking about him right near us last night. But she isnât actually titled herself, is she?â

She prattled on until the dragoman in charge called a halt and began to intone: âThis temple was dedicated to Egyptian God Amun and the Sun God Re-Harakhteâwhose symbol was a hawkâs headâ¦.â

It droned on. Dr. Bessner, Baedeker in hand, mumbled to himself in German. He preferred the written word.

Tim Allerton had not joined the party. His mother was breaking the ice with the reserved Mr. Fanthorp. Andrew Pennington, his arm through Linnet Doyleâs, was listening attentively, seemingly most interested in the measurements as recited by the guide.

âSixty-five feet high, is that so? Looks a little less to me. Great fellow, this Rameses. An Egyptian live wire.â

âA big business man, Uncle Andrew.â

Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.

âYou look fine this morning, Linnet. Iâve been a mite worried about you lately. Youâve looked kind of peaky.â

Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided up the river. The scenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation.

It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had brooded over the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness. Rosalie looked less sulky. Linnet seemed almost lighthearted.

Pennington said to her: âItâs tactless to talk business to a bride on her honeymoon, but there are just one or two thingsââ

âWhy, of course, Uncle Andrew.â Linnet at once became businesslike. âMy marriage has made a difference, of course.â

âThatâs just it. Some time or other I want your signature to several documents.â

âWhy not now?â

Andrew Pennington glanced round. Their corner of the observation saloon was quite untenanted. Most of the people were outside on the deck space between the observation saloon and the cabin. The only occupants of the saloon were Mr. Fergusonâwho was drinking beer at a small table in the middle, his legs, encased in their dirty flannel trousers, stuck out in front of him, whilst he whistled to himself in the intervals of drinkingâM. Hercule Poirot, who was sitting before himâand Miss Van Schuyler, who was sitting in a corner reading a book on Egypt.

âThatâs fine,â said Andrew Pennington. He left the saloon.

Linnet and Simon smiled at each otherâa slow smile that took a few minutes to come to full fruition.

âAll right, sweet?â he asked.

âYes, still all rightâ¦Funny how Iâm not rattled anymore.â

Simon said with deep conviction in his tone: âYouâre marvellous.â

Pennington came back. He brought with him a sheaf of closely written documents.

âMercy!â cried Linnet. âHave I got to sign all these?â

Andrew Pennington was apologetic.

âItâs tough on you, I know, but Iâd just like to get your affairs put in proper shape. First of all thereâs the lease of the Fifth Avenue propertyâ¦then there are the Western Land Concessionsâ¦â He talked on, rustling and sorting the papers. Simon yawned.

The door to the deck swung open and Mr. Fanthorp came in. He gazed aimlessly round, then strolled forward and stood by Poirot looking out at the pale blue water and the yellow enveloping sandsâ¦.

ââyou sign just there,â concluded Pennington, spreading a paper before Linnet and indicating a space.

Linnet picked up the document and glanced through it. She turned back once to the first page, then, taking up the fountain pen Pennington had laid beside her, she signed her name Linnet Doyleâ¦.

Pennington took away the paper and spread out another.

Fanthorp wandered over in their direction. He peered out through the side window at something that seemed to interest him on the bank they were passing.

âThatâs just the transfer,â said Pennington. âYou neednât read it.â

But Linnet took a brief glance through it. Pennington laid down a third paper. Again Linnet perused it carefully.

âTheyâre all quite straightforward,â said Andrew. âNothing of interest. Only legal phraseology.â

Simon yawned again.

âMy dear girl, youâre not going to read the whole lot through, are you? Youâll be at it till lunchtime and longer.â

âI always read everything through,â said Linnet. âFather taught me to do that. He said there might be some clerical error.â

Pennington laughed rather harshly.

âYouâre a grand woman of business, Linnet.â

âSheâs much more conscientious than Iâd be,â said Simon, laughing. âIâve never read a legal document in my life. I sign where they tell me to sign on the dotted lineâand thatâs that.â

âThatâs frightfully slipshod,â said Linnet disapprovingly.

âIâve no business head,â declared Simon cheerfully. âNever had. A fellow tells me to signâI sign. Itâs much the simplest way.â

Andrew Pennington was looking at him thoughtfully. He said dryly, stroking his upper lip, âA little risky sometimes, Doyle?â

âNonsense,â replied Simon. âIâm not one of those people who believe the whole world is out to do one down. Iâm a trusting kind of fellowâand it pays, you know. Iâve hardly ever been let down.â

Suddenly, to everyoneâs surprise, the silent Mr. Fanthorp swung around and addressed Linnet.

âI hope Iâm not butting in, but you must let me say how much I admire your businesslike capacity. In my professionâerâI am a lawyerâI find ladies sadly unbusinesslike. Never to sign a document unless you read it through is admirableâaltogether admirable.â

He gave a little bow. Then, rather red in the face, he turned once more to contemplate the banks of the Nile.

Linnet looked rather uncertainly: âErâthank youâ¦â She bit her lip to repress a giggle. The young man had looked so preternaturally solemn.

Andrew Pennington looked seriously annoyed.

Simon Doyle looked uncertain whether to be annoyed or amused.

The backs of Mr. Fanthorpâs ears were bright crimson.

âNext, please,â said Linnet, smiling up at Pennington.

But Pennington looked decidedly ruffled.

âI think perhaps some other time would be better,â he said stiffly. âAsâerâDoyle says, if you have to read through all these we shall be here till lunchtime. We mustnât miss enjoying the scenery. Anyway those first two papers were the only urgent ones. Weâll settle down to business later.â

âItâs frightfully hot in here,â Linnet said. âLetâs go outside.â

The three of them passed through the swing door. Hercule Poirot turned his head. His gaze rested thoughtfully on Mr. Fanthorpâs back; then it shifted to the lounging figure of Mr. Ferguson who had his head thrown back and was still whistling softly to himself.

Finally Poirot looked over at the upright figure of Miss Van Schuyler in her corner. Miss Van Schuyler was glaring at Mr. Ferguson.

The swing door on the port side opened and Cornelia Robson hurried in.

âYouâve been a long time,â snapped the old lady. âWhereâve you been?â

âIâm so sorry, Cousin Marie. The wool wasnât where you said it was. It was in another case altogetherââ

âMy dear child, you are perfectly hopeless at finding anything! You are willing, I know, my dear, but you must try to be a little cleverer and quicker. It only needs concentration.â

âIâm so sorry, Cousin Marie. Iâm afraid I am very stupid.â

âNobody need be stupid if they try, my dear. I have brought you on this trip, and I expect a little attention in return.â

Cornelia flushed.

âIâm very sorry, Cousin Marie.â

âAnd where is Miss Bowers? It was time for my drops ten minutes ago. Please go and find her at once. The doctor said it was most importantââ

But at this stage Miss Bowers entered, carrying a small medicine glass.

âYour drops, Miss Van Schuyler.â

âI should have had them at eleven,â snapped the old lady. âIf thereâs one thing I detest itâs unpunctuality.â

âQuite,â said Miss Bowers. She glanced at her wristwatch. âItâs exactly half a minute to eleven.â

âBy my watch itâs ten past.â

âI think youâll find my watch is right. Itâs a perfect timekeeper. It never loses or gains.â Miss Bowers was quite imperturbable.

Miss Van Schuyler swallowed the contents of the medicine glass.

âI feel definitely worse,â she snapped.

âIâm sorry to hear that, Miss Van Schuyler.â

Miss Bowers did not sound sorry. She sounded completely uninterested. She was obviously making the correct reply mechanically.

âItâs too hot in here,â snapped Miss Van Schuyler. âFind me a chair on the deck, Miss Bowers. Cornelia, bring my knitting. Donât be clumsy or drop it. And then I shall want you to wind some wool.â

The procession passed out.

Mr. Ferguson sighed, stirred his legs and remarked to the world at large, âGosh, Iâd like to scrag that dame.â

Poirot asked interestedly: âShe is a type you dislike, eh?â

âDislike? I should say so. What good has that woman ever been to anyone or anything? Sheâs never worked or lifted a finger. Sheâs just battened on other people. Sheâs a parasiteâand a damned unpleasant parasite. There are a lot of people on this boat Iâd say the world could do without.â

âReally?â

âYes. That girl in here just now, signing share transfers and throwing her weight about. Hundreds and thousands of wretched workers slaving for a mere pittance to keep her in silk stockings and useless luxuries. One of the richest women in England, so someone told meâand never done a handâs turn in her life.â

âWho told you she was one of the richest women in England?â

Mr. Ferguson cast a belligerent eye at him.

âA man you wouldnât be seen speaking to! A man who works with his hands and isnât ashamed of it! Not one of your dressed-up, foppish good-for-nothings.â

His eye rested unfavourably on the bow tie and pink shirt.

âMe, I work with my brains and am not ashamed of it,â said Poirot, answering the glance.

Mr. Ferguson merely snorted.

âOught to be shotâthe lot of them!â he asserted.

âMy dear young man,â said Poirot, âwhat a passion you have for violence!â

âCan you tell me of any good that can be done without it? Youâve got to break down and destroy before you can build up.â

âIt is certainly much easier and much noisier and much more spectacular.â

âWhat do you do for a living? Nothing at all, I bet. Probably call yourself a middle man.â

âI am not a middle man. I am a top man,â declared Hercule Poirot with a slight arrogance.

âWhat are you?â

âI am a detective,â said Hercule Poirot with the modest air of one who says âI am a king.â

âGood God!â The young man seemed seriously taken aback. âDo you mean that girl actually totes about a dumb dick? Is she as careful of her precious skin as that?â

âI have no connection whatever with Monsieur and Madame Doyle,â said Poirot stiffly. âI am on holiday.â

âEnjoying a vacationâeh?â

âAnd you? Is it not that you are on holiday also?â

âHoliday!â Mr. Ferguson snorted. Then he added cryptically: âIâm studying conditions.â

âVery interesting,â murmured Poirot and moved gently out on to the deck.

Miss Van Schuyler was established in the best corner. Cornelia knelt in front of her, her arms outstretched with a skein of grey wool upon them. Miss Bowers was sitting very upright reading the Saturday Evening Post.

Poirot wandered gently onward down the starboard deck. As he passed round the stern of the boat he almost ran into a woman who turned a startled face towards himâa dark, piquant, Latin face. She was neatly dressed in black and had been standing talking to a big burly man in uniformâone of the engineers, by the look of him. There was a queer expression on both their facesâguilt and alarm. Poirot wondered what they had been talking about.

He rounded the stern and continued his walk along the port side. A cabin door opened and Mrs. Otterbourne emerged and nearly fell into his arms. She was wearing a scarlet satin dressing-gown.

âSo sorry,â she apologized. âDear Mr. Poirotâso very sorry. The motionâjust the motion, you know. Never did have any sea legs. If the boat would only keep stillâ¦â She clutched at his arm. âItâs the pitching I canât standâ¦Never really happy at seaâ¦And left all alone here hour after hour. That girl of mineâno sympathyâno understanding of her poor old mother whoâs done everything for herâ¦â Mrs. Otterbourne began to weep. âSlaved for her I haveâworn myself to the boneâto the bone. A grande amoureuseâthatâs what I might have beenâa grande amoureuseâsacrificed everythingâeverythingâ¦And nobody cares! But Iâll tell everyoneâIâll tell them nowâhow she neglects meâhow hard she isâmaking me come on this journeyâbored to deathâ¦Iâll go and tell them nowââ

She surged forward. Poirot gently repressed the action.

âI will send her to you, Madame. Re-enter your cabin. It is best that wayââ

âNo. I want to tell everyoneâeveryone on the boatââ

âIt is too dangerous, Madame. The sea is too rough. You might be swept overboard.â

Mrs. Otterbourne looked at him doubtfully.

âYou think so. You really think so?â

âI do.â

He was successful. Mrs. Otterbourne wavered, faltered and re-entered her cabin.

Poirotâs nostrils twitched once or twice. Then he nodded and walked on to where Rosalie Otterbourne was sitting between Mrs. Allerton and Tim.

âYour mother wants you, Mademoiselle.â

She had been laughing quite happily. Now her face clouded over. She shot a quick suspicious look at him and hurried along the deck.

âI canât make that child out,â said Mrs. Allerton. âShe varies so. One day sheâs friendly; the next day, sheâs positively rude.â

âThoroughly spoilt and bad-tempered,â said Tim.

Mrs. Allerton shook her head.

âNo. I donât think itâs that. I think sheâs unhappy.â

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

âOh, well, I suppose weâve all got our private troubles.â His voice sounded hard and curt.

A booming noise was heard.

âLunch,â cried Mrs. Allerton delightedly.

âIâm starving.â

II

That evening, Poirot noticed that Mrs. Allerton was sitting talking to Miss Van Schuyler. As he passed, Mrs. Allerton closed one eye and opened it again. She was saying, âOf course at Calfries Castleâthe dear Dukeââ

Cornelia, released from her attendance, was out on the deck. She was listening to Dr. Bessner, who was instructing her somewhat ponderously in Egyptology as culled from the pages of Baedeker. Cornelia listened with rapt attention.

Leaning over the rail Tim Allerton was saying: âAnyhow, itâs a rotten worldâ¦.â

Rosalie Otterbourne answered: âItâs unfair; some people have everything.â

Poirot sighed. He was glad that he was no longer young.

Ten

On the Monday morning various expressions of delight and appreciation were heard on the deck of the Karnak. The steamer was moored to the bank and a few hundred yards away, the morning sun just striking it, was a great temple carved out of the face of the rock. Four colossal figures, hewn out of the cliff, look out eternally over the Nile and face the rising sun.

Cornelia Robson said incoherently: âOh, Monsieur Poirot, isnât it wonderful? I mean theyâre so big and peacefulâand looking at them makes one feel that oneâs so smallâand rather like an insectâand that nothing matters very much really, does it?â

Mr. Fanthorp, who was standing near by, murmured, âVeryâerâimpressive.â

âGrand, isnât it?â said Simon Doyle, strolling up.

He went on confidentially to Poirot: âYou know, Iâm not much of a fellow for temples and sightseeing and all that, but a place like this sort of gets you, if you know what I mean. Those old Pharaohs must have been wonderful fellows.â

The other had drifted away. Simon lowered his voice.

âIâm no end glad we came on this trip. Itâsâwell, itâs cleared things up. Amazing why it shouldâbut there it is. Linnetâs got her nerve back. She sayâs itâs because shes actually faced the business at last.â

âI think that is very probable,â said Poirot.

âShe says that when she actually saw Jackie on the boat she felt terribleâand then, suddenly, it didnât matter anymore. Weâre both agreed that we wonât try to dodge her anymore. Weâll just meet her on her own ground and show her that this ridiculous stunt of hers doesnât worry us a bit. Itâs just damned bad formâthatâs all. She thought sheâd got us badly rattled, but now, well, we just arenât rattled anymore. That ought to show her.â

âYes,â said Poirot thoughtfully.

âSo thatâs splendid, isnât it?â

âOh, yes, yes.â

Linnet came along the deck. She was dressed in a soft shade of apricot linen. She was smiling. She greeted Poirot with no particular enthusiasm, just gave him a cool nod and then drew her husband away.

Poirot realized with a momentary flicker of amusement that he had not made himself popular by his critical attitude. Linnet was used to unqualified admiration of all she was or did. Hercule Poirot had sinned noticeably against this creed.

Mrs. Allerton, joining him, murmured:

âWhat a difference in that girl! She looked worried and not very happy at Assuan. Today she looks so happy that one might almost be afraid she was fey.â

Before Poirot could respond as he meant, the party was called to order. The official dragoman took charge and the party was led ashore to visit Abu Simbel.

Poirot himself fell into step with Andrew Pennington.

âIt is your first visit to Egyptâyes?â he asked.

âWhy, no, I was here in nineteen twenty-three. That is to say I was in Cairo. Iâve never been this trip up the Nile before.â

âYou came over on the Carmanic, I believeâat least so Madame Doyle was telling me.â

Pennington shot a shrewd glance in his direction.

âWhy, yes, that is so,â he admitted.

âI wondered if you had happened to come across some friends of mine who were aboardâthe Rushington Smiths.â

âI canât recall anyone of that name. The boat was full and we had bad weather. A lot of passengers hardly appeared, and in any case the voyage is so short one doesnât get to know who is on board and who isnât.â

âYes, that is very true. What a pleasant surprise your running into Madame Doyle and her husband. You had no idea they were married?â

âNo. Mrs. Doyle had written me, but the letter was forwarded on and I only received it some days after our unexpected meeting in Cairo.â

âYou have known her for many years, I understand?â

âWhy, I should say I have, Monsieur Poirot. Iâve known Linnet Ridgeway since she was just a cute little thing so highââ He made an illustrating gesture. âHer father and I were lifelong friends. A very remarkable man, Melhuish Ridgewayâand a very successful one.â

âHis daughter comes into a considerable fortune, I understandâ¦Ah, pardonâperhaps it is not delicate what I say there.â

Andrew Pennington seemed slightly amused.

âOh, thatâs pretty common knowledge. Yes, Linnetâs a wealthy woman.â

âI suppose, though, that the recent slump is bound to affect any stocks, however sound they may be?â

Pennington took a moment or two to answer. He said at last: âThat, of course, is true to a certain extent. The position is very difficult in these days.â

Poirot murmured: âI should imagine, however, that Madame Doyle has a keen business head.â

âThat is so. Yes, that is so. Linnet is a clever practical girl.â

They came to a halt. The guide proceeded to instruct them on the subject of the temple built by the great Rameses. The four colossi of Rameses himself, one pair on each side of the entrance, hewn out of the living rock, looked down on the little straggling party of tourists.

Signor Richetti, disdaining the remarks of the dragoman, was busy examining the reliefs of Negro and Syrian captives on the bases of the colossi on either side of the entrance.

When the party entered the temple, a sense of dimness and peace came over them. The still vividly coloured reliefs on some of the inner walls were pointed out, but the party tended to break up into groups.

Dr. Bessner read sonorously in German from a Baedeker, pausing every now and then to translate for the benefit of Cornelia, who walked in a docile manner beside him. This was not to continue, however. Miss Van Schuyler, entering on the arm of the phlegmatic Miss Bowers, uttered a commanding: âCornelia, come here,â and the instruction had perforce to cease. Dr. Bessner beamed after her vaguely through his thick lenses.

âA very nice maiden, that,â he announced to Poirot. âShe does not look so starved as some of these young women. No, she has the nice curves. She listens too very intelligently; it is a pleasure to instruct her.â

It fleeted across Poirotâs mind that it seemed to be Corneliaâs fate either to be bullied or instructed. In any case she was always the listener, never the talker.

Miss Bowers, momentarily released by the peremptory summons of Cornelia, was standing in the middle of the temple, looking about her with her cool, incurious gaze. Her reaction to the wonders of the past was succinct.

âThe guide says the name of one of these gods or goddesses was Mut. Can you beat it?â

There was an inner sanctuary where sat four figures eternally presiding, strangely dignified in their dim aloofness.

Before them stood Linnet and her husband. Her arm was in his, her face liftedâa typical face of the new civilization, intelligent, curious, untouched by the past.

Simon said suddenly: âLetâs get out of here. I donât like these four fellowsâespecially the one in the high hat.â

âThatâs Amon, I suppose. And that one is Rameses. Why donât you like them? I think theyâre very impressive.â

âTheyâre a damned sight too impressive; thereâs something uncanny about them. Come out into the sunlight.â

Linnet laughed but yielded.

They came out of the temple into the sunshine with the sand yellow and warm about their feet. Linnet began to laugh. At their feet in a row, presenting a momentarily gruesome appearance as though sawn from their bodies, were the heads of half a dozen Nubian boys. The eyes rolled, the heads moved rhythmically from side to side, the lips chanted a new invocation:

âHip, hip hurray! Hip, hip hurray! Very good, very nice. Thank you very much.â

âHow absurd! How do they do it? Are they really buried very deep?â

Simon produced some small change.

âVery good, very nice, very expensive,â he mimicked.

Two small boys in charge of the âshowâ picked up the coins neatly.

Linnet and Simon passed on. They had no wish to return to the boat, and they were weary of sightseeing. They settled themselves with their backs to the cliff and let the warm sun bake them through.

âHow lovely the sun is,â thought Linnet. âHow warmâhow safeâ¦How lovely it is to be happyâ¦How lovely to be meâmeâ¦meâ¦Linnetâ¦.â

Her eyes closed. She was half asleep, half awake, drifting in the midst of thought that was like the sand drifting and blowing.

Simonâs eyes were open. They too held contentment. What a fool heâd been to be rattled that first nightâ¦There was nothing to be rattled aboutâ¦Everything was all rightâ¦After all, one could trust Jackieâ

There was a shoutâpeople running towards him waving their armsâshoutingâ¦.

Simon stared stupidly for a moment. Then he sprang to his feet and dragged Linnet with him.

Not a minute too soon. A big boulder hurtling down the cliff crashed past them. If Linnet had remained where she was she would have been crushed to atoms.

White-faced they clung together. Hercule Poirot and Tim Allerton ran up to them.

âMa foi, Madame, that was a near thing.â

All four instinctively looked up at the cliff. There was nothing to be seen. But there was a path along the top. Poirot remembered seeing some natives walking along there when they had first come ashore.

He looked at the husband and wife. Linnet looked dazed stillâbewildered. Simon, however, was inarticulate with rage.

âGod damn her!â he ejaculated.

He checked himself with a quick glance at Tim Allerton.

The latter said: âPhew, that was near! Did some fool bowl that thing over, or did it get detached on its own?â

Linnet was very pale. She said with difficulty: âI thinkâsome fool must have done it.â

âMight have crushed you like an eggshell. Sure you havenât got an enemy, Linnet?â

Linnet swallowed twice and found a difficulty in answering the lighthearted raillery.

âCome back to the boat, Madame,â Poirot said quickly. âYou must have a restorative.â

They walked quickly, Simon still full of pent-up rage, Tim trying to talk cheerfully and distract Linnetâs mind from the danger she had run, Poirot with a grave face.

And then, just as they reached the gangplank, Simon stopped dead. A look of amazement spread over his face.

Jacqueline de Bellefort was just coming ashore. Dressed in blue gingham, she looked childish this morning.

âGood God!â said Simon under his breath. âSo it was an accident, after all.â

The anger went out of his face. An overwhelming relief showed so plainly that Jacqueline noticed something amiss.

âGood morning,â she said. âIâm afraid Iâm a little on the late side.â

She gave them all a nod and stepped ashore and proceeded in the direction of the temple.

Simon clutched Poirotâs arm. The other two had gone on.

âMy God, thatâs a relief. I thoughtâI thoughtââ

Poirot nodded. âYes, yes, I know what you thought.â But he himself still looked grave and preoccupied. He turned his head and noted carefully what had become of the rest of the party from the ship.

Miss Van Schuyler was slowly returning on the arm of Miss Bowers.

A little farther away Mrs. Allerton was standing laughing at the little Nubian row of heads. Mrs. Otterbourne was with her.

The others were nowhere in sight.

Poirot shook his head as he followed Simon slowly on to the boat.

Eleven

âWill you explain to me, Madame, the meaning of the word âfeyâ?â

Mrs. Allerton looked slightly surprised. She and Poirot were toiling slowly up to the rock overlooking the Second Cataract. Most of the others had gone up on camels, but Poirot had felt that the motion of the camel was slightly reminiscent of that of a ship. Mrs. Allerton had put it on the grounds of personal indignity.

They had arrived at Wadi Halfa the night before. This morning two launches had conveyed all the party to the Second Cataract, with the exception of Signor Richetti, who had insisted on making an excursion of his own to a remote spot called Semna, which, he explained, was of paramount interest as being the gateway of Nubia in the time of Amenemhet III, and where there was a stele recording the fact that on entering Egypt Negroes must pay customs duties. Everything had been done to discourage this example of individuality, but with no avail. Signor Richetti was determined and had waved aside each objection: (1) that the expedition was not worth making, (2) that the expedition could not be made, owing to the impossibility of getting a car there, (3) that no car could be obtained to do the trip, (4) that a car would be a prohibitive price. Having scoffed at (1), expressed incredulity at (2), offered to find a car himself to (3), and bargained fluently in Arabic for (4), Signor Richetti had at last departedâhis departure being arranged in a secret and furtive manner, in case some of the other tourists should take it into their heads to stray from the appointed paths of sightseeing.

âFey?â Mrs. Allerton put her head on one side as she considered her reply. âWell, itâs a Scotch word, really. It means the kind of exalted happiness that comes before disaster. You knowâitâs too good to be true.â

She enlarged on the theme. Poirot listened attentively.

âI thank you, Madame. I understand now. It is odd that you should have said that yesterdayâwhen Madame Doyle was to escape death so shortly afterwards.â

Mrs. Allerton gave a little shiver.

âIt must have been a very near escape. Do you think some of these little black wretches rolled it over for fun? Itâs the sort of thing boys might do all over the worldânot perhaps really meaning any harm.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âIt may be, Madame.â

He changed the subject, talking of Majorca and asking various practical questions from the point of view of a possible visit.

Mrs. Allerton had grown to like the little man very muchâpartly perhaps out of a contradictory spirit. Tim, she felt, was always trying to make her less friendly to Hercule Poirot, whom he summarized firmly as âthe worst kind of bounder.â But she herself did not call him a bounder; she supposed it was his somewhat foreign exotic clothing which roused her sonâs prejudices. She herself found him an intelligent and stimulating companion. He was also extremely sympathetic. She found herself suddenly confiding in him her dislike of Joanna Southwood. It eased her to talk of the matter. And after all, why not? He did not know Joannaâwould probably never meet her. Why should she not ease herself of that constantly borne burden of jealous thought?

At the same moment Tim and Rosalie Otterbourne were talking of her. Tim had just been half jestingly abusing his luck. His rotten health, never bad enough to be really interesting, yet not good enough for him to have led the life he would have chosen. Very little money, no congenial occupation.

âA thoroughly lukewarm, tame existence,â he finished discontentedly.

Rosalie said abruptly, âYouâve got something heaps of people would envy you.â

âWhatâs that?â

âYour mother.â

Tim was surprised and pleased.

âMother? Yes, of course she is quite unique. Itâs nice of you to see it.â

âI think sheâs marvellous. She looks so lovelyâso composed and calmâas though nothing could ever touch her, and yetâand yet somehow sheâs always ready to be funny about things tooâ¦.â

Rosalie was stammering slightly in her earnestness.

Tim felt a rising warmth to the girl. He wished he could return the compliment, but lamentably, Mrs. Otterbourne was his idea of the worldâs greatest menace. The inability to respond in kind made him embarrassed.

Miss Van Schuyler had stayed in the launch. She could not risk the ascent either on a camel or on her legs. She had said snappily:

âIâm sorry to have to ask you to stay with me, Miss Bowers. I intended you to go and Cornelia to stay, but girls are so selfish. She rushed off without a word to me. And I actually saw her talking to that very unpleasant and ill-bred young man, Ferguson. Cornelia has disappointed me sadly. She has absolutely no social sense.â

Miss Bowers replied in her usual matter-of-fact fashion:

âThatâs quite all right, Miss Van Schuyler. It would have been a hot walk up there, and I donât fancy the look of those saddles on the camels. Fleas, as likely as not.â

She adjusted her glasses, screwed up her eyes to look at the party descending the hill and remarked: âMiss Robson isnât with that young man anymore. Sheâs with Dr. Bessner.â

Miss Van Schuyler grunted.

Since she had discovered that Dr. Bessner had a large clinic in Czechoslovakia and a European reputation as a fashionable physician, she was disposed to be gracious to him. Besides she might need his professional services before the journey was over.

When the party returned to the Karnak Linnet gave a cry of surprise.

âA telegram for me.â

She snatched it off the board and tore it open.

âWhyâI donât understandâpotatoes, beetrootsâwhat does it mean, Simon?â

Simon was just coming to look over her shoulder when a furious voice said: âExcuse me, that telegram is for me,â 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.

âOh, Simon, what a fool I am! Itâs Richettiânot Ridgewayâand anyway of course my name isnât Ridgeway now. I must apologize.â

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

âI am so sorry, Signor Richetti. You see my name was Ridgeway before I married, and I havenât been married very long, and soâ¦.â

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

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

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, âThese Italians are really insupportable.â

âNever mind, darling; letâs go and look at that big ivory crocodile you liked.â

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.

âThey donât care anymore.â The words came low and fast. âTheyâve got beyond me. I canât reach themâ¦They donât mind if Iâm here or notâ¦I canâtâI canât hurt them anymoreâ¦.â

Her hands on the rail trembled.

âMademoiselleââ

She broke in: âOh, itâs too late nowâtoo late for warningsâ¦You were right. I ought not to have come. Not on this journey. What did you call it? A journey of the soul? I canât go back; Iâve got to go on. And Iâm going on. They shanât be happy together; they shanât. Iâd kill him soonerâ¦.â

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

âYour girl friend seems a trifle upset, Monsieur Poirot.â Poirot turned. He stared in surprise, seeing an old acquaintance.

âColonel Race.â

The tall bronzed man smiled.

âBit of a surprise, eh?â

Hercule Poirot had come across Colonel Race a year previously in London. They had been fellow guests at a very strange dinner partyâa 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.

âSo you are here at Wadi Halfa,â he remarked thoughtfully.

âI am here on this boat.â

âYou mean?â

âThat I am making the return journey with you to Shellal.â

Hercule Poirotâs eyebrows rose.

âThat is very interesting. Shall we, perhaps, have a little drink?â

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.

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

Colonel Raceâs face creased appreciatively.

âYouâre right on the spot as usual, Monsieur Poirot,â he said pleasantly.

âIt is, then, the passengers?â

âOne of the passengers.â

âNow which one, I wonder?â Hercule Poirot asked of the ornate ceiling.

âUnfortunately I donât know myself,â said Race ruefully.

Poirot looked interested.

Race said: âThereâs no need to be mysterious to you. Weâve had a good deal of trouble out hereâone way and another. It isnât the people who ostensibly lead the rioters that weâre after. Itâs the men who very cleverly put the match to the gunpowder. There were three of them. Oneâs dead. Oneâs in prison. I want the third manâa man with five or six cold-blooded murders to his credit. Heâs one of the cleverest paid agitators that ever existedâ¦Heâs on this boat. I know that from a passage in a letter that passed through our hands. Decoded it said: âX will be on the Karnak trip seventh to thirteenth.â It didnât say under what name X would be passing.â

âHave you any description of him?â

âNo. American, Irish, and French descent. Bit of a mongrel. That doesnât help us much. Have you got any ideas?â

âAn ideaâit is all very well,â 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: âThere passes itself something on this boat that causes me much inquietude.â

Race looked at him inquiringly.

âFigure to yourself,â said Poirot, âa person A who has grievously wronged a person B. The person B desires the revenge. The person B makes the threats.â

âA and B being both on this boat?â

Poirot nodded. âPrecisely.â

âAnd B, I gather, being a woman?â

âExactly.â

Race lit a cigarette.

âI shouldnât worry. People who go about talking of what they are going to do donât usually do it.â

âAnd particularly is that the case with les femmes, you would say! Yes, that is true.â

But he still did not look happy.

âAnything else?â asked Race.

âYes, 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.â

âEngineered by B?â

âNo, that is just the point. B could have had nothing to do with it.â

âThen it was an accident.â

âI suppose soâbut I donât like such accidents.â

âYouâre quite sure B could have had no hand in it?â

âAbsolutely.â

âOh, well, coincidences do happen. Who is A, by the way? A particularly disagreeable person?â

âOn the contrary. A is a charming, rich, and beautiful young lady.â

Race grinned.

âSounds quite like a novelette.â

âPeut-Ãªtre. 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 rightââRace smiled into his moustache at this typical utteranceââthen 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.â

âHe doesnât usually kill charming young ladies.â

Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

âI am afraid, my friend,â he said. âI am afraidâ¦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.â

âArenât you taking rather a gloomy view?â

Poirot shook his head.

âI am afraid,â he said simply. âYes, I, Hercule Poirot, Iâm afraidâ¦.â

Twelve

I

Cornelia Robson stood inside the temple of Abu Simbel. It was the evening of the following dayâa 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.

âWhy, you see it ever so much better now!â she exclaimed. âAll those enemies having their heads cut off by the Kingâthey just stand right out. Thatâs a cute kind of castle there that I never noticed before. I wish Dr. Bessner was here, heâd tell me what it was.â

âHow you can stand that old fool beats me,â said Ferguson gloomily.

âWhy, heâs just one of the kindest men Iâve ever met.â

âPompous old bore.â

âI donât think you ought to speak that way.â

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

âWhy do you stick being bored by fat old menâand bullied and snubbed by a vicious old harridan?â

âWhy, Mr. Ferguson!â

âHavenât you got any spirit? Donât you know youâre just as good as she is?â

âBut Iâm not!â Cornelia spoke with honest conviction.

âYouâre not as rich; thatâs all you mean.â

âNo, it isnât. Cousin Marieâs very cultured, andââ

âCultured!â The young man let go of her arm as suddenly as he had taken it. âThat word makes me sick.â

Cornelia looked at him in alarm.

âShe doesnât like you talking to me, does she?â asked the young man.

Cornelia blushed and looked embarrassed.

âWhy? Because she thinks Iâm not her social equal! Pah! Doesnât that make you see red?â

Cornelia faltered out: âI wish you wouldnât get so mad about things.â

âDonât you realizeâand you an Americanâthat everyone is born free and equal?â

âTheyâre not,â said Cornelia with calm certainty.

âMy good girl, itâs part of your constitution!â

âCousin Marie says politicians arenât gentlemen,â said Cornelia. âAnd of course people arenât equal. It doesnât make sense. I know Iâm kind of homely-looking, and I used to feel mortified about it sometimes, but Iâve got over that. Iâd like to have been born elegant and beautiful like Mrs. Doyle, but I wasnât, so I guess itâs no use worrying.â

âMrs. Doyle!â exclaimed Ferguson with deep contempt. âSheâs the sort of woman who ought to be shot as an example.â

Cornelia looked at him anxiously.

âI believe itâs your digestion,â she said kindly. âIâve got a special kind of pepsin that Cousin Marie tried once. Would you like to try it?â

Mr. Ferguson said: âYouâre impossible!â

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

âYouâre the nicest person on the boat,â he said. âAnd mind you remember it.â

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

Cornelia said guiltily: âI do hope I havenât been a long time, Cousin Marie.â

Glancing at her watch, the old lady snapped: âYou havenât exactly hurried, my dear. And what have you done with my velvet stole?â

Cornelia looked round.

âShall I see if itâs in the cabin, Cousin Marie?â

âOf course it isnât! I had it just after dinner in here, and I havenât moved out of the place. It was on that chair.â

Cornelia made a desultory search.

âI canât see it anywhere, Cousin Marie.â

âNonsense!â said Miss Van Schuyler. âLook about.â 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: âI 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.â

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.

âPardon, Mademoiselle.â

She said: âYou look sleepy, Monsieur Poirot.â

He admitted it frankly:

âMais ouiâI am consumed with sleep. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It has been a day very close and oppressive.â

âYes.â She seemed to brood over it. âItâs been the sort of day when thingsâsnap! Break! When one canât go onâ¦.â

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

Suddenly the tension relaxed. She said: âGood night, Monsieur Poirot.â

âGood night, Mademoiselle.â

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 Schuylerâs 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.

âBeen ashore?â she asked.

âYes. I thought it was just fascinating in the moonlight.â

Jacqueline nodded.

âYes, lovely nightâ¦A real honeymoon night.â

Her eyes went to the bridge tableârested 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: âSimon, weâre waiting for you to call.â

Jacqueline hummed a little tune to herself. When the drink came, she picked it up, said: âWell, hereâs to crime,â 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:

âHe was her man and he did her wrongâ¦.â

âSorry,â said Simon to Pennington. âStupid of me not to return your lead. That gives âem rubber.â

Linnet rose to her feet.

âIâm sleepy. I think Iâll go to bed.â

âAbout time to turn in,â said Colonel Race.

âIâm with you,â agreed Pennington.

âComing, Simon?â

Doyle said slowly: âNot just yet. I think Iâll have a drink first.â

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

Cornelia began to gather up her embroidery.

âDonât go to bed, Miss Robson,â said Jacqueline. âPlease donât. I feel like making a night of it. Donât desert me.â

Cornelia sat down again.

âWe girls must stick together,â said Jacqueline.

She threw back her head and laughedâa shrill laugh without merriment.

The second drink came.

âHave something,â said Jacqueline.

âNo, thank you very much,â replied Cornelia.

Jacqueline tilted back her chair. She hummed now loudly: âHe was her man and he did her wrongâ¦.â

Mr. Fanthorp turned a page of Europe from Within.

Simon Doyle picked up a magazine.

âReally, I think Iâll go to bed,â said Cornelia. âItâs getting very late.â

âYou canât go to bed yet,â Jacqueline declared. âI forbid you to. Tell me about yourself.â

âWellâI donât know. There isnât much to tell,â Cornelia faltered. âIâve just lived at home, and I havenât been around much. This is my first trip to Europe. Iâm just loving every minute of it.â

Jacqueline laughed.

âYouâre a happy sort of person, arenât you? God, Iâd like to be you.â

âOh, would you? But I meanâIâm sureââ

Cornelia felt flustered. Undoubtedly Miss de Bellefort was drinking too much. That wasnât exactly a novelty to Cornelia. She had seen plenty of drunkenness during Prohibition years. But there was something elseâ¦Jacqueline de Bellefort was talking to herâwas looking at herâand yet, Cornelia felt, it was as though, somehow, she was talking to someone elseâ¦.

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 oddâa queer sort of watchful look on his face.

Jacqueline said again: âTell me all about yourself.â

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.

âGo onâtell me more.â

And so Cornelia went on (âOf course, Motherâs very delicateâsome days she touches nothing but cerealsââ) unhappily conscious that all she said was supremely uninteresting, yet flattered by the other girlâs seeming interest. But was she interested? Wasnât she, somehow, listening to something elseâor, perhaps, for something else? She was looking at Cornelia, yes, but wasnât there someone else, sitting in the room?

âAnd of course we get very good art classes, and last winter I had a course ofââ

(How late was it? Surely very late. She had been talking and talking. If only something definite would happenâ)

And immediately, as though in answer to her wish, something did happen. Only, at that moment, it seemed very natural.

Jacqueline turned her head and spoke to Simon Doyle.

âRing the bell, Simon. I want another drink.â

Simon Doyle looked up from his magazine and said quietly: âThe stewards have gone to bed. Itâs after midnight.â

âI tell you I want another drink.â

Simon said: âYouâve had quite enough to drink, Jackie.â

She swung round at him.

âWhat damned business is it of yours?â

He shrugged his shoulders, âNone.â

She watched him for a minute or two. Then she said: âWhatâs the matter, Simon? Are you afraid?â

Simon did not answer. Rather elaborately he picked up his magazine again.

Cornelia murmured: âOh, dearâas late as thatâIâmustââ

She began to fumble, dropped a thimbleâ¦.

Jacqueline said: âDonât go to bed. Iâd like another woman hereâto support me.â She began to laugh again. âDo you know what Simon over there is afraid of? Heâs afraid Iâm going to tell you the story of my life.â

âOh, really?â

Cornelia was the prey of conflicting emotions. She was deeply embarrassed but at the same time pleasurably thrilled. Howâhow black Simon Doyle was looking.

âYes, itâs a very sad story,â said Jacqueline; her soft voice was low and mocking. âHe treated me rather badly, didnât you, Simon?â

Simon Doyle said brutally: âGo to bed, Jackie. Youâre drunk.â

âIf youâre embarrassed, Simon dear, youâd better leave the room.â

Simon Doyle looked at her. The hand that held the magazine shook a little, but he spoke bluntly.

âIâm staying,â he said.

Cornelia murmured for the third time, âI really mustâitâs so lateââ

âYouâre not to go,â said Jacqueline. Her hand shot out and held the other girl in her chair. âYouâre to stay and hear what Iâve go to say.â

âJackie,â said Simon sharply, âyouâre making a fool of yourself! For Godâs sake, go to bed.â

Jacqueline sat up suddenly in her chair. Words poured from her rapidly in a soft hissing stream.

âYouâre afraid of a scene, arenât you? Thatâs because youâre so Englishâso reticent! You want me to behave âdecently,â donât you? But I donât care whether I behave decently or not! Youâd better get out of here quicklyâbecause Iâm going to talkâa lot.â

Jim Fanthorp carefully shut his book, yawned, glanced at his watch, got up and strolled out. It was a very British and utterly unconvincing performance.

Jacqueline swung round in her chair and glared at Simon.

âYou damned fool,â she said thickly, âdo you think you can treat me as you have done and get away with it?â

Simon Doyle opened his lips, then shut them again. He sat quite still as though he were hoping that her outburst would exhaust itself if he said nothing to provoke her further.

Jacquelineâs voice came thick and blurred. It fascinated Cornelia, totally unused to naked emotions of any kind.

âI told you,â said Jacqueline, âthat Iâd kill you sooner than see you go to another womanâ¦You donât think I meant that? Youâre wrong. Iâve only beenâwaiting! Youâre my man! Do you hear? You belong to meâ¦.â

Still Simon did not speak. Jacquelineâs hand fumbled a moment or two on her lap. She leant forward.

âI told you Iâd kill you and I meant itâ¦â Her hand came up suddenly with something in it that flashed and gleamed. âIâll shoot you like a dogâlike the dirty dog you areâ¦.â

Now at last Simon acted. He sprang to his feet, but at the same moment she pulled the triggerâ¦.

Simon fell twistedâfell across a chairâ¦Cornelia screamed and rushed to the door. Jim Fanthorp was on the deck leaning over the rail. She called to him.

âMr. Fanthorpâ¦Mr. Fanthorpâ¦.â

He ran to her; she clutched at him incoherentlyâ¦.

âSheâs shot himâOh! sheâs shot himâ¦.â

Simon Doyle still lay as he had fallen half into and across a chairâ¦Jacqueline stood as though paralysed. She was trembling violently, and her eyes, dilated and frightened, were staring at the crimson stain slowly soaking through Simonâs trouser leg just below the knee where he held a handkerchief close against the wound.

She stammered out:

âI didnât meanâ¦Oh, my God, I didnât really meanâ¦.â

The pistol dropped from her nervous fingers with a clatter on the floor. She kicked it away with her foot. It slid under one of the settees.

Simon, his voice faint, murmured: âFanthorp, for heavenâs sakeâthereâs someone comingâ¦Say itâs all rightâan accidentâsomething. There mustnât be a scandal over this.â

Fanthorp nodded in quick comprehension. He wheeled round to the door where a startled Nubian face showed. He said: âAll rightâall right! Just fun!â

The black face looked doubtful, puzzled, then reassured. The teeth showed in a wide grin. The boy nodded and went off.

Fanthorp turned back.

âThatâs all right. Donât think anybody else heard. Only sounded like a cork, you know. Now the next thingââ

He was startled. Jacqueline suddenly began to weep hysterically.

âOh, God, I wish I were deadâ¦Iâll kill myself.

Iâll be better deadâ¦Oh, what have I doneâwhat have I done?â

Cornelia hurried to her.

âHush, dear, hush.â

Simon, his brow wet, his face twisted with pain, said urgently:

âGet her away. For Godâs sake, get her out of here! Get her to her cabin, Fanthorp. Look here, Miss Robson, get that hospital nurse of yours.â He looked appealingly from one to the other of them. âDonât leave her. Make quite sure sheâs safe with the nurse looking after her. Then get hold of old Bessner and bring him here. For Godâs sake, donât let any news of this get to my wife.â

Jim Fanthorp nodded comprehendingly. The quiet young man was cool and competent in an emergency.

Between them, he and Cornelia got the weeping, struggling girl out of the saloon and along the deck to her cabin. There they had more trouble with her. She fought to free herself; her sobs redoubled.

âIâll drown myselfâ¦Iâll drown myselfâ¦.

Iâm not fit to liveâ¦Oh, SimonâSimon!â

Fanthorp said to Cornelia: âBetter get hold of Miss Bowers. Iâll stay while you get her.â

Cornelia nodded and hurried out.

As soon as she left, Jacqueline clutched Fanthorp.

âHis legâitâs bleedingâbrokenâ¦He may bleed to death. I must go to himâ¦Oh, SimonâSimonâhow could I?â

Her voice rose. Fanthorp said urgently: âQuietlyâquietlyâ¦Heâll be all right.â

She began to struggle again.

âLet me go! Let me throw myself overboardâ¦Let me kill myself!â

Fanthorp holding her by the shoulders forced her back on to the bed.

âYou must stay here. Donât make a fuss. Pull yourself together. Itâs all right, I tell you.â

To his relief, the distraught girl did manage to control herself a little, but he was thankful when the curtains were pushed aside and the efficient Miss Bowers, neatly dressed in a hideous kimono, entered, accompanied by Cornelia.

âNow then,â said Miss Bowers briskly, âwhatâs all this?â

She took charge without any sign of surprise and alarm.

Fanthorp thankfully left the overwrought girl in her capable hands and hurried along to the cabin occupied by Dr. Bessner. He knocked and entered on top of the knock.

âDr. Bessner?â

A terrific snore resolved itself, and a startled voice asked: âSo? What is it?â

By this time Fanthorp had switched the light on. The doctor blinked up at him, looking rather like a large owl.

âItâs Doyle. Heâs been shot. Miss de Bellefort shot him. Heâs in the saloon. Can you come?â

The stout doctor reacted promptly. He asked a few curt questions, pulled on his bedroom slippers and a dressing-gown, picked up a little case of necessaries and accompanied Fanthorp to the lounge.

Simon had managed to get the window beside him open. He was leaning his head against it, inhaling the air. His face was a ghastly colour.

Dr. Bessner came over to him.

âHa? So? What have we here?â

A handkerchief sodden with blood lay on the carpet, and on the carpet itself was a dark stain.

The doctorâs examination was punctuated with Teutonic grunts and exclamations.

âYes, it is bad thisâ¦The bone is fractured. And a big loss of blood. Herr Fanthorp, you and I must get him to my cabin. Soâlike this. He cannot walk. We must carry him, thus.â

As they lifted him Cornelia appeared in the doorway. Catching sight of her, the doctor uttered a grunt of satisfaction.

âAch, it is you? Goot. Come with us. I have need of assistance. You will be better than my friend here. He looks a little pale already.â

Fanthorp emitted a rather sickly smile.

âShall I get Miss Bowers?â he asked.

âYou will do very well, young lady,â he announced. âYou will not faint or be foolish, hein?â

âI can do what you tell me,â said Cornelia eagerly.

Bessner nodded in a satisfied fashion.

The procession passed along the deck.

The next ten minutes were purely surgical and Mr. Jim Fanthorp did not enjoy it at all. He felt secretly ashamed of the superior fortitude exhibited by Cornelia.

âSo, that is the best I can do,â announced Dr. Bessner at last. âYou have been a hero, my friend.â He patted Simon approvingly on the shoulder. Then he rolled up his sleeve and produced a hypodermic needle.

âAnd now I will give you something to make you sleep. Your wife, what about her?â

Simon said weakly: âShe neednât know till the morningâ¦â He went on: âIâyou mustnât blame Jackieâ¦Itâs been all my fault. I treated her disgracefullyâ¦poor kidâshe didnât know what she was doingâ¦.â

Dr. Bessner nodded comprehendingly.

âYes, yesâI understandâ¦.â

âMy faultââ Simon urged. His eyes went to Cornelia. âSomeoneâought to stay with her. She mightâhurt herselfââ

Dr. Bessner injected the needle. Cornelia said, with quiet competence: Itâs all right, Mr. Doyle. Miss Bowers is going to stay with her all nightâ¦.â

A grateful look flashed over Simonâs face. His body relaxed. His eyes closed. Suddenly he jerked them open. âFanthorp?â

âYes, Doyle.â

âThe pistolâ¦ought not to leave itâ¦lying about. The boys will find it in the morningâ¦.â

Fanthorp nodded. âQuite right. Iâll go and get hold of it now.â

He went out of the cabin and along the deck. Miss Bowers appeared at the door of Jacquelineâs cabin.

âSheâll be all right now,â she announced.

âIâve given her a morphine injection.â

âBut youâll stay with her?â

âOh, yes. Morphia excites some people. I shall stay all night.â

Fanthorp went on to the lounge.

Some three minutes later there was a tap on Bessnerâs cabin door.

âDr. Bessner?â

âYes?â The stout man appeared.

Fanthorp beckoned him out on the deck.

âLook hereâI canât find that pistolâ¦.â

âWhat is that?â

âThe pistol. It dropped out of the girlâs hand. She kicked it away and it went under a settee. It isnât under that settee now.â

They stared at each other.

âBut who can have taken it?â

Fanthorp shrugged his shoulders.

Bessner said: âIt is curious, that. But I do not see what we can do about it.â

Puzzled and vaguely alarmed, the two men separated.

Thirteen

Hercule Poirot was just wiping the lather from his freshly shaved face when there was a quick tap on the door, and hard on top of it Colonel Race entered unceremoniously. He closed the door behind him.

He said: âYour instinct was quite correct. Itâs happened.â

Poirot straightened up and asked sharply: âWhat has happened?â

âLinnet Doyleâs deadâshot through the head last night.â

Poirot was silent for a minute, two memories vividly before himâa girl in a garden at Assuan saying in a hard breathless voice: âIâd like to put my dear little pistol against her head and just press the trigger,â and another more recent memory, the same voice saying: âOne feels one canât go onâthe kind of day when something breaksââand that strange momentary flash of appeal in her eyes. What had been the matter with him not to respond to that appeal? He had been blind, deaf, stupid with his need for sleepâ¦.

Race went on: âIâve got some slight official standing; they sent for me, put it in my hands. The boatâs due to start in half an hour, but it will be delayed till I give the word. Thereâs a possibility, of course, that the murderer came from the shore.â

Poirot shook his head.

Race acquiesced in the gesture.

âI agree. One can pretty well rule that out. Well, man, itâs up to you. This is your show.â

Poirot had been attiring himself with a neat-fingered celerity. He said now: âI am at your disposal.â

The two men stepped out on the deck.

Race said: âBessner should be there by now. I sent the steward for him.â

There were four cabins de luxe, with bathrooms, on the boat. Of the two on the port side one was occupied by Dr. Bessner, the other by Andrew Pennington. On the starboard side the first was occupied by Miss Van Schuyler, and the one next to it by Linnet Doyle. Her husbandâs dressing cabin was next door.

A white-faced steward was standing outside the door of Linnet Doyleâs cabin. He opened the door for them and they passed inside. Dr. Bessner was bending over the bed. He looked up and grunted as the other two entered.

âWhat can you tell us, Doctor, about this business?â asked Race.

Bessner rubbed his unshaven jaw meditatively.

âAch! She was shotâshot at close quarters. Seeâhere just above the earâthat is where the bullet entered. A very little bulletâI should say a twenty-two. The pistol, it was held close against her head, see, there is blackening here, the skin is scorched.â

Again in a sick wave of memory Poirot thought of those words uttered in Assuan.

Bessner went on: âShe was asleep; there was no struggle; the murderer crept up in the dark and shot her as she lay there.â

âAh! non!â Poirot cried out. His sense of psychology was outraged. Jacqueline de Bellefort creeping into a darkened cabin, pistol in handâno, it did not âfit,â that picture.

Bessner stared at him with his thick lenses.

âBut that is what happened, I tell you.â

âYes, yes. I did not mean what you thought. I was not contradicting you.â

Bessner gave a satisfied grunt.

Poirot came up and stood beside him. Linnet Doyle was lying on her side. Her attitude was natural and peaceful. But above the ear was a tiny hole with an incrustation of dried blood round it.

Poirot shook his head sadly.

Then his gaze fell on the white painted wall just in front of him and he drew in his breath sharply. Its white neatness was marred by a big wavering letter J scrawled in some brownish-red medium.

Poirot stared at it, then he leaned over the dead girl and very gently picked up her right hand. One finger of it was stained a brownish-red.

âNon dâun nom dâun nom!â ejaculated Hercule Poirot.

âEh? What is that?â

Dr. Bessner looked up.

âAch! That.â

Race said: âWell, Iâm damned. What do you make of that, Poirot?â

Poirot swayed a little on his toes.

âYou ask me what I make of it. Eh bien, it is very simple, is it not? Madame Doyle is dying; she wishes to indicate her murderer, and so she writes with her finger, dipped in her own blood, the initial letter of her murdererâs name. Oh, yes, it is astonishingly simple.â

âAch, butââ

Dr. Bessner was about to break out, but a peremptory gesture from Race silenced him.

âSo it strikes you that?â he asked slowly.

Poirot turned round on him nodding his head.

âYes, yes. It is, as I say, of an astonishing simplicity! It is so familiar, is it not? It has been done so often, in the pages of the romance of crime! It is now, indeed, a little vieux jeu! It leads one to suspect that our murderer isâold-fashioned!â

âCâest de lâenfantillage,â agreed Poirot.

âBut it was done with a purpose,â suggested Race.

âThatânaturally,â agreed Poirot, and his face was grave.

âWhat does J stand for?â asked Race.

Poirot replied promptly: âJ stands for Jacqueline de Bellefort, a young lady who declared to me less than a week ago that she would like nothing better than toââ he paused and then deliberately quoted, ââto put my dear little pistol close against her head and then just press with my fingerâââ

âGott im Himmelâ exclaimed Dr. Bessner.

There was a momentary silence. Then Race drew a deep breath and said: âWhich is just what was done here?â

Bessner nodded.

âThat is so, yes. It was a pistol of very small calibreâas I say, probably a twenty-two. The bullet has got to be extracted, of course, before we can say definitely.â

Race nodded in swift comprehension. Then he asked: âWhat about time of death?â

Bessner stroked his jaw again. His fingers made a rasping sound.

âI would not care to be too precise. It is now eight oâclock. I will say, with due regard to the temperature last night, that she has been dead certainly six hours and probably not longer than eight.â

âThat puts it between midnight and two a.m.â

âThat is so.â

There was a pause. Race looked around.

âWhat about her husband? I suppose he sleeps in the cabin next door.â

âAt the moment,â said Dr. Bessner, âhe is asleep in my cabin.â Both men looked very surprised.

Bessner nodded his head several times.

âAch, so. I see you have not been told about that. Mr. Doyle was shot last night in the saloon.â

âShot? By whom?â

âBy the young lady, Jacqueline de Bellefort.â

Race asked sharply, âIs he badly hurt?â

âYes, the bone is splintered. I have done all that is possible at the moment, but it is necessary, you understand, that the fracture should be X-rayed as soon as possible and proper treatment given such as is impossible on this boat.â

Poirot murmured: âJacqueline de Bellefort.â

His eyes went again to the J on the wall.

Race said abruptly: âIf there is nothing more we can do here for the moment, letâs go below. The management has put the smoking room at our disposal. We must get the details of what happened last night.â

They left the cabin. Race locked the door and took the key with him.

âWe can come back later,â he said. âThe first thing to do is to get all the facts clear.â

They went down to the deck below, where they found the manager of the Karnak waiting uneasily in the doorway of the smoking room. The poor man was terribly upset and worried over the whole business, and was eager to leave everything in Colonel Raceâs hands.

âI feel I canât do better than leave it to you, sir, seeing your official position. Iâd had orders to put myself at your disposal in theâerâother matter. If you will take charge, Iâll see that everything is done as you wish.â

âGood man! To begin with Iâd like this room kept clear for me and Monsieur Poirot during this inquiry.â

âCertainly, sir.â

âThatâs all at present. Go on with your own work. I know where to find you.â

Looking slightly relieved, the manager left the room.

Race said, âSit down, Bessner, and letâs have the whole story of what happened last night.â

They listened in silence to the doctorâs rumbling voice.

âClear enough,â said Race, when he had finished. âThe girl worked herself up, helped by a drink or two, and finally took a pot shot at the man with a twenty-two pistol. Then she went along to Linnet Doyleâs cabin and shot her as well.â

But Dr. Bessner was shaking his head.

âNo, no, I do not think so. I do not think that was possible. For one thing she would not write her own initial on the wall; it would be ridiculous, nicht wahr?â

âShe might,â Race declared, âif she were as blindly mad and jealous as she sounds; she might want toâwellâsign her name to the crime, so to speak.â

Poirot shook his head. âNo, no, I do not think she would be asâas crude as that.â

âThen thereâs only one reason for that J. It was put there by someone else deliberately to throw suspicion on her.â

Bessner nodded. âYes, and the criminal was unlucky, because, you see, it is not only unlikely that the young FrÃ¤ulein did the murder; it is also I think impossible.â

âHowâs that?â

Bessner explained Jacquelineâs hysterics and the circumstances which had led Miss Bowers to take charge of her.

âAnd I thinkâI am sureâthat Miss Bowers stayed with her all night.â

Race said: âIf thatâs so, itâs going to simplify matters very much.â

âWho discovered the crime?â Poirot asked.

âMrs. Doyleâs maid, Louise Bourget. She went to call her mistress as usual, found her dead, and came out and flopped into the stewardâs arms in a dead faint. He went to the manager, who came to me. I got hold of Bessner and then came for you.â

Poirot nodded.

Race said: âDoyleâs got to know. You say heâs asleep still?â

Bessner nodded. âYes, heâs still asleep in my cabin. I gave him a strong opiate last night.â

Race turned to Poirot.

âWell,â he said, âI donât think we need detain the doctor any longer, eh? Thank you, Doctor.â

Bessner rose. âI will have my breakfast, yes. And then I will go back to my cabin and see if Mr. Doyle is ready to wake.â

âThanks.â

Bessner went out. The two men looked at each other.

âWell, what about it, Poirot?â Race asked. âYouâre the man in charge. Iâll take my orders from you. You say whatâs to be done.â

Poirot bowed.

âEh bien!â he said, âwe must hold the court of inquiry. First of all, I think we must verify the story of the affair last night. That is to say, we must question Fanthorp and Miss Robson, who were the actual witnesses of what occurred. The disappearance of the pistol is very significant.â

Race rang a bell and sent a message by the steward.

Poirot sighed and shook his head. âIt is bad, this,â he murmured. âIt is bad.â

âHave you any ideas?â asked Race curiously.

âMy ideas conflict. They are not well arranged; they are not orderly. There is, you see, the big fact that this girl hated Linnet Doyle and wanted to kill her.â

âYou think sheâs capable of it?â

âI think soâyes.â Poirot sounded doubtful.

âBut not in this way? Thatâs whatâs worrying you, isnât it? Not to creep into her cabin in the dark and shoot her while she was sleeping. Itâs the cold-bloodedness that strikes you as not ringing true.â

âIn a sense, yes.â

âYou think that this girl, Jacqueline de Bellefort, is incapable of a premeditated cold-blooded murder?â

Poirot said slowly: âI am not sure, you see. She would have the brainsâyes. But I doubt if, physically, she could bring herself to do the actâ¦.â

Race nodded. âYes, I seeâ¦Well, according to Bessnerâs story, it would also have been physically impossible.â

âIf that is true it clears the ground considerably. Let us hope it is true.â Poirot paused and then added simply: âI shall be glad if it is so, for I have for that little one much sympathy.â

The door opened and Fanthorp and Cornelia came in. Bessner followed them.

Cornelia gasped out: âIsnât this just awful? Poor, poor Mrs. Doyle! And she was so lovely too. It must have been a real fiend who could hurt her! And poor Mr. Doyle; heâll go half crazy when he knows! Why, even last night he was so frightfully worried lest she should hear about his accident.â

âThat is just what we want you to tell us about, Miss Robson,â said Race. âWe want to know exactly what happened last night.â

Cornelia began a little confusedly, but a question or two from Poirot helped matters.

âAh, yes, I understand. After the bridge, Madame Doyle went to her cabin. Did she really go to her cabin, I wonder?â

âShe did,â said Race. âI actually saw her. I said good night to her at the door.â

âAnd the time?â

âMercy, I couldnât say,â replied Cornelia.

âIt was twenty past eleven,â said Race.

âBien. Then at twenty past eleven, Madame Doyle was alive and well. At that moment there was, in the saloon, who?â

Fanthorp answered: âDoyle was there. And Miss de Bellefort. Myself and Miss Robson.â

âThatâs so,â agreed Cornelia. âMr. Pennington had a drink and then went off to bed.â

âThat was how much later?â

âOh, about three or four minutes.â

âBefore half-past eleven, then?â

âOh, yes.â

âSo that there were left in the saloon you, Mademoiselle Robson, Mademoiselle de Bellefort, Monsieur Doyle, and Monsieur Fanthorp. What were you all doing?â

âMr. Fanthorp was reading a book. Iâd got some embroidery. Miss de Bellefort wasâshe wasââ

Fanthorp came to the rescue. âShe was drinking pretty heavily.â

âYes,â agreed Cornelia. âShe was talking to me mostly and asking me about things at home. And she kept saying thingsâto me mostly, but I think they were kind of meant for Mr. Doyle. He was getting kind of mad at her, but he didnât say anything. I think he thought if he kept quiet she might simmer down.

âBut she didnât?â

Cornelia shook her head.

âI tried to go once or twice, but she made me stay, and I was getting very, very uncomfortable. And then Mr. Fanthorp got up and went outââ

âIt was a little embarrassing,â said Fanthorp. âI thought Iâd make an unobtrusive exit. Miss de Bellefort was clearly working up for a scene.â

âAnd then she pulled out the pistol,â went on Cornelia, âand Mr. Doyle jumped up to try and get it away from her, and it went off and shot him through the leg; and then she began to sob and cryâand I was scared to death and ran out after Mr. Fanthorp, and he came back with me, and Mr. Doyle said not to make a fuss, and one of the Nubian boys heard the noise of the shot and came along, but Mr. Fanthorp told him it was all right; and then we got Jacqueline away to her cabin, and Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her while I got Miss Bowers.â Cornelia paused breathless.

âWhat time was this?â asked Race.

Cornelia said again, âMercy, I donât know,â but Fanthorp answered promptly:

âIt must have been about twenty minutes past twelve. I know that it was actually half-past twelve when I finally got to my cabin.â

âNow let me be quite sure on one or two points,â said Poirot. âAfter Madame Doyle left the saloon, did any of you four leave it?â

âNo.â

âYou are quite certain Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not leave the saloon at all?â

Fanthorp answered promptly: âPositive. Neither Doyle, Miss de Bellefort, Miss Robson, nor myself left the saloon.â

âGood. That establishes the fact that Mademoiselle de Bellefort could not possibly have shot Madame Doyle beforeâlet us sayâtwenty past twelve. Now, Mademoiselle Robson, you went to fetch Mademoiselle Bowers. Was Mademoiselle de Bellefort alone in her cabin during that period?â

âNo. Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her.â

âGood! So far, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has a perfect alibi. Mademoiselle Bowers is the next person to interview, but, before I send for her, I should like to have your opinion on one or two points. Monsieur Doyle, you say, was very anxious that Mademoiselle de Bellefort should not be left alone. Was he afraid, do you think, that she was contemplating some further rash act?â

âThat is my opinion,â said Fanthorp.

âHe was definitely afraid she might attack Madame Doyle?â

âNo.â Fanthorp shook his head. âI donât think that was his idea at all. I think he was afraid she mightâerâdo something rash to herself.â

âSuicide?â

âYes. You see, she seemed completely sobered and heartbroken at what she had done. She was full of self-reproach. She kept saying she would be better dead.â

Cornelia said timidly: âI think he was rather upset about her. He spokeâquite nicely. He said it was all his faultâthat heâd treated her badly. Heâhe was really very nice.â

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. âNow about that pistol,â he went on. âWhat happened to that?â

âShe dropped it,â said Cornelia.

âAnd afterwards?â

Fanthorp explained how he had gone back to search for it, but had not been able to find it.

âAha!â said Poirot. âNow we begin to arrive. Let us, I pray you, be very precise. Describe to me exactly what happened.â

âMiss de Bellefort let it fall. Then she kicked it away from her with her foot.â

âShe sort of hated it,â explained Cornelia. âI know just what she felt.â

âAnd it went under a settee, you say. Now be very careful. Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not recover that pistol before she left the saloon?â

Both Fanthorp and Cornelia were positive on that point.

âPrÃ©cisÃ©ment. I seek only to be very exact, you comprehend. Then we arrive at this point. When Mademoiselle de Bellefort leaves the saloon the pistol is under the settee, and, since Mademoiselle de Bellefort is not left aloneâMonsieur Fanthorp, Mademoiselle Robson or Mademoiselle Bowers being with herâshe has no opportunity to get back the pistol after she left the saloon. What time was it, Monsieur Fanthorp, when you went back to look for it?â

âIt must have been just before half-past twelve.â

âAnd how long would have elapsed between the time you and Dr. Bessner carried Monsieur Doyle out of the saloon until you returned to look for the pistol?â

âPerhaps five minutesâperhaps a little more.â

âThen in that five minutes someone removes that pistol from where it lay out of sight under the settee. That someone was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who was it? It seems highly probable that the person who removed it was the murderer of Madame Doyle. We may assume, too, that the person had overheard or seen something of the events immediately preceding.â

âI donât see how you make that out,â objected Fanthorp.

âBecause,â said Hercule Poirot, âyou have just told us that the pistol was out of sight under the settee. Therefore it is hardly credible that it was discovered by accident. It was taken by someone who knew it was there. Therefore that someone must have assisted at the scene.â

Fanthorp shook his head. âI saw no one when I went out on the deck just before the shot was fired.â

âAh, but you went out by the door on the starboard side.â

âYes. The same side as my cabin.â

âThen if there had been anybody at the port door looking through the glass you would not have seen him?â

âNo,â admitted Fanthorp.

âDid anyone hear the shot except the Nubian boy?â

âNot as far as I know.â

Fanthorp went on: âYou see, the windows in here were all closed. Miss Van Schuyler felt a draught earlier in the evening. The swing doors were shut. I doubt if the shot would be clearly heard. It would only sound like the pop of a cork.â

Race said: âAs far as I know, no one seems to have heard the other shotâthe shot that killed Mrs. Doyle.â

âThat we will inquire into presently,â said Poirot.

âFor the moment we still concern ourselves with Mademoiselle de Bellefort. We must speak to Mademoiselle Bowers. But first, before you goââhe arrested Fanthorp and Cornelia with a gestureââyou will give me a little information about yourselves. Then it will not be necessary to call you again later. You first, Monsieurâyour full name.â

âJames Lechdale Fanthorp.â

âAddress?â

âGlasmore House, Market Donnington, Northamptonshire.â

âYour profession?â

âI am a lawyer.â

âAnd your reasons for visiting this country?â

There was a pause. For the first time the impassive Mr. Fanthorp seemed taken aback. He said at last, almost mumbling the words, âErâpleasure.â

âAha!â said Poirot. âYou take the holiday; that is it, yes?â

âErâyes.â

âVery well, Monsieur Fanthorp. Will you give me a brief account of your own movements last night after the events we have just been narrating?â

âI went straight to bed.â

âThat was atâ?â

âJust after half-past twelve.â

âYour cabin is number twenty-two on the starboard sideâthe one nearest the saloon.â

âYes.â

âI will ask you one more question. Did you hear anythingâanything at allâafter you went to your cabin?â

Fanthorp considered.

âI turned in very quickly. I think I heard a kind of splash just as I was dropping off to sleep. Nothing else.â

âYou heard a kind of splash? Near at hand?â

Fanthorp shook his head.

âReally, I couldnât say. I was half asleep.â

âAnd what time would that be?â

âIt might have been about one oâclock. I canât really say.â

âThank you, Monsieur Fanthorp. That is all.â

Poirot turned his attention to Cornelia.

âAnd now, Mademoiselle Robson. Your full name?â

âCornelia Ruth. And my address is The Red House, Bellfield, Connecticut.â

âWhat brought you to Egypt?â

âCousin Marie, Miss Van Schuyler, brought me along on a trip.â

âHad you ever met Madame Doyle previous to this journey?â

âNo, never.â

âAnd what did you do last night?â

âI went right to bed after helping Dr. Bessner with Mr. Doyleâs leg.â

âYour cabin isâ?â

âForty-three on the port sideâright next door to Miss de Bellefort.â

âAnd did you hear anything?â

Cornelia shook her head. âI didnât hear a thing.â

âNo splash?â

âNo, but then I wouldnât, because the boatâs against the bank on my side.â

Poirot nodded. âThank you, Mademoiselle Robson. Now perhaps you will be so kind as to ask Mademoiselle Bowers to come here.â

Fanthorp and Cornelia went out.

âThat seems clear enough,â said Race. âUnless three independent witnesses are lying, Jacqueline de Bellefort couldnât have got hold of the pistol. But somebody did. And somebody overheard the scene. And somebody was B.F. enough to write a big J on the wall.â

There was a tap on the door and Miss Bowers entered. The hospital nurse sat down in her usual composed efficient manner. In answer to Poirot she gave her name, address, and qualifications, adding: âIâve been looking after Miss Van Schuyler for over two years now.â

âIs Mademoiselle Van Schuylerâs health very bad?â

âWhy, no, I wouldnât say that,â replied Miss Bowers. âSheâs not very young, and sheâs nervous about herself, and she likes to have a nurse around handy. Thereâs nothing serious the matter with her. She just likes plenty of attention, and sheâs willing to pay for it.â

Poirot nodded comprehendingly. Then he said: âI understand that Mademoiselle Robson fetched you last night?â

âWhy, yes, thatâs so.â

âWill you tell me exactly what happened?â

âWell, Miss Robson just gave me a brief outline of what had occurred, and I came along with her. I found Miss de Bellefort in a very excited, hysterical condition.â

âDid she utter any threats against Madame Doyle?â

âNo, nothing of that kind. She was in a condition of morbid self-reproach. Sheâd taken a good deal of alcohol, I should say, and she was suffering from reaction. I didnât think she ought to be left. I gave her a shot of morphia and sat with her.â

âNow, Mademoiselle Bowers, I want you to answer this. Did Mademoiselle de Bellefort leave her cabin at all?â

âNo, she did not.â

âAnd you yourself?â

âI stayed with her until early this morning.â

âYou are quite sure of that?â

âAbsolutely sure.â

âThank you, Mademoiselle Bowers.â

The nurse went out. The two men looked at each other.

Jacqueline de Bellefort was definitely cleared of the crime. Who then had shot Linnet Doyle?

Fourteen

Race said: âSomeone pinched the pistol. It wasnât Jacqueline de Bellefort. Someone knew enough to feel that his crime would be attributed to her. But that someone did not know that a hospital nurse was going to give her morphia and sit up with her all night. And one thing more. Someone had already attempted to kill Linnet Doyle by rolling a boulder over the cliff; that someone was not Jacqueline de Bellefort. Who was it?â

Poirot said: âIt will be simpler to say who it could not have been. Neither Monsieur Doyle, Madame Allerton, Monsieur Allerton, Mademoiselle Van Schuyler, nor Mademoiselle Bowers could have had anything to do with it. They were all within my sight.â

âHâm,â said Race; âthat leaves rather a large field. What about motive?

âThat is where I hope Monsieur Doyle may be able to help us. There have been several incidentsââ

The door opened and Jacqueline de Bellefort entered. She was very pale and she stumbled a little as she walked.

âI didnât do it,â she said. Her voice was that of a frightened child. âI didnât do it. Oh, please believe me. Everyone will think I did itâbut I didnâtâI didnât. Itâsâitâs awful. I wish it hadnât happened. I might have killed Simon last night; I was mad, I think. But I didnât do the otherâ¦.â

She sat down and burst into tears.

Poirot patted her on the shoulder.

âThere, there. We know that you did not kill Madame Doyle. It is provedâyes, proved, mon enfant. It was not you.â

Jackie sat up suddenly, her wet handkerchief clasped in her hand.

âBut who did?â

âThat,â said Poirot, âis just the question we are asking ourselves. You cannot help us there, my child?â

Jacqueline shook her head.

âI donât knowâ¦I canât imagineâ¦No, I havenât the faintest idea.â She frowned deeply. âNo,â she said at last. âI canât think of anyone who wanted her dead.â Her voice faltered a little. âExcept me.â

Race said: âExcuse me a minuteâjust thought of something.â He hurried out of the room.

Jacqueline de Bellefort sat with her head downcast, nervously twisting her fingers. She broke out suddenly: âDeathâs horribleâhorrible! Iâhate the thought of it.â

Poirot said: âYes. It is not pleasant to think, is it, that now, at this very moment, someone is rejoicing at the successful carrying out of his or her plan.â

âDonâtâdonât!â cried Jackie. âIt sounds horrible, the way you put it.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. âIt is true.â

Jackie said in a low voice: âIâI wanted her deadâand she is deadâ¦And, what is worseâ¦she diedâjust like I said.â

âYes, Mademoiselle. She was shot through the head.â

She cried out: âThen I was right, that night at the Cataract Hotel. There was someone listening!â

âAh!â Poirot nodded his head. âI wondered if you would remember that. Yes, it is altogether too much of a coincidenceâthat Madame Doyle should be killed in just the way you described.â

Jackie shuddered.

âThat man that nightâwho can he have been?â

Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said in quite a different tone of voice: âYou are sure it was a man, Mademoiselle?â

Jackie looked at him in surprise.

âYes, of course. At leastââ

âWell, Mademoiselle?â

She frowned, half closing her eyes in an effort to remember. She said slowly: âI thought it was a manâ¦.â

âBut now you are not so sure?â

Jackie said slowly: âNo, I canât be certain. I just assumed it was a manâbut it was really just aâa figureâa shadowâ¦.â

She paused and then, as Poirot did not speak, she added: âYou think it must have been a woman? But surely none of the women on this boat can have wanted to kill Linnet?â

Poirot merely moved his head from side to side.

The door opened and Bessner appeared.

âWill you come and speak with Mr. Doyle, please, Monsieur Poirot? He would like to see you.â

Jackie sprang up. She caught Bessner by the arm.

âHow is he? Is heâall right?â

âNaturally he is not all right,â replied Dr. Bessner reproachfully. âThe bone is fractured, you understand.â

âBut heâs not going to die?â cried Jackie.

âAch, who said anything about dying? We will get him to civilization and there we will have an X-ray and proper treatment.â

âOh!â The girlâs hands came together in convulsive pressure. She sank down again on a chair.

Poirot stepped out on to the deck with the doctor and at that moment Race joined them. They went up to the promenade deck and along to Bessnerâs cabin.

Simon Doyle was lying propped with cushions and pillows, an improvised cage over his leg. His face was ghastly in colour, the ravages of pain with shock on top of it. But the predominant expression on his face was bewildermentâthe sick bewilderment of a child.

He muttered: âPlease come in. The doctorâs told meâtold meâabout Linnetâ¦I canât believe it. I simply canât believe itâs true.â

âI know. Itâs a bad knock,â said Race.

Simon stammered: âYou knowâJackie didnât do it. Iâm certain Jackie didnât do it! It looks black against her, I dare say, but she didnât do it. Sheâshe was a bit tight last night, and all worked up, and thatâs why she went for me. But she wouldnâtâshe wouldnât do murderâ¦ not cold-blooded murderâ¦.â

Poirot said gently: âDo not distress yourself, Monsieur Doyle. Whoever shot your wife, it was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort.â

Simon looked at him doubtfully.

âIs that on the square?â

âBut since it was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort,â continued Poirot, âcan you give us any idea of who it might have been?â

Simon shook his head. The look of bewilderment increased.

âItâs crazyâimpossible. Apart from Jackie nobody could have wanted to do her in.â

âReflect, Monsieur Doyle. Had she no enemies? Is there no one who had a grudge against her?â

Again Simon shook his head with the same hopeless gesture.

âIt sounds absolutely fantastic. Thereâs Windlesham, of course. She more or less chucked him to marry meâbut I canât see a polite stick like Windlesham committing murder, and anyway heâs miles away. Same thing with old Sir George Wode. Heâd got a down on Linnet over the houseâdisliked the way she was pulling it about; but heâs miles away in London, and anyway to think of murder in such a connection would be fantastic.â

âListen, Monsieur Doyle.â Poirot spoke very earnestly. âOn the first day we came on board the Karnak I was impressed by a little conversation which I had with Madame your wife. She was very upsetâvery distraught. She saidâmark this wellâthat everybody hated her. She said she felt afraidâunsafeâas though everyone round her were an enemy.â

âShe was pretty upset at finding Jackie aboard. So was I,â said Simon.

âThat is true, but it does not quite explain those words. When she said she was surrounded by enemies, she was almost certainly exaggerating, but all the same she did mean more than one person.â

âYou might be right there,â admitted Simon. âI think I can explain that. It was a name in the passenger list that upset her.â

âA name in the passenger list? What name?â

âWell, you see, she didnât actually tell me. As a matter of fact I wasnât even listening very carefully. I was going over the Jacqueline business in my mind. As far as I remember, Linnet said something about doing people down in business, and that it made her uncomfortable to meet anyone who had a grudge against her family. You see, although I donât really know the family history very well, I gather that Linnetâs mother was a millionaireâs daughter. Her father was only just ordinary plain wealthy, but after his marriage he naturally began playing the markets or whatever you call it. And as a result of that, of course, several people got it in the neck. You know, affluence one day, the gutter the next. Well, I gather there was someone on board whose father had got up against Linnetâs father and taken a pretty hard knock. I remember Linnet saying: âItâs pretty awful when people hate you without even knowing you.ââ

âYes,â said Poirot thoughtfully. âThat would explain what she said to me. For the first time she was feeling the burden of her inheritance and not its advantages. You are quite sure, Monsieur Doyle, that she did not mention this manâs name?â

Simon shook his head ruefully.

âI didnât really pay much attention. Just said: âOh, nobody minds what happened to their fathers nowadays. Life goes too fast for that.â Something of that kind.â

Bessner said dryly: âAch, but I can have a guess. There is certainly a young man with a grievance on board.â

âYou mean Ferguson?â said Poirot.

âYes. He spoke against Mrs. Doyle once or twice. I myself have heard him.â

âWhat can we do to find out?â asked Simon.

Poirot replied: âColonel Race and I must interview all the passengers. Until we have got their stories it would be unwise to form theories. Then there is the maid. We ought to interview her first of all. It would, perhaps, be as well if we did that here. Monsieur Doyleâs presence might be helpful.â

âYes, thatâs a good idea,â said Simon.

âHad she been with Mrs. Doyle long?â

âJust a couple of months, thatâs all.â

âOnly a couple of months!â exclaimed Poirot.

âWhy, you donât thinkââ

âHad Madame any valuable jewellery?â

âThere were her pearls,â said Simon. âShe once told me they were worth forty or fifty thousand.â He shivered. âMy God, do you think those damned pearlsâ?â

âRobbery is a possible motive,â said Poirot. âAll the same it seems hardly credibleâ¦Well, we shall see. Let us have the maid here.â

Louise Bourget was that same vivacious Latin brunette who Poirot had seen one day and noticed.

She was anything but vivacious now. She had been crying and looked frightened. Yet there was a kind of sharp cunning apparent in her face which did not prepossess the two men favourably towards her.

âYou are Louise Bourget?â

âYes, Monsieur.â

âWhen did you last see Madame Doyle alive?â

âLast night, Monsieur. I was in her cabin to undress her.â

âWhat time was that?â

âIt was some time after eleven, Monsieur. I cannot say exactly when. I undress Madame and put her to bed, and then I leave.â

âHow long did all that take?â

âTen minutes, Monsieur. Madame was tired. She told me to put the lights out when I went.â

âAnd when you had left her, what did you do?â

âI went to my own cabin, Monsieur, on the deck below.â

âAnd you heard or saw nothing more that can help us?â

âHow could I, Monsieur?â

âThat, Mademoiselle, is for you to say, not for us,â Hercule Poirot retorted.

She stole a sideways glance at him.

âBut, Monsieur, I was nowhere nearâ¦What could I have seen or heard? I was on the deck below. My cabin, it was on the other side of the boat, even. It is impossible that I should have heard anything. Naturally if I had been unable to sleep, if I had mounted the stairs, then perhaps I might have seen the assassin, this monster, enter or leave Madameâs cabin, but as it isââ

She threw out her hands appealingly to Simon.

âMonsieur, I implore youâyou see how it is? What can I say?â

âMy good girl,â said Simon harshly, âdonât be a fool. Nobody thinks you saw or heard anything. Youâll be quite all right. Iâll look after you. Nobodyâs accusing you of anything.â

Louise murmured, âMonsieur is very good,â and dropped her eyelids modestly.

âWe take it, then, that you saw and heard nothing?â asked Race impatiently.

âThat is what I said, Monsieur.â

âAnd you know of no one who had a grudge against your mistress?â

To the surprise of the listeners Louise nodded her head vigorously.

âOh, yes. That I do know. To that question I can answer Yes most emphatically.â

Poirot said, âYou mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort?â

âShe, certainly. But it is not of her I speak. There was someone else on this boat who disliked Madame, who was very angry because of the way Madame had injured him.â

âGood lord!â Simon exclaimed. âWhatâs all this?â

Louise went on, still emphatically nodding her head with the utmost vigour.

âYes, yes, yes, it is as I say! It concerns the former maid of Madameâmy predecessor. There was a man, one of the engineers on this boat, who wanted her to marry him. And my predecessor, Marie her name was, she would have done so. But Madame Doyle, she made inquiries and she discovered that this Fleetwood already had a wifeâa wife of colour you understand, a wife of this country. She had gone back to her own people, but he was still married to her, you understand. And so Madame she told all this to Marie, and Marie was very unhappy and she would not see Fleetwood anymore. And this Fleetwood, he was infuriated, and when he found out that this Madame Doyle had formerly been Mademoiselle Linnet Ridgeway he tells me that he would like to kill her! Her interference ruined his life, he said.â

Louise paused triumphantly.

âThis is interesting,â said Race.

Poirot turned to Simon.

âHad you any idea of this?â

âNone whatever,â Simon replied with patent sincerity. âI doubt if Linnet even knew the man was on the boat. She had probably forgotten all about the incident.â

He turned sharply to the maid.

âDid you say anything to Mrs. Doyle about this?â

âNo, Monsieur, of course not.â

Poirot asked: âDo you know anything about your mistressâs pearls?â

âHer pearls? Louiseâs eyes opened very wide. âShe was wearing them last night.â

âYou saw them when she came to bed?â

âYes, Monsieur.â

âWhere did she put them?â

âOn the table by the side as always.â

âThat is where you last saw them?â

âYes, Monsieur.â

âDid you see them there this morning?â

A startled look came into the girlâs face.

âMon Dieu! I did not even look. I come up to the bed, I seeâI see Madame; and then I cry out and rush out of the door, and I faint.â

Hercule Poirot nodded his head.

âYou did not look. But I, I have the eyes which notice, and there were no pearls on the table beside the bed this morning.â

Fifteen

Hercule Poirotâs observation had not been at fault. There were no pearls on the table by Linnet Doyleâs bed.

Louise Bourget was bidden to make a search among Linnetâs belongings. According to her, all was in order. Only the pearls had disappeared.

As they emerged from the cabin a steward was waiting to tell them that breakfast had been served in the smoking room. As they passed along the deck, Race paused to look over the rail.

âAha! I see you have had an idea, my friend.â

âYes. It suddenly came to me, when Fanthorp mentioned thinking he had heard a splash. Itâs perfectly possible that after the murder, the murderer threw the pistol overboard.â

Poirot said slowly: âYou really think that is possible, my friend?â Race shrugged his shoulders.

âItâs a suggestion. After all, the pistol wasnât anywhere in the cabin. First thing I looked for.â

âAll the same,â said Poirot, âit is incredible that it should have been thrown overboard.â

Race asked: âWhere is it then?â

Poirot replied thoughtfully, âIf it is not in Madame Doyleâs cabin, there is, logically, only one other place where it could be.â

âWhereâs that?â

âIn Mademoiselle de Bellefortâs cabin.â

Race said thoughtfully: âYes. I seeââ

He stopped suddenly.

âSheâs out of her cabin. Shall we go and have a look now?â

Poirot shook his head. âNo, my friend, that would be precipitate. It may not yet have been put there.â

âWhat about an immediate search of the whole boat.â

âThat way we should show our hand. We must work with great care. It is very delicate, our position, at the moment. Let us discuss the situation as we eat.â

Race agreed. They went into the smoking room.

âWell,â said Race as he poured himself out a cup of coffee, âweâve got two definite leads. Thereâs the disappearance of the pearls. And thereâs the man Fleetwood. As regards the pearls, robbery seems indicated, butâI donât know whether youâll agree with meââ

Poirot said quickly: âBut it was an odd moment to choose?â

âExactly. To steal the pearls at such a moment invites a close search of everybody on board. How then could the thief hope to get away with his booty?â

âHe might have gone ashore and dumped it.â

âThe company always has a watchman on the bank.â

âThen that is not feasible. Was the murder committed to divert attention from the robbery? No, that does not make sense; it is profoundly unsatisfactory. But supposing that Madame Doyle woke up and caught the thief in the act?â

âAnd therefore the thief shot her? But she was shot whilst she slept.â

âSo that does not make senseâ¦You know, I have a little idea about those pearlsâand yetânoâit is impossible. Because if my idea was right the pearls would not have disappeared. Tell me, what did you think of the maid?â

âI wondered,â said Race slowly, âif she knew more than she said.â

âAh, you too had that impression?â

âDefinitely not a nice girl,â said Race.

Hercule Poirot nodded. âYes, I would not trust her.â

âYou think she had something to do with the murder?â

âNo. I would not say that.â

âWith the theft of the pearls, then?â

âThat is more probable. She had only been with Madame Doyle a very short time. She may be a member of a gang that specializes in jewel robberies. In such a case there is often a maid with excellent references. Unfortunately we are not in a position to seek information on these points. And yet that explanation does not quite satisfy meâ¦Those pearlsâah, sacrÃ©, my little idea ought to be right. And yet nobody would be so imbecileââ He broke off.

âWhat about the man Fleetwood?â

âWe must question him. It may be that we have there the solution. If Louise Bourgetâs story is true, he had a definite motive for revenge. He could have overheard the scene between Jacqueline and Monsieur Doyle, and when they had left the saloon he could have darted in and secured the gun. Yes, it is all quite possible. And that letter J scrawled in blood. That, too, would accord with a simple, rather crude nature.â

âIn fact, heâs just the person we are looking for?â

âYesâonlyââ Poirot rubbed his nose. He said with a slight grimace: âSee you, I recognize my own weaknesses. It has been said of me that I like to make a case difficult. This solution that you put to meâit is too simple, too easy. I cannot feel that it really happened. And yet, that may be the sheer prejudice on my part.â

âWell, weâd better have the fellow here.â

Race rang the bell and gave the order. Then he asked, âAny otherâpossibilities?â

âPlenty, my friend. There is, for example, the American trustee.â

âPennington?â

âYes, Pennington. There was a curious little scene in here the other day.â He narrated the happenings to Race. âYou seeâit is significant. Madame, she wanted to read all the papers before signing. So he makes the excuse of another day. And then, the husband, he makes a very significant remark.â

âWhat was that?â

âHe saysââI never read anything. I sign where I am told to sign.â You perceive the significance of that. Pennington did. I saw it in his eye. He looked at Doyle as though an entirely new idea had come into his head. Just imagine, my friend, that you have been left trustee to the daughter of an intensely wealthy man. You use, perhaps, that money to speculate with. I know it is so in all detective novelsâbut you read of it too in the newspapers. It happens, my friend, it happens.â

âI donât dispute it,â said Race.

âThere is, perhaps, still time to make good by speculating wildly. Your ward is not yet of age. And thenâshe marries! The control passes from your hands into hers at a momentâs notice! A disaster! But there is still a chance. She is on a honeymoon. She will perhaps be careless about business. A casual paper, slipped in among others, signed without readingâ¦But Linnet Doyle was not like that. Honeymoon or no honeymoon, she is a business woman. And then her husband makes a remark, and a new idea comes to that desperate man who is seeking a way out from ruin. If Linnet Doyle were to die, her fortune would pass to her husbandâand he would be easy to deal with; he would be a child in the hands of an astute man like Andrew Pennington. Mon cher Colonel, I tell you I saw the thought pass through Andrew Penningtonâs head. âIf only it were Doyle I had got to deal withâ¦â That is what he was thinking.â

âQuite possible, I dare say,â said Race dryly, âbut youâve no evidence.â

âAlas, no.â

âThen thereâs young Ferguson,â said Race. âHe talks bitterly enough. Not that I go by talk. Still, he might be the fellow whose father was ruined by old Ridgeway. Itâs a little far-fetched but itâs possible. People do brood over bygone wrongs sometimes.â He paused a minute and then said: âAnd thereâs my fellow.â

âYes, there is âyour fellowâ as you call him.â

âHeâs a killer,â said Race. âWe know that. On the other hand, I canât see any way in which he could have come up against Linnet Doyle. Their orbits donât touch.â

Poirot said slowly: âUnless, accidentally, she had become possessed of evidence showing his identity.â

âThatâs possible, but it seems highly unlikely.â

There was a knock at the door. âAh, hereâs our would-be bigamist.â

Fleetwood was a big, truculent-looking man. He looked suspiciously from one to the other of them as he entered the room. Poirot recognized him as the man he had seen talking to Louise Bourget.

Fleetwood asked suspiciously: âYou wanted to see me?â

âWe did,â said Race. âYou probably know that a murder was committed on this boat last night?â

Fleetwood nodded.

âAnd I believe it is true that you had reason to feel anger against the woman who was killed.â

A look of alarm sprang up in Fleetwoodâs eyes.

âWho told you that?â

âYou considered that Mrs. Doyle had interfered between you and a young woman.â

âI know who told you thatâthat lying French hussy. Sheâs a liar through and through, that girl.â

âBut this particular story happens to be true.â

âItâs a dirty lie!â

âYou say that, although you donât know what it is yet.â

The shot told. The man flushed and gulped.

âIt is true, is it not, that you were going to marry the girl Marie, and that she broke it off when she discovered that you were a married man already?â

âWhat business was it of hers?â

âYou mean, what business was it of Mrs. Doyleâs? Well, you know, bigamy is bigamy.â

âIt wasnât like that. I married one of the locals out here. It didnât answer. She went back to her people. Iâve not seen her for a half a dozen years.â

âStill you were married to her.â

The man was silent. Race went on: âMrs. Doyle, or Miss Ridgeway as she then was, found out all this?â

âYes, she did, curse her! Nosing about where no one ever asked her to. Iâd have treated Marie right. Iâd have done anything for her. And sheâd never have known about the other, if it hadnât been for that meddlesome young lady of hers. Yes, Iâll say it, I did have a grudge against the lady, and I felt bitter about it when I saw her on this boat, all dressed up in pearls and diamonds and lording it all over the place, with never a thought that sheâd broken up a manâs life for him! I felt bitter all right, but if you think Iâm a dirty murdererâif you think I went and shot her with a gun, well, thatâs a damned lie! I never touched her. And thatâs Godâs truth.â

He stopped. The sweat was rolling down his face.

âWhere were you last night between the hours of twelve and two?â

âIn my bunk asleepâand my mate will tell you so.â

âWe shall see,â said Race. He dismissed him with a curt nod. âThatâll do.â

âEh bien?â inquired Poirot as the door closed behind Fleetwood.

Race shrugged his shoulders. âHe tells quite a straight story. Heâs nervous, of course, but not unduly so. Weâll have to investigate his alibiâthough I donât suppose it will be decisive. His mate was probably asleep, and this fellow could have slipped in and out if he wanted to. It depends whether anyone else saw him.â

âYes, one must inquire as to that.â

âThe next thing, I think,â said Race, âis whether anyone heard anything which might give a clue as to the time of the crime. Bessner places it as having occurred between twelve and two. It seems reasonable to hope that someone among the passengers may have heard the shotâeven if they did not recognize it for what it was. I didnât hear anything of the kind myself. What about you?â

Poirot shook his head.

âMe, I slept absolutely like the log. I heard nothingâbut nothing at all. I might have been drugged, I slept so soundly.â

âA pity,â said Race. âWell, letâs hope we have a bit of luck with the people who have cabins on the starboard side. Fanthorp weâve done. The Allertons come next. Iâll send the steward to fetch them.â

Mrs. Allerton came in briskly. She was wearing a soft grey striped silk dress. Her face looked distressed.

âItâs too horrible,â she said as she accepted the chair that Poirot placed for her. âI can hardly believe it. That lovely creature, with everything to live forâdead. I almost feel I canât believe it.â

âI know how you feel, Madame,â said Poirot sympathetically.

âIâm glad you are on board,â said Mrs. Allerton simply. âYouâll be able to find out who did it. Iâm so glad it isnât that poor tragic girl.â

âYou mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who told you she did not do it?â

âCornelia Robson,â replied Mrs. Allerton, with a faint smile. âYou know, sheâs simply thrilled by it all. Itâs probably the only exciting thing that has ever happened to her, and probably the only exciting thing that ever will happen to her. But sheâs so nice that sheâs terribly ashamed of enjoying it. She thinks itâs awful of her.â

Mrs. Allerton gave a look at Poirot and then added: âBut I mustnât chatter. You want to ask me questions.â

âIf you please. You went to bed at what time, Madame?â

âJust after half past ten.â

âAnd you went to sleep at once?â

âYes. I was sleepy.â

âAnd did you hear anythingâanything at allâduring the night?â

Mrs. Allerton wrinkled her brows.

âYes, I think I heard a splash and someone runningâor was it the other way about? Iâm rather hazy. I just had a vague idea that someone had fallen overboard at seaâa dream, you knowâand then I woke up and listened, but it was all quite quiet.â

âDo you know what time that was?â

âNo, Iâm afraid I donât. But I donât think it was very long after I went to sleep. I mean it was within the first hour or so.â

âAlas, Madame, that is not very definite.â

âNo, I know it isnât. But itâs no good trying to guess, is it, when I havenât really the vaguest idea?â

âAnd that is all you can tell us, Madame?â

âIâm afraid so.â

âHad you ever actually met Madame Doyle before?â

âNo, Tim had met her. And Iâd heard a good deal about herâthrough a cousin of ours, Joanna Southwood, but Iâd never spoken to her till we met at Assuan.â

âI have one other question, Madame, if you will pardon me for asking.â

Mrs. Allerton murmured with a faint smile, âI should love to be asked an indiscreet question.â

âIt is this. Did you, or your family, ever suffer any financial loss through the operations of Madame Doyleâs father, Melhuish Ridgeway?â

Mrs. Allerton looked thoroughly astonished.

âOh, no! The family finances have never suffered except by dwindlingâ¦you know, everything paying less interest than it used to. Thereâs never been anything melodramatic about our poverty. My husband left very little money, but what he left I still have, though it doesnât yield as much as it used to yield.â

âI thank you, Madame. Perhaps you will ask your son to come to us.â

Tim said lightly, when his mother came: âOrdeal over? My turn now! What sort of things did they ask you?â

âOnly whether I heard anything last night,â said Mrs. Allerton. âAnd unluckily I didnât hear anything at all. I canât think why not. After all, Linnetâs cabin is only one away from mine. I should think Iâd have been bound to hear the shot. Go along, Tim; theyâre waiting for you.â

To Tim Allerton Poirot repeated his previous questions.

Tim answered: âI went to bed early, half-past ten or so. I read for a bit. Put out my light just after eleven.â

âDid you hear anything after that?â

âHeard a manâs voice saying good night, I think, not far away.â

âThat was me saying good night to Mrs. Doyle,â said Race.

âYes. After that I went to sleep. Then, later, I heard a kind of hullabaloo going on, somebody calling Fanthorp, I remember.â

âMademoiselle Robson when she ran out from the observation saloon.â

âYes, I suppose that was it. And then a lot of different voices. And then somebody running along the deck. And then a splash. And then I heard old Bessner booming out something about âCareful nowâ and âNot too quick.ââ

âYou heard a splash.â

âWell, something of that kind.â

âYou are sure it was not a shot you heard?â

âYes, I suppose it might have beenâ¦I did hear a cork pop. Perhaps that was the shot. I may have imagined the splash from connecting the idea of the cork with liquid pouring into a glassâ¦I know my foggy idea was that there was some kind of party on, and I wished theyâd all go to bed and shut up.â

âAnything more after that?â

Tim shrugged his shoulders. âAfter thatâoblivion.â

âYou heard nothing more?â

âNothing whatever.â

âThank you, Monsieur Allerton.â

Tim got up and left the cabin.

Sixteen

Race pored thoughtfully over a plan of the promenade deck of the Karnak.

âFanthorp, young Allerton, Mrs. Allerton. Then an empty cabinâSimon Doyleâs. Now whoâs on the other side of Mrs. Doyleâs? The old American dame. If anyone heard anything she would have done. If sheâs up weâd better have her along.â

Miss Van Schuyler entered the room. She looked even older and yellower than usual this morning. Her small dark eyes had an air of venomous displeasure in them.

Race rose and bowed.

âWeâre very sorry to trouble you, Miss Van Schuyler. Itâs very good of you. Please sit down.â

Miss Van Schuyler said sharply: âI dislike being mixed up in this. I resent it very much. I do not wish to be associated in any way with thisâerâvery unpleasant affair.â

âQuiteâquite. I was just saying to Monsieur Poirot that the sooner we took your statement the better, as then you need have no further trouble.â

Miss Van Schuyler looked at Poirot with something approaching favour.

âIâm glad you both realize my feelings. I am not accustomed to anything of this kind.â

Poirot said soothingly: âPrecisely, Mademoiselle. That is why we wish to free you from unpleasantness as quickly as possible. Now you went to bed last nightâat what time?â

âTen oâclock is my usual time. Last night I was rather later, as Cornelia Robson, very inconsiderately, kept me waiting.â

âTrÃ¨s bien, Mademoiselle. Now what did you hear after you had retired?â

Miss Van Schuyler said: âI sleep very lightly.â

âA merveille! That is very fortunate for us.â

âI was awakened by that rather flashy young woman, Mrs. Doyleâs maid, who said, âBonne nuit, Madameâ in what I cannot but think an unnecessarily loud voice.â

âAnd after that?â

âI went to sleep again. I woke up thinking someone was in my cabin, but I realized that it was someone in the cabin next door.â

âIn Madame Doyleâs cabin?â

âYes. Then I heard someone outside on the deck and then a splash.â

âYou have no idea what time this was?â

âI can tell you the time exactly. It was ten minutes past one.â

âYou are sure of that?â

âYes. I looked at my little clock that stands by my bed.â

âYou did not hear a shot?â

âNo, nothing of the kind.â

âBut it might possibly have been a shot that awakened you?â

Miss Van Schuyler considered the question, her toadlike head on one side.

âIt might,â she admitted rather grudgingly.

âAnd you have no idea what might have caused the splash you heard?â

âNot at allâI know perfectly.â

Colonel Race sat up alertly. âYou know?â

âCertainly. I did not like this sound of prowling around. I got up and went to the door of my cabin. Miss Otterbourne was leaning over the side. She had just dropped something into the water.â

âMiss Otterbourne?â Race sounded really surprised.

âYes.â

âYou are quite sure it was Miss Otterbourne?â

âI saw her face distinctly.â

âShe did not see you?â

âI do not think so.â

Poirot leaned forward.

âAnd what did her face look like, Mademoiselle?â

âShe was in a condition of considerable emotion.â

Race and Poirot exchanged a quick glance.

âAnd then?â Race prompted.

âMiss Otterbourne went away round the stern of the boat and I returned to bed.â

There was a knock at the door and the manager entered. He carried in his hand a dripping bundle.

âWeâve got it, Colonel.â

Race took the package. He unwrapped fold after fold of sodden velvet. Out of it fell a coarse handkerchief, faintly stained with pink, wrapped round a small pearl-handled pistol.

Race gave Poirot a glance of slightly malicious triumph.

âYou see,â he said, âmy idea was right. It was thrown overboard.â

He held the pistol out on the palm of his hand.

âWhat do you say, Monsieur Poirot? Is this the pistol you saw at the Cataract Hotel that night?â

Poirot examined it carefully; then he said quietly: âYesâthat is it. There is the ornamental work on itâand the initials J.B. It is an article de luxe, a very feminine production, but it is none the less a lethal weapon.â

âTwenty-two,â murmured Race. He took out the clip. âTwo bullets fired. Yes, there doesnât seem much doubt about it.â

Miss Van Schuyler coughed significantly.

âAnd what about my stole?â she demanded.

âYour stole, Mademoiselle?â

âYes, that is my velvet stole you have there.â

Race picked up the dripping folds of material.

âThis is yours, Miss Van Schuyler?â

âCertainly itâs mine!â the old lady snapped. âI missed it last night. I was asking everyone if theyâd seen it.â

Poirot questioned Race with a glance, and the latter gave a slight nod of assent.

âWhere did you see it last, Miss Van Schuyler?â

âI had it in the saloon yesterday evening. When I came to go to bed I could not find it anywhere.â

Race said quickly: âYou realize what itâs been used for?â He spread it out, indicating with a finger the scorching and several small holes. âThe murderer wrapped it round the pistol to deaden the noise of the shot.â

âImpertinence!â snapped Miss Van Schuyler. The colour rose in her wizened cheeks.

Race said: âI shall be glad, Miss Van Schuyler, if you will tell me the extent of your previous acquaintance with Mrs. Doyle.â

âThere was no previous acquaintance.â

âBut you knew of her?â

âI knew who she was, of course.â

âBut your families were not acquainted?â

âAs a family we have always prided ourselves on being exclusive, Colonel Race. My dear mother would never have dreamed of calling upon any of the Hartz family, who, outside their wealth, were nobodies.â

âThat is all you have to say, Miss Van Schuyler?â

âI have nothing to add to what I have told you. Linnet Ridgeway was brought up in England and I never saw her till I came aboard this boat.â

She rose. Poirot opened the door and she marched out.

The eyes of the two men met.

âThatâs her story,â said Race, âand sheâs going to stick to it! It may be true. I donât know. ButâRosalie Otterbourne? I hadnât expected that.â

Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner. Then he brought down his hand on the table with a sudden bang.

âBut it does not make sense,â he cried. âNom dâun nom dâun nom! It does not make sense.â

Race looked at him.

âWhat do you mean exactly?â

âI mean that up to a point it is all the clear sailing. Someone wished to kill Linnet Doyle. Someone overheard the scene in the saloon last night. Someone sneaked in there and retrieved the pistolâJacqueline de Bellefortâs pistol, remember. Somebody shot Linnet Doyle with that pistol and wrote the letter J on the wallâ¦All so clear, is it not? All pointing to Jacqueline de Bellefort as the murderess. And then what does the murderer do? Leave the pistolâthe damning pistolâJacqueline de Bellefortâs pistol, for everyone to find? No, heâor sheâthrows the pistol, that particularly damning bit of evidence, overboard. Why, my friend, why?â

Race shook his head. âItâs odd.â

âIt is more than oddâit is impossible!â

âNot impossible, since it happened!â

âI do not mean that. I mean the sequence of events is impossible. Something is wrong.â

Seventeen

Colonel Race glanced curiously at his colleague. He respectedâhe had reason to respectâthe brain of Hercule Poirot. Yet for the moment he did not follow the otherâs process of thought. He asked no question, however. He seldom did ask questions. He proceeded straightforwardly with the matter in hand.

âWhatâs the next thing to be done? Question the Otterbourne girl?â

âYes, that may advance us a little.â

Rosalie Otterbourne entered ungraciously. She did not look nervous or frightened in any wayâmerely unwilling and sulky.

âWell,â she asked, âwhat is it?â

Race was the spokesman.

âWeâre investigating Mrs. Doyleâs death,â he explained.

Rosalie nodded.

âWill you tell me what you did last night?â

Rosalie reflected a minute.

âMother and I went to bed earlyâbefore eleven. We didnât hear anything in particular, except a bit of fuss outside Dr. Bessnerâs cabin. I heard the old manâs German voice booming away. Of course I didnât know what it was all about till this morning.â

âYou didnât hear a shot?â

âNo.â

âDid you leave your cabin at all last night?â

âNo.â

âYou are quite sure of that?â

Rosalie stared at him.

âWhat do you mean? Of course Iâm sure of it.â

âYou did not, for instance, go round to the starboard side of the boat and throw something overboard?â

The colour rose in her face.

âIs there any rule against throwing things overboard?â

âNo, of course not. Then you did?â

âNo, I didnât. I never left my cabin, I tell you.â

âThen if anyone says that they saw youâ?â

She interrupted him. âWho says they saw me?â

âMiss Van Schuyler.â

âMiss Van Schuyler?â She sounded genuinely astonished.

âYes. Miss Van Schuyler says she looked out of her cabin and saw you throw something over the side.â

Rosalie said clearly, âThatâs a damned lie.â Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, she asked: âWhat time was this?â

It was Poirot who answered.

âIt was ten minutes past one, Mademoiselle.â

She nodded her head thoughtfully. âDid she see anything else?â

Poirot looked at her curiously. He stroked his chin.

âSeeâno,â he replied, âbut she heard something.â

âWhat did she hear?â

âSomeone moving about in Madame Doyleâs cabin.â

âI see,â muttered Rosalie.

She was pale nowâdeadly pale.

âAnd you persist in saying that you threw nothing overboard, Mademoiselle?â

âWhat on earth should I run about throwing things overboard for in the middle of the night?â

âThere might be a reasonâan innocent reason.â

âInnocent?â repeated the girl sharply.

âThatâs what I said. You see, Mademoiselle, something was thrown overboard last nightâsomething that was not innocent.â

Race silently held out the bundle of stained velvet, opening it to display its contents.

Rosalie Otterbourne shrank back. âWas thatâwhatâshe was killed with?â

âYes, Mademoiselle.â

âAnd you think that IâI did it? What utter nonsense! Why on earth should I want to kill Linnet Doyle? I donât even know her!â

She laughed and stood up scornfully. âThe whole thing is too ridiculous.â

âRemember, Miss Otterbourne,â said Race, âthat Miss Van Schuyler is prepared to swear she saw your face quite clearly in the moonlight.â

Rosalie laughed again. âThat old cat? Sheâs probably half blind anyway. It wasnât me she saw.â She paused. âCan I go now?â

Race nodded and Rosalie Otterbourne left the room.

The eyes of the two men met. Race lighted a cigarette.

âWell, thatâs that. Flat contradiction. Which of âem do we believe?â

Poirot shook his head. âI have a little idea that neither of them was being quite frank.â

âThatâs the worst of our job,â said Race despondently. âSo many people keep back the truth for positively futile reasons. Whatâs our next move? Get on with the questioning of the passengers?â

âI think so. It is always well to proceed with order and method.â

Race nodded.

Mrs. Otterbourne, dressed in floating batik material, succeeded her daughter. She corroborated Rosalieâs statement that they had both gone to bed before eleven oâclock. She herself had heard nothing of interest during the night. She could not say whether Rosalie had left their cabin or not. On the subject of the crime she was inclined to hold forth.

âThe crime passionel!â she exclaimed. âThe primitive instinctâto kill! So closely allied to the sex instinct. That girl, Jacqueline, half Latin, hot-blooded, obeying the deepest instincts of her being, stealing forth, revolver in handââ

âBut Jacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Madame Doyle. That we know for certain. It is proved,â explained Poirot.

âHer husband, then,â said Mrs. Otterbourne, rallying from the blow. âThe blood lust and the sex instinctâa sexual crime. There are many well-known instances.â

âMr. Doyle was shot through the leg and he was quite unable to moveâthe bone was fractured,â explained Colonel Race. âHe spent the night with Dr. Bessner.â

Mrs. Otterbourne was even more disappointed. She searched her mind hopefully.

âOf course!â she said. âHow foolish of me! Miss Bowers!â

âMiss Bowers?â

âYes. Naturally. Itâs so clear psychologically. Repression! The repressed virgin! Maddened by the sight of these twoâa young husband and wife passionately in love with each other. Of course it was her! Sheâs just the typeâsexually unattractive, innately respectable. In my book, The Barren Vineââ

Colonel Race interrupted tactfully: âYour suggestions have been most helpful, Mrs. Otterbourne. We must get on with our job now. Thank you so much.â

He escorted her gallantly to the door and came back wiping his brow.

âWhat a poisonous woman! Whew! Why didnât somebody murder her!â

âIt may yet happen,â Poirot consoled him.

âThere might be some sense in that. Whom have we got left? Penningtonâweâll keep him for the end, I think. RichettiâFerguson.â

Signor Richetti was very voluble, very agitated.

âBut what a horror, what an infamyâa woman so young and so beautifulâindeed an inhuman crime!â

Signor Richettiâs hands flew expressively up in the air.

His answers were prompt. He had gone to bed earlyâvery early. In fact immediately after dinner. He had read for a whileâa very interesting pamphlet lately publishedâPrÃ¤historische Forschung in Kleinasienâthrowing an entirely new light on the painted pottery of the Anatolian foothills.

He had put out his light some time before eleven. No, he had not heard any shot. Not any sound like the pop of a cork. The only thing he had heardâbut that was later, in the middle of the nightâwas a splash, a big splash, just near his porthole.

âYour cabin is on the lower deck, on the starboard side, is it not?â

âYes, yes, that is so. And I heard the big splash.â His arms flew up once more to describe the bigness of the splash.

âCan you tell me at all what time that was?â

Signor Richetti reflected.

âIt was one, two, three hours after I go to sleep. Perhaps two hours.â

âAbout ten minutes past one, for instance?â

âIt might very well be, yes. Ah! But what a terrible crimeâhow inhumanâ¦So charming a womanâ¦.â

Exit Signor Richetti, still gesticulating freely.

Race looked at Poirot. Poirot raised his eyebrows expressively, then shrugged his shoulders. They passed on to Mr. Ferguson.

Ferguson was difficult. He sprawled insolently in a chair.

âGrand to-do about this business!â he sneered. âWhatâs it really matter? Lots of superfluous women in the world!â

Race said coldly: âCan we have an account of your movements last night, Mr. Ferguson?â

âDonât see why you should, but I donât mind. I mooched around a good bit. Went ashore with Miss Robson. When she went back to the boat I mooched around by myself for a while. Came back and turned in round about midnight.â

âYour cabin is on the lower deck, starboard side?â

âYes. Iâm up among the nobs.â

âDid you hear a shot? It might only have sounded like the popping of a cork.â

Ferguson considered. âYes, I think I did hear something like a corkâ¦Canât remember whenâbefore I went to sleep. But there was still a lot of people about thenâcommotion, running about on the deck above.â

âThat was probably the shot fired by Miss de Bellefort. You didnât hear another?â

Ferguson shook his head.

âNor a splash?â

âA splash? Yes, I believe I did hear a splash. But there was so much row going on I canât be sure about it.â

âDid you leave your cabin during the night?â

Ferguson grinned. âNo, I didnât. And I didnât participate in the good work, worse luck.â

âCome, come, Mr. Ferguson, donât behave childishly.â

The young man reacted angrily.

âWhy shouldnât I say what I think? I believe in violence.â

âBut you donât practice what you preach?â murmured Poirot. âI wonder.â

He leaned forward.

âIt was the man, Fleetwood, was it not, who told you that Linnet Doyle was one of the richest women in England?â

âWhatâs Fleetwood got to do with this?â

âFleetwood, my friend, had an excellent motive for killing Linnet Doyle. He had a special grudge against her.â

Mr. Ferguson came up out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box.

âSo thatâs your dirty game, is it?â he demanded wrathfully. âPut it on to a poor devil like Fleetwood, who canât defend himself, whoâs got no money to hire lawyers. But I tell you thisâif you try and saddle Fleetwood with this business youâll have me to deal with.â

âAnd who exactly are you?â asked Poirot sweetly.

Mr. Ferguson got rather red.

âI can stick by my friends anyway,â he said gruffly.

âWell, Mr. Ferguson, I think thatâs all we need for the present,â said Race.

As the door closed behind Ferguson he remarked unexpectedly: âRather a likeable young cub, really.â

âYou donât think he is the man you are after?â asked Poirot.

âI hardly think so. I suppose he is on board. The information was very precise. Oh, well, one job at a time. Letâs have a go at Pennington.â

Eighteen

Andrew Pennington displayed all the conventional reactions of grief and shock. He was, as usual, carefully dressed. He had changed into a black tie. His long clean-shaven face bore a bewildered expression.

âGentlemen,â he said sadly, âthis business has got me right down! Little Linnetâwhy, I remember her as the cutest little thing you can imagine. How proud of her Melhuish Ridgeway used to be, too! Well, thereâs no point in going into that. Just tell me what I can do; thatâs all I ask.â

Race said: âTo begin with, Mr. Pennington, did you hear anything last night?â

âNo, sir, I canât say I did. I have the cabin right next to Dr. Bessnerâs number fortyâforty-one, and I heard a certain commotion going on in there round about midnight or so. Of course I didnât know what it was at the time.â

âYou heard nothing else? No shots?â

Andrew Pennington shook his head.

âNothing whatever of that kind.â

âAnd you went to bed at what time?â

âMust have been some time after eleven.â

He leant forward.

âI donât suppose itâs news to you to know that thereâs plenty of rumours going about the boat. That half-French girlâJacqueline de Bellefortâthere was something fishy there, you know. Linnet didnât tell me anything, but naturally I wasnât born blind and deaf. Thereâd been some affair between her and Simon, some time, hadnât thereâCherchez la femmeâthatâs a pretty good sound rule, and I should say you wouldnât have to cherchez far.â

âYou mean that in your belief Jacqueline de Bellefort shot Madame Doyle?â Poirot asked.

âThatâs what it looks like to me. Of course I donât know anythingâ¦.â

âUnfortunately we do know something!â

âEh?â Mr. Pennington looked startled.

âWe know that it is quite impossible for Mademoiselle de Bellefort to have shot Madame Doyle.â

He explained carefully the circumstances. Pennington seemed reluctant to accept them.

âI agree it looks all right on the face of itâbut this hospital nurse woman, Iâll bet she didnât stay awake all night. She dozed off and the girl slipped out and in again.â

âHardly likely, Monsieur Pennington. She had administered a strong opiate, remember. And anyway a nurse is in the habit of sleeping lightly and waking when her patient wakes.â

âIt all sounds rather fishy to me,â declared Pennington.

Race said in a gently authoritative manner: âI think you must take it from me, Mr. Pennington, that we have examined all the possibilities very carefully. The result is quite definiteâJacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Mrs. Doyle. So we are forced to look elsewhere. That is where we hope you may be able to help us.â

âI?â Pennington gave a nervous start.

âYes. You were an intimate friend of the dead woman. You know the circumstances of her life, in all probability, much better than her husband does, since he only made her acquaintance a few months ago. You would know, for instance, of anyone who had a grudge against her. You would know, perhaps, whether there was anyone who had a motive for desiring her death.â

Andrew Pennington passed his tongue over rather dry-looking lips.

âI assure you, I have no ideaâ¦You see Linnet was brought up in England. I know very little of her surroundings and associations.â

âAnd yet,â mused Poirot, âthere was someone on board who was interested in Madameâs removal. She had a near escape before, you remember, at this very place, when that boulder crashed downâah! but you were not there, perhaps?â

âNo. I was inside the temple at the time. I heard about it afterwards, of course. A very near escape. But possibly an accident, donât you think?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âOne thought so at the time. Nowâone wonders.â

âYesâyes, of course.â Pennington wiped his face with a fine silk handkerchief.

Colonel Race went on: âMr. Doyle happened to mention someone being on board who bore a grudgeânot against her personally, but against her family. Do you know who that could be?â

Pennington looked genuinely astonished.

âNo, Iâve no idea.â

âShe didnât mention the matter to you?â

âNo.â

âYou were an intimate friend of her fatherâsâyou cannot remember any business operations of his that might have resulted in ruin for some business opponent?â

Pennington shook his head helplessly. âNo outstanding case. Such operations were frequent, of course, but I canât recall anyone who uttered threatsânothing of that kind.â

In short, Mr. Pennington, you cannot help us?â

âIt seems so. I deplore my inadequacy, gentlemen.â

Race interchanged a glance with Poirot, then he said: âIâm sorry too. Weâd had hopes.â

He got up as a sign the interview was at an end.

Andrew Pennington said: âAs Doyleâs laid up, I expect heâd like me to see to things. Pardon me, Colonel, but what exactly are the arrangements?â

âWhen we leave here we shall make a nonstop run to Shellal, arriving there tomorrow morning.â

âAnd the body?â

âWill be removed to one of the cold storage chambers.â

Andrew Pennington bowed his head. Then he left the room.

Poirot and Race again interchanged a glance.

âMr. Pennington,â said Race, lighting a cigarette, âwas not at all comfortable.â

Poirot nodded. âAnd,â he said, âMr. Pennington was sufficiently perturbed to tell a rather stupid lie. He was not in the temple of Abu Simbel when that boulder fell. Iâmoi qui vous parleâcan swear to that. I had just come from there.â

âA very stupid lie,â said Race, âand a very revealing one.â

Again Poirot nodded.

âBut for the moment,â he said, and smiled, âwe handle him with the gloves of kid, is it not so?â

âThat was the idea,â agreed Race.

âMy friend, you and I understand each other to a marvel.â

There was a faint grinding noise, a stir beneath their feet. The Karnak had started on her homeward journey to Shellal.

âThe pearls,â said Race. âThat is the next thing to be cleared up.â

âYou have a plan?â

âYes.â He glanced at his watch. âIt will be lunchtime in half an hour. At the end of the meal I propose to make an announcementâjust state the fact that the pearls have been stolen, and that I must request everyone to stay in the dining saloon while a search is conducted.â

Poirot nodded approvingly.

âIt is well imagined. Whoever took the pearls still has them. By giving no warning beforehand, there will be no chance of their being thrown overboard in a panic.â

Race drew some sheets of paper towards him. He murmured apologetically: âIâd like to make a brief prÃ©cis of the facts as I go along. It keeps oneâs mind free of confusion.â

âYou do well. Method and order, they are everything,â replied Poirot.

Race wrote for some minutes in his small neat script. Finally he pushed the result of his labours towards Poirot.

âAnything you donât agree with there?â Poirot took up the sheets. They were headed:

MURDER OF MRS. LINNET DOYLE

Mrs. Doyle was last seen alive by her maid, Louise Bourget. Time: 11:30 (approx.).

From 11:30â12:20 following have alibis: Cornelia Robson, James Fanthorp, Simon Doyle, Jacqueline de Bellefortânobody elseâbut crime almost certainly committed after that time, since it is practically certain that pistol used was Jacqueline de Bellefortâs, which was then in her handbag. That her pistol was used is not absolutely certain until after postmortem and expert evidence re bulletâbut it may be taken as overwhelmingly probable.

Probable course of events: X (murderer) was witness of scene between Jacqueline and Simon Doyle in observation saloon and noted where pistol went under settee. After the saloon was vacant, X procured pistolâhis or her idea being that Jacqueline de Bellefort would be thought guilty of crime. On this theory certain people are automatically cleared of suspicion:

Cornelia Robson, since she had no opportunity to take pistol before James Fanthorp returned to search for it.

Miss Bowersâsame.

Dr. Bessnerâsame.

N.B.âFanthorp is not definitely excluded from suspicion, since he could actually have pocketed pistol while declaring himself unable to find it.

Any other person could have taken the pistol during that ten minutesâ interval.

Possible motives for the murder:

Andrew Pennington. This is on the assumption that he has been guilty of fraudulent practices. There is a certain amount of evidence in favour of that assumption, but not enough to justify making out a case against him. If it was he who rolled down the boulder, he is a man who can seize a chance when it presents itself. The crime, clearly, was not premeditated except in a general way. Last nightâs shooting scene was an ideal opportunity.

Objections to the theory of Penningtonâs guilt: Why did he throw the pistol overboard, since it constituted a valuable clue against J.B.?

Fleetwood. Motive, revenge. Fleetwood considered himself injured by Linnet Doyle. Might have overheard scene and noted position of pistol. He may have taken pistol because it was a handy weapon, rather than with the idea of throwing guilt on Jacqueline. This would fit in with throwing it overboard. But if that were the case, why did he write J in blood on the wall?

N.B.âCheap handkerchief found with pistol more likely to have belonged to a man like Fleetwood than to one of the well-to-do passengers.

Rosalie Otterbourne. Are we to accept Miss Van Schuylerâs evidence or Rosalieâs denial? Something was thrown overboard at the time and that something was presumably the pistol wrapped up in the velvet stole.

Points to be noted. Had Rosalie any motive? She may have disliked Linnet Doyle and even been envious of herâbut as a motive for murder that seems grossly inadequate. The evidence against her can be convincing only if we discover an adequate motive. As far as we know, there is no previous knowledge or link between Rosalie Otterbourne and Linnet Doyle.

Miss Van Schuyler. The velvet stole in which pistol was wrapped belonged to Miss Van Schuyler. According to her own statement she last saw it in the observation saloon. She drew attention to its loss during the evening, and a search was made for it without success.

How did the stole come into the possession of X? Did X purloin it some time early in the evening? But if so, why? Nobody could tell, in advance, that there was going to be a scene between Jacqueline and Simon. Did X find the stole in the saloon when he went to get the pistol from under the settee? But if so, why was it not found when the search for it was made? Did it never leave Miss Van Schuylerâs possession? That is to say: Did Miss Van Schuyler murder Linnet Doyle? Is her accusation of Rosalie Otterbourne a deliberate lie? If she did murder her, what was her motive?

Other possibilities:

Robbery as a motive. Possible, since the pearls have disappeared, and Linnet Doyle was certainly wearing them last night.

Someone with a grudge against the Ridgeway family. Possibleâagain no evidence.

We know that there is a dangerous man on boardâa killer. Here we have a killer and a death. May not the two be connected? But we should have to show that Linnet Doyle possessed dangerous knowledge concerning this man.

Conclusions: We can group the persons on board into two classesâthose who had a possible motive or against whom there is definite evidence, and those who, as far as we know, are free of suspicion.

Group I: Andrew Pennington

Group II: Mrs. Allerton

Â 

Group I: Fleetwood

Group II: Tim Allerton

Â 

Group I: Rosalie Otterbourne

Group II: Cornelia Robson

Â 

Group I: Miss Van Schuyler

Group II: Miss Bowers

Â 

Group I: Louise Bourget (Robbery?)

Group II: Dr. Bessner

Â 

Group I: Ferguson (Political?)

Group II: Signor Richetti

Group II: Mrs. Otterbourne

Group II: James Fanthorp

Â 

Poirot pushed the paper back.

âIt is very just, very exact, what you have written there.â

âYou agree with it?â

âYes.â

âAnd now what is your contribution?â

Poirot drew himself up in an important manner.

âMe, I pose myself one question: âWhy was the pistol thrown overboard?ââ

âThatâs all?â

âAt the moment, yes. Until I can arrive at a satisfactory answer to that question, there is not sense anywhere. That isâthat must be the starting point. You will notice, my friend, that, in your summary of where we stand, you have not attempted to answer that point.â

Race shrugged his shoulders.

âPanic.â

Poirot shook his head perplexedly. He picked up the sodden velvet wrap and smoothed it out, wet and limp, on the table. His fingers traced the scorched marks and the burnt holes.

âTell me, my friend,â he said suddenly. âYou are more conversant with firearms than I am. Would such a thing as this, wrapped round a pistol, make much difference in muffling the sound?â

âNo, it wouldnât. Not like a silencer, for instance.â

Poirot nodded. He went on: âA manâcertainly a man who had had much handling of firearmsâwould know that. But a womanâa woman would not know.â

Race looked at him curiously. âProbably not.â

âNo. She would have read the detective stories where they are not always very exact as to details.â

Race flicked the little pearl-handled pistol with his finger.

âThis little fellow wouldnât make much noise anyway,â he said. âJust a pop, thatâs all. With any other noise around, ten to one you wouldnât notice it.â

âYes, I have reflected as to that.â

Poirot picked up the handkerchief and examined it.

âA manâs handkerchiefâbut not a gentlemanâs handkerchief. Ce cher Woolworth, I imagine. Threepence at most.â

âThe sort of handkerchief a man like Fleetwood would own.â

âYes. Andrew Pennington, I notice, carries a very fine silk handkerchief.â

âFerguson?â suggested Race.

âPossibly. As a gesture. But then it ought to be a bandana.â

âUsed it instead of a glove, I suppose, to hold the pistol and obviate fingerprints.â Race added, with slight facetiousness, ââThe Clue of the Blushing Handkerchief.ââ

âAh, yes. Quite a jeune fille colour, is it not?â He laid it down and returned to the stole, once more examining the powder marks.

âAll the same,â he murmured, âit is oddâ¦.â

âWhatâs that?â

Poirot said gently: âCette pauvre Madame Doyle. Lying there so peacefullyâ¦with the little hole in her head. You remember how she looked?â

Race looked at him curiously. âYou know,â he said, âIâve got an idea youâre trying to tell me somethingâbut I havenât the faintest idea what it is.â

Nineteen

There was a tap on the door.

âCome in,â Race called.

A steward entered.

âExcuse me, sir,â he said to Poirot, âbut Mr. Doyle is asking for you.â

âI will come.â

Poirot rose. He went out of the room and up the companion-way to the promenade deck and along it to Dr. Bessnerâs cabin.

Simon, his face flushed and feverish, was propped up with pillows. He looked embarrassed.

âAwfully good of you to come along, Monsieur Poirot. Look here, thereâs something I want to ask you.â

âYes?â

Simon got still redder in the face.

âItâsâitâs about Jackie. I want to see her. Do you thinkâwould you mindâwould she mind, dâyou think, if you asked her to come along here? You know Iâve been lying here thinkingâ¦That wretched kidâshe is only a kid after allâand I treated her damnâ badlyâandââ He stammered to silence.

Poirot looked at him with interest.

âYou desire to see Mademoiselle Jacqueline? I will fetch her.â

âThanks. Awfully good of you.â

Poirot went on his quest. He found Jacqueline de Bellefort sitting huddled up in a corner of the observation saloon. There was an open book on her lap but she was not reading.

Poirot said gently: âWill you come with me, Mademoiselle? Monsieur Doyle wants to see you.â

She started up. Her face flushedâthen paled. She looked bewildered.

âSimon? He wants to see meâto see me?â

He found her incredulity moving.

âWill you come, Mademoiselle?â

She went with him in a docile fashion, like a child, but like a puzzled child.

âIâyes, of course I will.â

Poirot passed into the cabin.

âHere is Mademoiselle.â

She stepped in after him, wavered, stood stillâ¦standing there mute and dumb, her eyes fixed on Simonâs face.

âHullo, Jackie.â He, too, was embarrassed. He went on: âAwfully good of you to come. I wanted to sayâI meanâwhat I mean isââ

She interrupted him then. Her words came out in a rushâbreathless, desperate.

âSimonâI didnât kill Linnet. You know I didnât do thatâ¦IâIâwas mad last night. Oh, can you ever forgive me?â

Words came more easily to him now.

âOf course. Thatâs all right! Absolutely all right! Thatâs what I wanted to say. Thought you might be worrying a bit, you knowâ¦.â

âWorrying? A bit? Oh! Simon!â

âThatâs what I wanted to see you about. Itâs quite all right, see, old girl? You just got a bit rattled last nightâa shade tight. All perfectly natural.â

âOh, Simon! I might have killed you!â

âNot you. Not with a rotten little peashooter like thatâ¦.â

âAnd your leg! Perhaps youâll never walk againâ¦.â

âNow, look here, Jackie, donât be maudlin. As soon as we get to Assuan theyâre going to put the X-ray to work, and dig out that tin-pot bullet, and everything will be as right as rain.â

Jacqueline gulped twice, then she rushed forward and knelt down by Simonâs bed, burying her face and sobbing. Simon patted her awkwardly on the head. His eyes met Poirotâs and, with a reluctant sigh, the latter left the cabin.

He heard broken murmurs as he went:

âHow could I be such a devil? Oh, Simon!â¦Iâm so dreadfully sorry.â

Outside Cornelia Robson was leaning over the rail. She turned her head.

âOh, itâs you, Monsieur Poirot. It seems so awful somehow that it should be such a lovely day.â

Poirot looked up at the sky.

âWhen the sun shines you cannot see the moon,â he said. âBut when the sun is goneâah, when the sun is gone.â

Corneliaâs mouth fell open.

âI beg your pardon?â

âI was saying, Mademoiselle, that when the sun has gone down, we shall see the moon. That is so, is it not?â

âWhyâwhy, yesâcertainly.â

She looked at him doubtfully.

Poirot laughed gently.

âI utter the imbecilities,â he said. âTake no notice.â

He strolled gently towards the stern of the boat. As he passed the next cabin he paused for a minute. He caught fragments of speech from within.

âUtterly ungratefulâafter all Iâve done for youâno consideration for your wretched motherâno idea of what I sufferâ¦.â

Poirotâs lips stiffened as he pressed them together. He raised a hand and knocked.

âIs Mademoiselle Rosalie there?â

Rosalie appeared in the doorway. Poirot was shocked at her appearance. There were dark circles under her eyes and drawn lines round her mouth.

âWhatâs the matter?â she said ungraciously. âWhat do you want?â

âThe pleasure of a few minutesâ conversation with you, Mademoiselle. Will you come?â

Her mouth went sulky at once. She shot him a suspicious look.

âWhy should I?â

âI entreat you, Mademoiselle.â

âOh, I supposeââ

She stepped out on the deck, closing the door behind her.

âWell?â

Poirot took her gently by the arm and drew her along the deck, still in the direction of the stern. They passed the bathrooms and round the corner. They had the stern part of the deck to themselves. The Nile flowed away behind them.

Poirot rested his elbows on the rail. Rosalie stood up straight and stiff.

âWell?â she asked again, and her voice held the same ungracious tone.

Poirot spoke slowly, choosing his words. âI could ask you certain questions, Mademoiselle, but I do not think for one moment that you would consent to answer them.â

âSeems rather a waste to bring me along here then.â

Poirot drew a finger slowly along the wooden rail.

âYou are accustomed, Mademoiselle, to carrying your own burdensâ¦But you can do that too long. The strain becomes too great. For you, Mademoiselle, the strain is becoming too great.â

âI donât know what you are talking about,â said Rosalie.

âI am talking about facts, Mademoiselleâplain ugly facts. Let us call the spade the spade and say it in one little short sentence. Your mother drinks, Mademoiselle.â

Rosalie did not answer. Her mouth opened; then she closed it again. For once she seemed at a loss.

âThere is no need for you to talk, Mademoiselle. I will do all the talking. I was interested at Assuan in the relations existing between you. I saw at once that, in spite of your carefully studied unfilial remarks, you were in reality passionately protecting her from something. I very soon knew what that something was. I knew it long before I encountered your mother one morning in an unmistakable state of intoxication. Moreover, her case, I could see, was one of secret bouts of drinkingâby far the most difficult kind of case with which to deal. You were coping with it manfully. Nevertheless, she had all the secret drunkardâs cunning. She managed to get hold of a secret supply of spirits and to keep it successfully hidden from you. I should not be surprised if you discovered its hiding place only yesterday. Accordingly, last night, as soon as your mother was really soundly asleep, you stole out with the contents of the cache, went round to the other side of the boat (since your own side was up against the bank) and cast it overboard into the Nile.â

He paused.

âI am right, am I not?â

âYesâyouâre quite right.â Rosalie spoke with sudden passion. âI was a fool not to say so, I suppose! But I didnât want everyone to know. It would go all over the boat. And it seemed soâso sillyâI meanâthat Iââ

Poirot finished the sentence for her.

âSo silly that you should be suspected of committing a murder?â

Rosalie nodded.

Then she burst out again: âIâve tried so hard toâkeep everyone from knowingâ¦It isnât really her fault. She got discouraged. Her books didnât sell anymore. People are tired of all that cheap sex stuffâ¦It hurt herâit hurt her dreadfully. And so she began toâto drink. For a long time I didnât know why she was so queer. Then, when I found out, I tried toâto stop it. Sheâd be all right for a bit, and then, suddenly, sheâd start, and there would be dreadful quarrels and rows with people. It was awful.â She shuddered. âI had always to be on the watchâto get her awayâ¦.â

âAnd thenâshe began to dislike me for it. Sheâsheâs turned right against me. I think she almost hates me sometimes.â

âPauvre petite,â said Poirot.

She turned on him vehemently.

âDonât be sorry for me. Donât be kind. Itâs easier if youâre not.â She sighedâa long heartrending sigh. âIâm so tiredâ¦Iâm so deadly, deadly tired.â

âI know,â said Poirot.

âPeople think Iâm awful. Stuck-up and cross and bad-tempered. I canât help it. Iâve forgotten how to beâto be nice.â

âThat is what I said to you; you have carried your burden by yourself too long.â

Rosalie said slowly. âItâs a reliefâto talk about it. Youâyouâve always been kind to me, Monsieur Poirot. Iâm afraid Iâve been rude to you often.â

âLa politesse, it is not necessary between friends.â

The suspicion came back to her face suddenly.

âAre youâare you going to tell everyone? I suppose you must, because of those damned bottles I threw overboard.â

âNo, no, it is not necessary. Just tell me what I want to know. At what time was this? Ten minutes past one?â

âAbout that, I should think. I donât remember exactly.â

âNow tell me, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Van Schuyler saw you, did you see her?â

Rosalie shook her head.

âNo, I didnât.â

âShe says that she looked out of the door of her cabin.â

âI donât think I should have seen her. I just looked along the deck and then out to the river.â

Poirot nodded.

âAnd did you see anyoneâanyone at all, when you looked down the deck?â

There was a pauseâquite a long pause. Rosalie was frowning. She seemed to be thinking earnestly.

At last she shook her head quite decisively.

âNo,â she said. âI saw nobody.â

Hercule Poirot slowly nodded his head. But his eyes were grave.

Twenty

People crept into the dining saloon by ones and twos in a very subdued manner. There seemed a general feeling that to sit down eagerly to food displayed an unfortunate heartlessness. It was with an almost apologetic air that one passenger after another came and sat down at their tables.

Tim Allerton arrived some few minutes after his mother had taken her seat. He was looking in a thoroughly bad temper.

âI wish weâd never come on this blasted trip,â he growled.

Mrs. Allerton shook her head sadly.

âOh, my dear, so do I. That beautiful girl! It all seems such a waste. To think that anyone could shoot her in cold blood. It seems awful to me that anyone could do such a thing. And that other poor child.â

âJacqueline?â

âYes; my heart aches for her. She looks so dreadfully unhappy.â

âTeach her not to go round loosing off toy firearms,â said Tim unfeelingly as he helped himself to butter.

âI expect she was badly brought up.â

âOh, for Godâs sake, Mother, donât go all maternal about it.â

âYouâre in a shocking bad temper, Tim.â

âYes I am. Who wouldnât be?â

âI donât see what there is to be cross about. Itâs just frightfully sad.â

Tim said crossly: âYouâre taking the romantic point of view! What you donât seem to realize is that itâs no joke being mixed up in a murder case.â

Mrs. Allerton looked a little startled.

âBut surelyââ

âThatâs just it. Thereâs no âBut surelyâ about it. Everyone on this damned boat is under suspicionâyou and I as well as the rest of them.â

Mrs. Allerton demurred. âTechnically we are, I supposeâbut actually itâs ridiculous!â

âThereâs nothing ridiculous where murderâs concerned! You may sit there, darling, just exuding virtue and conscious rectitude, but a lot of unpleasant policeman at Shellal or Assuan wonât take you at your face value.â

âPerhaps the truth will be known before then.â

âWhy should it be?â

âMonsieur Poirot may find out.â

âThat old mountebank? He wonât find out anything. Heâs all talk and moustaches.â

âWell, Tim,â said Mrs. Allerton. âI dare say everything you say is true, but, even if it is, weâve got to go through with it, so we might as well make up our minds to it and go through with it as cheerfully as we can.â

But her son showed no abatement of gloom.

âThereâs this blasted business of the pearls being missing, too.â

âLinnetâs pearls?â

âYes. It seems somebody must have pinched âem.â

âI suppose that was the motive for the crime,â said Mrs. Allerton.

âWhy should it be? Youâre mixing up two perfectly different things.â

âWho told you that they were missing?â

âFerguson. He got it from his tough friend in the engine room, who got it from the maid.â

âThey were lovely pearls,â declared Mrs. Allerton.

Poirot sat down at the table, bowing to Mrs. Allerton.

âI am a little late,â he said.

âI expect you have been busy,â Mrs. Allerton replied.

âYes, I have been much occupied.â

He ordered a fresh bottle of wine from the waiter.

âWeâre very catholic in our tastes,â said Mrs. Allerton. âYou drink wine always; Tim drinks whisky and soda, and I try all the different brands of mineral water in turn.â

âTiens!â said Poirot. He stared at her for a moment. He murmured to himself: âIt is an idea, thatâ¦.â

Then, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, he dismissed the sudden preoccupation that had distracted him and began to chat lightly of other matters.

âIs Mr. Doyle badly hurt?â asked Mrs. Allerton.

âYes, it is a fairly serious injury. Dr. Bessner is anxious to reach Assuan so that his leg can be X-rayed and the bullet removed. But he hopes there will be no permanent lameness.â

âPoor Simon,â said Mrs. Allerton. âOnly yesterday he looked such a happy boy, with everything in the world he wanted. And now his beautiful wife killed and he himself laid up and helpless. I do hope, thoughââ

âWhat do you hope, Madame?â asked Poirot as Mrs. Allerton paused.

âI hope heâs not too angry with that poor child.â

âWith Mademoiselle Jacqueline? Quite the contrary. He was full of anxiety on her behalf.â

He turned to Tim.

âYou know, it is a pretty little problem of psychology, that. All the time that Mademoiselle Jacqueline was following them from place to place, he was absolutely furious; but now, when she has actually shot him, and wounded him dangerouslyâperhaps made him lame for lifeâall his anger seems to have evaporated. Can you understand that?â

âYes,â said Tim thoughtfully, âI think I can. The first thing made him feel a foolââ

Poirot nodded. âYou are right. It offended his male dignity.â

âBut nowâif you look at it a certain way, itâs she whoâs made a fool of herself. Everyoneâs down on her, and soââ

âHe can be generously forgiving,â finished Mrs. Allerton. âWhat children men are!â

âA profoundly untrue statement that women always make,â murmured Tim.

Poirot smiled. Then he said to Tim: âTell me, Madame Doyleâs cousin, Miss Joanna Southwood, did she resemble Madame Doyle?â

âYouâve got it a little wrong, Monsieur Poirot. She was our cousin and Linnetâs friend.â

âAh, pardonâI was confused. She is a young lady much in the news, that. I have been interested in her for some time.â

âWhy?â asked Tim sharply.

Poirot half rose to bow to Jacqueline de Bellefort, who had just come in and passed their table on the way to her own. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and her breath came a little unevenly. As he resumed his seat Poirot seemed to have forgotten Timâs question. He murmured vaguely: âI wonder if all young ladies with valuable jewels are as careless as Madame Doyle was?â

âIt is true, then, that they were stolen?â asked Mrs. Allerton.

âWho told you so, Madame?â

âFerguson said so,â Tim volunteered.

Poirot nodded gravely.

âIt is quite true.â

âI suppose,â Mrs. Allerton nervously, âthat this will mean a lot of unpleasantness for all of us. Tim says it will.â

Her son scowled, but Poirot had turned to him.

âAh! You have had previous experience, perhaps? You have been in a house where there was a robbery?â

âNever,â said Tim.

âOh, yes, darling, you were at the Portarlingtonsâ that timeâwhen that awful womanâs diamonds were stolen.â

âYou always get things hopelessly wrong, Mother. I was there when it was discovered that the diamonds she was wearing round her fat neck were only paste! The actual substitution was probably done months earlier. As a matter of fact, of lot of people said sheâd had it done herself!â

âJoanna said so, I expect.â

âJoanna wasnât there.â

âBut she knew them quite well. And itâs very like her to make that kind of suggestion.â

âYouâre always down on Joanna, Mother.â

Poirot hastily changed the subject. He had it in mind to make a really big purchase at one of the Assuanshops. Some very attractive purple and gold material at one of the Indian merchants. There would, of course, be the duty to pay, butâ

âThey tell me that they canâhow do you sayâexpedite it for me. And that the charges will not be too high. How think you, will it arrive all right?â

Mrs. Allerton said that many people, so she had heard, had had things sent straight to England from the shops in question and that everything had arrived safely.

âBien. Then I will do that. But the trouble one has, when one is abroad, if a parcel comes out from England! Have you had experience of that? Have you had any parcels arrive since you have been on your travels?â

âI donât think we have, have we, Tim? You get books sometimes, but of course there is never any trouble about them.â

âAh, no, books are different.â

Dessert had been served. Now, without any previous warning, Colonel Race stood up and made his speech.

He touched on the circumstances of the crime and announced the theft of the pearls. A search of the boat was about to be instituted, and he would be obliged if all the passengers would remain in the saloon until this was completed. Then, after that, if the passengers agreed, as he was sure they would, they themselves would be kind enough to submit to a search.

Poirot slipped nimbly along to his side. There was a little buzz and hum all round them. Voices doubtful, indignant, excitedâ¦.

Poirot reached Raceâs side and murmured something in his ear just as the latter was about to leave the dining saloon.

Race listened, nodded assent, and beckoned a steward. He said a few brief words to him; then, together with Poirot, he passed out on to the deck, closing the door behind him.

They stood for a minute or two by the rail. Race lit a cigarette.

âNot a bad idea of yours,â he said. âWeâll soon see if thereâs anything in it. Iâll give âem three minutes.â

The door of the dining saloon opened and the same steward to whom they had spoken came out. He saluted Race and said: âQuite right, sir. Thereâs a lady who says itâs urgent she should speak to you at once without delay.â

âAh!â Raceâs face showed satisfaction.

âWho is it?â

âMiss Bowers, sir, the hospital nurse lady.â

A slight shade of surprise showed on Raceâs face. He said, âBring her to the smoking room. Donât let anyone else leave.â

âNo, sirâthe other steward will attend to that.â

He went back into the dining room. Poirot and Race went to the smoking room.

âBowers, eh?â muttered Race.

They had hardly got inside the smoking room before the steward reappeared with Miss Bowers. He ushered her in and left, shutting the door behind him.

âWell, Miss Bowers?â Colonel Race looked at her inquiringly. âWhatâs all this?â

Miss Bowers looked her usual composed, unhurried self. She displayed no particular emotion.

âYouâll excuse me, Colonel Race,â she said, âbut under the circumstances I thought the best thing to do would be to speak to you at onceââshe opened her neat black handbagââand to return you these.â

She took out a string of pearls and laid them on the table.

Twenty-One

If Miss Bowers had been the kind of woman who enjoyed creating a sensation, she would have been richly repaid by the result of her action.

A look of utter astonishment passed over Colonel Raceâs face as he picked up the pearls from the table.

âThis is most extraordinary,â he said. âWill you kindly explain, Miss Bowers?â

âOf course. Thatâs what Iâve come to do.â Miss Bowers settled herself comfortably in a chair. âNaturally it was a little difficult for me to decide what it was best for me to do. The family would naturally be averse to scandal of any kind, and they trusted my discretion, but the circumstances are so very unusual that it really leaves me no choice. Of course, when you didnât find anything in the cabins, your next move would be a search of the passengers, and, if the pearls were then found in my possession, it would be rather an awkward situation and the truth would come out just the same.â

âAnd just what is the truth? Did you take these pearls from Mrs. Doyleâs cabin?â

âOh, no, Colonel Race, of course not. Miss Van Schuyler did.â

âMiss Van Schuyler?â

âYes. She canât help it, you know, but she doesâerâtake things. Especially jewellery. Thatâs really why Iâm always with her. Itâs not her health at all; itâs this little idiosyncrasy. I keep on the alert, and fortunately thereâs never been any trouble since Iâve been with her. It just means being watchful, you know. And she always hides the things she takes in the same placeârolled up in a pair of stockingsâso that it makes it very simple. I look each morning. Of course Iâm a light sleeper, and I always sleep next door to her, and with the communicating door open if itâs in a hotel, so that I usually hear. Then I go after her and persuade her to go back to bed. Of course itâs been rather more difficult on a boat. But she doesnât usually do it at night. Itâs more just picking up things that she sees left about. Of course, pearls have a great attraction for her always.â

Miss Bowers ceased speaking.

Race asked: âHow did you discover they had been taken?â

âThey were in her stockings this morning. I knew whose they were, of course. Iâve often noticed them. I went along to put them back, hoping that Mrs. Doyle wasnât up yet and hadnât discovered her loss. But there was a steward standing there, and he told me about the murder and that no one could go in. So then, you see, I was in a regular quandary. But I still hoped to slip them back in the cabin later, before their absence had been noticed. I can assure you Iâve passed a very unpleasant morning wondering what was the best thing to do. You see, the Van Schuyler family is so very particular and exclusive. It would never do if this got into the newspapers. But that wonât be necessary, will it?â

Miss Bowers really looked worried.

âThat depends on circumstances,â said Colonel Race cautiously.

âBut we shall do our best for you, of course. What does Miss Van Schuyler say to this?â

âOh, sheâll deny it, of course. She always does. Says some wicked person has put it there. She never admits taking anything. Thatâs why if you catch her in time she goes back to bed like a lamb. Says she just went out to look at the moon. Something like that.â

âDoes Miss Robson know about thisâerâfailing?â

âNo, she doesnât. Her mother knows, but sheâs a very simple kind of girl and her mother thought it best she should know nothing about it. I was quite equal to dealing with Miss Van Schuyler,â added the competent Miss Bowers.

âWe have to thank you, Mademoiselle, for coming to us so promptly,â said Poirot.

Miss Bowers stood up.

âIâm sure I hope I acted for the best.â

âBe assured that you have.â

âYou see, what with there being a murder as wellââ

Colonel Race interrupted her. His voice was grave.

âMiss Bowers, I am going to ask you a question, and I want to impress upon you that it has got to be answered truthfully. Miss Van Schuyler is unhinged mentally to the extent of being a kleptomaniac. Has she also a tendency to homicidal mania?â

Miss Bowersâ answer came immediately: âOh, dear me, no! Nothing of that kind. You can take my word for it absolutely. The old lady wouldnât hurt a fly.â

The reply came with such positive assurance that there seemed nothing more to be said. Nevertheless Poirot did interpolate one mild inquiry.

âDoes Miss Van Schuyler suffer at all from deafness?â

âAs a matter of fact she does, Monsieur Poirot. Not so that youâd notice in any way, not if you were speaking to her, I mean. But quite often she doesnât hear you when you come into a room. Things like that.â

âDo you think she would have heard anyone moving about in Mrs. Doyleâs cabin, which is next door to her own?â

âOh, I shouldnât think soânot for a minute. You see, the bunk is the other side of the cabin, not even against the partition wall. No, I donât think she would have heard anything.â

âThank you, Miss Bowers.â

Race said: âPerhaps you will now go back to the dining saloon and wait with the others?â

He opened the door for her and watched her go down the staircase and enter the saloon. Then he shut the door and came back to the table. Poirot had picked up the pearls.

âWell,â said Race grimly, âthat reaction came pretty quickly. Thatâs a very coolheaded and astute young womanâperfectly capable of holding out on us and still further if she thinks it suits her book. What about Miss Marie Van Schuyler now? I donât think we can eliminate her from the possible suspects. You know, she might have committed murder to get hold of those jewels. We canât take the nurseâs word for it. Sheâs all out to do the best for the family.â

Poirot nodded in agreement. He was very busy with the pearls, running them through his fingers, holding them up to his eyes.

He said: âWe may take it, I think, that part of the old ladyâs story to us is true. She did look out of her cabin and she did see Rosalie Otterbourne. But I donât think she heard anything or anyone in Linnet Doyleâs cabin. I think she was just peering out from her cabin preparatory to slipping along and purloining the pearls.â

âThe Otterbourne girl was there, then?â

âYes. Throwing her motherâs secret cache of drink overboard.â

Colonel Race shook his head sympathetically.

âSo thatâs it! Tough on a young âun.â

âYes, her life has not been very gay, cette pauvre petite Rosalie.â

âWell, Iâm glad thatâs been cleared up. She didnât see or hear anything?â

âI asked her that. She respondedâafter a lapse of quite twenty secondsâthat she saw nobody.â

âOh?â Race looked alert.

âYes, it is suggestive, that.â

Race said slowly: âIf Linnet Doyle was shot round about ten minutes past one, or indeed any time after the boat had quieted down, it has seemed amazing to me that no one heard the shot. I grant you that a little pistol like that wouldnât make much noise, but all the same the boat would be deadly quiet, and any noise, even a little pop, should have been heard. But I begin to understand better now. The cabin on the forward side of hers was unoccupiedâsince her husband was in Dr. Bessnerâs cabin. The one aft was occupied by the Van Schuyler woman, who was deaf. That leaves onlyââ

He paused and looked expectantly at Poirot, who nodded.

âThe cabin next to her on the other side of the boat. In other wordsâPennington. We always seem to come back to Pennington.â

âWe will come back to him presently with the kid gloves removed! Ah, yes, I am promising myself that pleasure.â

âIn the meantime weâd better get on with our search of the boat. The pearls still make a convenient excuse, even though they have been returnedâbut Miss Bowers is not likely to advertise the fact.â

âAh, these pearls!â Poirot held them up against the light once more. He stuck out his tongue and licked them; he even gingerly tried one of them between his teeth. Then, with a sigh, he threw them down on the table.

âHere are more complications, my friend,â he said. âI am not an expert on precious stones, but I have had a good deal to do with them in my time and I am fairly certain of what I say. These pearls are only a clever imitation.â

Twenty-Two

Colonel Race swore hastily.

âThis damned case gets more and more involved.â He picked up the pearls. âI suppose youâve not made a mistake? They look all right to me.â

âThey are a very good imitationâyes.â

âNow where does that lead us? I suppose Linnet Doyle didnât deliberately have an imitation made and bring it aboard with her for safety. Many women do.â

âI think, if that were so, her husband would know about it.â

âShe may not have told him.â

Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

âNo, I do not think that is so. I was admiring Madame Doyleâs pearls the first evening on the boatâtheir wonderful sheen and lustre. I am sure that she was wearing the genuine ones then.â

âThat brings us up against two possibilities. First, that Miss Van Schuyler only stole the imitation string after the real ones had been stolen by someone else. Second, that the whole kleptomaniac story is a fabrication. Either Miss Bowers is a thief, and quickly invented the story and allayed suspicion by handing over the false pearls, or else that whole party is in it together. That is to say, they are a gang of clever jewel thieves masquerading as an exclusive American family.â

âYes,â Poirot murmured. âIt is difficult to say. But I will point out to you one thingâto make a perfect and exact copy of the pearls, clasp and all, good enough to stand a chance of deceiving Madame Doyle, is a highly skilled technical performance. It could not be done in a hurry. Whoever copied those pearls must have had a good opportunity of studying the original.â

Race rose to his feet.

âUseless to speculate about it any further now. Letâs get on with the job. Weâve got to find the real pearls. And at the same time weâll keep our eyes open.â

They disposed of the cabins occupied on the lower deck. That of Signor Richetti contained various archaeological works in different languages, a varied assortment of clothing, hair lotions of a highly scented kind and two personal lettersâone from an archaeological expedition in Syria, and one from, apparently, a sister in Rome. His handkerchiefs were all of coloured silk.

They passed on to Fergusonâs cabin.

There was a sprinkling of communistic literature, a good many snapshots, Samuel Butlerâs Erewhon and a cheap edition of Pepysâ Diary. His personal possessions were not many. Most of what outer clothing there was was torn and dirty; the underclothing, on the other hand, was of really good quality. The handkerchiefs were expensive linen ones.

âSome interesting discrepancies,â murmured Poirot.

Race nodded. âRather odd that there are absolutely no personal papers, letters, etc.â

âYes; that gives one to think. An odd young man, Monsieur Ferguson.â He looked thoughtfully at a signet ring he held in his hand, before replacing it in the drawer where he had found it.

They went along to the cabin occupied by Louise Bourget. The maid had her meals after the other passengers, but Race had sent word that she was to be taken to join the others. A cabin steward met them.

âIâm sorry, sir,â he apologized, âbut Iâve not been able to find the young woman anywhere. I canât think where she can have got to.â

Race glanced inside the cabin. It was empty.

They went up to the promenade deck and started on the starboard side. The first cabin was that occupied by James Fanthorp. Here all was in meticulous order. Mr. Fanthorp travelled light, but all that he had was of good quality.

âNo letters,â said Poirot thoughtfully. âHe is careful, our Mr. Fanthorp, to destroy his correspondence.â

They passed on to Tim Allertonâs cabin, next door.

There were evidences here of an Anglo-Catholic turn of mindâan exquisite little triptych, and a big rosary of intricately carved wood. Besides personal clothing, there was a half completed manuscript, a good deal annotated and scribbled over, and a good collection of books, most of them recently published. There were also a quantity of letters thrown carelessly into a drawer. Poirot, never in the least scrupulous about reading other peopleâs correspondence, glanced through them. He noted that amongst them there were no letters from Joanna Southwood. He picked up a tube of Seccotine, fingered it absently for a minute or two, then said: âLet us pass on.â

âNo Woolworth handkerchiefs,â reported Race, rapidly replacing the contents of a drawer.

Mrs. Allertonâs cabin was the next. It was exquisitely neat, and a faint old-fashioned smell of lavender hung about it. The two menâs search was soon over. Race remarked as they left it: âNice woman, that.â

The next cabin was that which had been used as a dressing room by Simon Doyle. His immediate necessitiesâpyjamas, toilet things, etc.âhad been moved to Bessnerâs cabin, but the remainder of his possessions were still thereâtwo good-sized leather suitcases and a kitbag. There were also some clothes in the wardrobe.

âWe will look carefully here, my friend,â said Poirot, âfor it is possible that the thief hid the pearls here.â

âYou think it is likely?â

âBut yes, indeed. Consider! The thief, whoever he or she may be, must know that sooner or later a search will be made, and therefore a hiding place in his or her own cabin would be injudicious in the extreme. The public rooms present other difficulties. But here is a cabin belonging to a man who cannot possibly visit it himself so that, if the pearls are found here, it tells us nothing at all.â But the most meticulous search failed to reveal any trace of the missing necklace.

Poirot murmured âZut!â to himself and they emerged once more on the deck.

Linnet Doyleâs cabin had been locked after the body was removed, but Race had the key with him. He unlocked the door and the two men stepped inside.

Except for the removal of the girlâs body, the cabin was exactly as it had been that morning.

âPoirot,â said Race, âif thereâs anything to be found here, for Godâs sake go ahead and find it. You can if anyone canâI know that.â

âThis time you do not mean the pearls, mon ami?â

âNo. The murderâs the main thing. There may be something I overlooked this morning.â

Quietly, deftly, Poirot went about his search. He went down on his knees and scrutinized the floor inch by inch. He examined the bed. He went rapidly through the wardrobe and chest of drawers. He went through the wardrobe trunk and the two costly suitcases. He looked through the expensive gold-fitted dressing-case. Finally he turned his attention to the washstand. There were various creams, powders, face lotions. But the only thing that seemed to interest Poirot were two little bottles labelled Nailex. He picked them up at last and brought them to the dressing table. One, which bore the inscription Nailex Rose, was empty but for a drop or two of dark red fluid at the bottom. The other, the same size, but labelled Nailex Cardinal, was nearly full. Poirot uncorked first the empty, then the full one, and sniffed them both delicately.

An odour of peardrops billowed into the room. With a slight grimace he recorked them.

âGet anything?â asked Race.

Poirot replied by a French proverb: âOn ne prend pas les mouches avec le vinaigre.â Then he said with a sigh: âMy friend, we have not been fortunate. The murderer has not been obliging. He has not dropped for us the cuff link, the cigarette end, the cigar ashâor, in the case of the woman, the handkerchief, the lipstick, or the hair slide.â

âOnly the bottle of nail polish?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. âI must ask the maid. There is somethingâyesâa little curious there.â

âI wonder where the devil the girlâs got to?â said Race.

They left the cabin, locking the door behind them, and passed on to that of Miss Van Schuyler.

Here again were all the appurtenances of wealthâexpensive toilet fittings, good luggage, a certain number of private letters and papers all perfectly in order.

The next cabin was the double one occupied by Poirot, and beyond it that of Race. âHardly like to hide âem in either of these,â said the Colonel.

Poirot demurred. âIt might be. Once, on the Orient Express, I investigated a murder. There was a little matter of a scarlet kimono. It had disappeared, and yet it must be on the train. I found itâwhere do you think? In my own locked suitcase! Ah! It was an impertinence, that!â

âWell, letâs see if anybody has been impertinent with you or me this time.â

But the thief of the pearls had not been impertinent with Hercule Poirot or with Colonel Race.

Rounding the stern they made a very careful search of Miss Bowersâ cabin but could find nothing of a suspicious nature. Her handkerchiefs were of plain linen with an initial.

The Otterbournesâ cabin came next. Here, again, Poirot made a very meticulous search, but with no result.

The next cabin was Bessnerâs. Simon Doyle lay with an untasted tray of food beside him.

âOff my feed,â he said apologetically.

He was looking feverish and very much worse than earlier in the day. Poirot appreciated Bessnerâs anxiety to get him as swiftly as possible to hospital and skilled appliances. The little Belgian explained what the two of them were doing, and Simon nodded approval. On learning that the pearls had been restored by Miss Bowers, but proved to be merely imitation, he expressed the most complete astonishment.

âYou are quite sure, Monsieur Doyle, that your wife did not have an imitation string which she brought aboard with her instead of the real ones?â

Simon shook his head decisively.

âOh, no. Iâm quite sure of that. Linnet loved those pearls and she wore âem everywhere. They were insured against every possible risk, so I think that made her a bit careless.â

âThen we must continue our search.â

He started opening drawers. Race attacked a suitcase.

Simon stared. âLook here, you surely donât suspect old Bessner pinched them?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âIt might be so. After all, what do we know of Dr. Bessner? Only what he himself gives out.â

âBut he couldnât have hidden them in here without my seeing him.â

âHe could not have hidden anything today without your having seen him. But we do not know when the substitution took place. He may have effected the exchange some days ago.â

âI never thought of that.â

But the search was unavailing.

The next cabin was Penningtonâs. The two men spent some time in their search. In particular, Poirot and Race examined carefully a case full of legal and business documents, most of them requiring Linnetâs signature.

Poirot shook his head gloomily. âThese seem all square and aboveboard. You agree?â

âAbsolutely. Still, the man isnât a born fool. If there had been a compromising document thereâa power of attorney or something of that kindâheâd be pretty sure to have destroyed it first thing.â

âThat is so, yes.â

Poirot lifted a heavy Colt revolver out of the top drawer of the chest of drawers, looked at it and put it back.

âSo it seems there are still some people who travel with revolvers,â he murmured.

âYes, a little suggestive, perhaps. Still, Linnet Doyle wasnât shot with a thing that size.â Race paused and then said: âYou know, Iâve thought of a possible answer to your point about the pistol being thrown overboard. Supposing that the actual murderer did leave it in Linnet Doyleâs cabin, and that someone elseâsome second personâtook it away and threw it into the river?â

âYes, that is possible. I have thought of it. But it opens up a whole string of questions. Who was that second person? What interest had they in endeavouring to shield Jacqueline de Bellefort by taking away the pistol? What was the second person doing there? The only other person we know of who went into the cabin was Mademoiselle Van Schuyler. Was it conceivably Mademoiselle Van Schuyler who removed it? Why should she wish to shield Jacqueline de Bellefort? And yetâwhat other reason can there be for the removal of the pistol?â

Race suggested, âShe may have recognized the stole as hers, got the wind up, and thrown the whole bag of tricks over on that account.â

âThe stole, perhaps, but would she have got rid of the pistol, too? Still, I agree that it is a possible solution. But it is alwaysâbon Dieu! It is clumsy. And you still have not appreciated one point about the stoleââ

As they emerged from Penningtonâs cabin Poirot suggested that Race should search the remaining cabins, those occupied by Jacqueline, Cornelia, and two empty ones at the end, while he himself had a few words with Simon Doyle. Accordingly he retraced his steps along the deck and re-entered Bessnerâs cabin.

Simon said: âLook here, Iâve been thinking. Iâm perfectly sure that those pearls were all right yesterday.â

âWhy is that, Monsieur Doyle?â

âBecause Linnetââhe winced as he uttered his wifeâs nameââwas passing them through her hands just before dinner and talking about them. She knew something about pearls. I feel certain sheâd have known if they were a fake.â

âThey were a very good imitation, though. Tell me, was Madame Doyle in the habit of letting those pearls out of her hands? Did she ever lend them to a friend for instance?â

Simon flushed with slight embarrassment.

âYou see, Monsieur Poirot, itâs difficult for me to sayâ¦IâIâwell, you see, I hadnât known Linnet very long.â

âAh, no, it was a quick romanceâyours.â

Simon went on. âAnd soâreallyâI shouldnât know a thing like that. But Linnet was awfully generous with her things. I should think she might have done.â

âShe never, for instanceââPoirotâs voice was very smoothââshe never, for instance, lent them to Mademoiselle de Bellefort?â

âWhat dâyou mean?â Simon flushed brick-red, tried to sit up and, wincing, fell back. âWhat are you getting at? That Jackie stole the pearls? She didnât. Iâll swear she didnât. Jackieâs as straight as a die. The mere idea of her being a thief is ridiculousâabsolutely ridiculous.â

Poirot looked at him with gently twinkling eyes. âOh, la! la! la!â he said unexpectedly. âThat suggestion of mine, it has indeed stirred up the nest of hornets.â

Simon repeated doggedly, unmoved by Poirotâs lighter note, âJackieâs straight!â

Poirot remembered a girlâs voice by the Nile in Assuan saying, âI love Simonâand he loves meâ¦.â

He had wondered which of the three statements he had heard that night was the true one. It seemed to him that it had turned out to be Jacqueline who had come closest to the truth.

The door opened and Race came in.

âNothing,â he said brusquely. âWell, we didnât expect it. I see the stewards coming along with their report as to the searching of the passengers.â

A steward and stewardess appeared in the doorway. The former spoke first. âNothing, sir.â

âAny of the gentlemen make any fuss?â

âOnly the Italian gentleman, sir. He carried on a good deal. Said it was a dishonourâsomething of that kind. Heâd got a gun on him, too.â

âWhat kind of a gun?â

âMauser automatic twenty-five, sir.â

âItalians are pretty hot-tempered,â said Simon. âRichetti got in no end of a stew at Wadi Halfa just because of a mistake over a telegram. He was darned rude to Linnet over it.â

Race turned to the stewardess. She was a big handsome-looking woman.

âNothing on any of the ladies, sir. They made a good deal of fussâexcept for Mrs. Allerton, who was as nice as nice could be. Not a sign of the pearls. By the way, the young lady, Miss Rosalie Otterbourne, had a little pistol in her handbag.â

âWhat kind?â

âIt was a very small one, sir, with a pearl handle. A kind of toy.â

Race stared. âDevil take this case,â he muttered. âI thought weâd got her cleared of suspicion, and nowâDoes every girl on this blinking boat carry around pearl-handled toy pistols?â

He shot a question at the stewardess. âDid she show any feeling over your finding it?â

The woman shook her head. âI donât think she noticed. I had my back turned whilst I was going through the handbag.â

âStill, she must have known youâd come across it. Oh, well, it beats me. What about the maid?â

âWeâve looked all over the boat, sir. We canât find her anywhere.â

âWhatâs this?â asked Simon.

âMrs. Doyleâs maidâLouise Bourget. Sheâs disappeared.â

âDisappeared?â

Race said thoughtfully: âShe might have stolen the pearls. She is the one person who had ample opportunity to get a replica made.â

âAnd then, when she found a search was being instituted, she threw herself overboard?â Simon suggested.

âNonsense,â replied Race, irritably. âA woman canât throw herself overboard in broad daylight, from a boat like this, without somebody realizing the fact. Sheâs bound to be somewhere on board.â He addressed the stewardess once more. âWhen was she last seen?â

âAbout half an hour before the bell went for lunch, sir.â

âWeâll have a look at her cabin anyway,â said Race. âThat may tell us something.â

He led the way to the deck below. Poirot followed him. They unlocked the door of the cabin and passed inside.

Louise Bourget, whose trade it was to keep other peopleâs belongings in order, had taken a holiday where her own were concerned. Odds and ends littered the top of the chest of drawers; a suitcase gaped open, with clothes hanging out of the side of it and preventing it shutting; underclothing hung limply over the sides of the chairs.

As Poirot, with swift neat fingers, opened the drawers of the dressing-chest, Race examined the suitcase.

Louiseâs shoes were lined along by the bed. One of them, a black patent leather, seemed to be resting at an extraordinary angle, almost unsupported. The appearance of it was so odd that it attracted Raceâs attention.

He closed the suitcase and bent over the line of shoes. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation.

âQuâest-ce quâil y a?â

Race said grimly: âShe hasnât disappeared. Sheâs hereâunder the bedâ¦.â

Twenty-Three

The body of the dead woman, who in life had been Louise Bourget, lay on the floor of her cabin. The two men bent over it.

Race straightened himself first.

âBeen dead close on an hour, I should say. Weâll get Bessner on to it. Stabbed to the heart. Death pretty well instantaneous, I should imagine. She doesnât look pretty, does she?â

âNo.â

Poirot shook his head with a slight shudder.

The dark feline face was convulsed, as though with surprise and fury, the lips drawn back from the teeth.

Poirot bent again gently and picked up the right hand. Something just showed within the fingers. He detached it and held it out to Race, a little sliver of flimsy paper coloured a pale mauvish pink.

âYou see what it is?â

âMoney,â said Race.

âThe corner of a thousand-franc note, I fancy.â

âWell, itâs clear what happened,â said Race. âShe knew somethingâand she was blackmailing the murderer with her knowledge. We thought she wasnât being quite straight this morning.â

Poirot cried out: âWe have been idiotsâfools! We should have knownâthen. What did she say? âWhat could I have seen or heard? I was on the deck below. Naturally, if I had been unable to sleep, if I had mounted the stairs, then perhaps I might have seen this assassin, this monster, enter or leave Madameâs cabin, but as it isââ Of course, that is what did happen! She did come up. She did see someone gliding into Linnet Doyleâs cabinâor coming out of it. And, because of her greed, her insensate greed, she lies hereââ

âAnd we are no nearer to knowing who killed her,â finished Race disgustedly.

Poirot shook his head. âNo, no. We know much more now. We knowâwe know almost everything. Only what we know seems incredibleâ¦Yet it must be so. Only I do not see. Pah! What a fool I was this morning! We feltâboth of us feltâthat she was keeping something back, and yet we never realized that logical reason, blackmail.â

âShe must have demanded hush money straight away,â said Race. âDemanded it with threats. The murderer was forced to accede to that request and paid her in French notes. Anything there?â

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. âI hardly think so. Many people take a reserve of money with them when travellingâsometimes five-pound notes, sometimes dollars, but very often French notes as well. Possibly the murderer paid her all he had in a mixture of currencies. Let us continue our reconstruction.â

âThe murderer comes to her cabin, gives her the money, and thenââ

âAnd then,â said Poirot, âshe counts it. Oh, yes, I know that class. She would count the money, and while she counted it she was completely off her guard. The murderer struck. Having done so successfully, he gathered up the money and fledânot noticing that the corner of one of the notes was torn.â

âWe may get him that way,â suggested Race doubtfully.

âI doubt it,â said Poirot. âHe will examine those notes, and will probably notice the tear. Of course if he were of a parsimonious disposition he would not be able to bring himself to destroy a mille noteâbut I very much fear that his temperament is just the opposite.â

âHow do you make that out?â

âBoth this crime and the murder of Madame Doyle demanded certain qualitiesâcourage, audacity, bold execution, lightning action; those qualities do not accord with a saving, prudent disposition.â

Race shook his head sadly. âIâd better get Bessner down,â he said.

The stout doctorâs examination did not take long. Accompanied by a good many Achâs and Soâs, he went to work.

âShe has been dead not more than an hour,â he announced. âDeath it was very quickâat once.â

âAnd what weapon do you think was used?â

âAch, it is interesting that. It was something very sharp, very thin, very delicate. I could show you the kind of thing.â

Back again in his cabin he opened a case and extracted a long, delicate, surgical knife.

âIt was something like that, my friend; it was not a common table knife.â

âI suppose,â suggested Race smoothly, âthat none of your own knives areâerâmissing, Doctor?â

Bessner stared at him; then his face grew red with indignation.

âWhat is that you say? Do you think IâI, Carl Bessnerâwho is so well-known all over AustriaâI with my clients, my highly born patientsâI have killed a miserable little femme de chambre? Ah, but it is ridiculousâabsurd, what you say! None of my knives are missingânot one, I tell you. They are all here, correct, in their places. You can see for yourself. And this insult to my profession I will not forget.â

Dr. Bessner closed his case with a snap, flung it down, and stamped out on to the deck.

âWhew!â said Simon. âYouâve put the old boyâs back up.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. âIt is regrettable.â

âYouâre on the wrong tack. Old Bessnerâs one of the best, even though he is a kind of Boche.â

Dr. Bessner reappeared suddenly.

âWill you be so kind as to leave me now my cabin? I have to do the dressing of my patientâs leg.â

Miss Bowers had entered with him and stood, brisk and professional, waiting for the others to go.

Race and Poirot crept out meekly. Race muttered something and went off. Poirot turned to his left. He heard scraps of girlish conversation, a little laugh. Jacqueline and Rosalie were together in the latterâs cabin.

The door was open and the two girls were standing near it. As his shadow fell on them they looked up. He saw Rosalie Otterbourne smile at him for the first timeâa shy welcoming smileâa little uncertain in its lines, as of one who does a new and unfamiliar thing.

âYou talk the scandal, Mesdemoiselles?â he accused them.

âNo, indeed,â said Rosalie. âAs a matter of fact we were just comparing lipsticks.â

Poirot smiled. âLes chiffons dâaujourdâhui,â he murmured.

But there was something a little mechanical about his smile, and Jacqueline de Bellefort, quicker and more observant than Rosalie, saw it. She dropped the lipstick she was holding and came out upon the deck.

âHas somethingâwhat has happened now?â

âIt is as you guess, Mademoiselle; something has happened.â

âWhat?â Rosalie came out too.

âAnother death,â said Poirot.

Rosalie caught her breath sharply. Poirot was watching her narrowly. He saw alarm and something moreâconsternationâshow for a minute or two in her eyes.

âMadame Doyleâs maid has been killed,â he told them bluntly.

âKilled?â cried Jacqueline. âKilled, do you say?â

âYes, that is what I said.â Though his answer was nominally to her, it was Rosalie whom he watched. It was Rosalie to whom he spoke as he went on: âYou see, this maid she saw something she was not intended to see. And soâshe was silenced, in case she should not hold her tongue.â

âWhat was it she saw?â

Again it was Jacqueline who asked, and again Poirotâs answer was to Rosalie. It was an odd little three-cornered scene.

âThere is, I think, very little doubt what it was she saw,â said Poirot. âShe saw someone enter and leave Linnet Doyleâs cabin on that fatal night.â

His ears were quick. He heard the sharp intake of breath and saw the eyelids flicker. Rosalie Otterbourne had reacted just as he intended she should.

âDid she say who it was she saw?â Rosalie asked.

GentlyâregretfullyâPoirot shook his head.

Footsteps pattered up the deck. It was Cornelia Robson, her eyes wide and startled.

âOh, Jacqueline,â she cried, âsomething awful has happened! Another dreadful thing!â

Jacqueline turned to her. The two moved a few steps forward. Almost unconsciously Poirot and Rosalie Otterbourne moved in the other direction.

Rosalie said sharply: âWhy do you look at me? What have you got in your mind?â

âThat is two questions you ask me. I will ask you only one in return. Why do you not tell me all the truth, Mademoiselle?â

âI donât know what you mean. I told youâeverythingâthis morning.â

âNo, there were things you did not tell me. You did not tell me that you carry about in your handbag a small-calibre pistol with a pearl handle. You did not tell me all that you saw last night.â

She flushed. Then she said sharply: âItâs quite untrue. I havenât got a revolver.â

âI did not say a revolver. I said a small pistol that you carry about in your handbag.â

She wheeled round, darted into her cabin and out again and thrust her grey leather handbag into his hands.

âYouâre talking nonsense. Look for yourself if you like.â

Poirot opened the bag. There was no pistol inside.

He handed the bag back to her, meeting her scornful triumphant glance.

âNo,â he said pleasantly. âIt is not there.â

âYou see. Youâre not always right, Monsieur Poirot. And youâre wrong about that other ridiculous thing you said.â

âNo, I do not think so.â

âYouâre infuriating!â She stamped an angry foot.

âYou get an idea into your head, and you go on and on and on about it.â

âBecause I want you to tell me the truth.â

âWhat is the truth? You seem to know it better than I do.â

Poirot said: âYou want me to tell what it was you saw? If I am right, will you admit that I am right? I will tell you my little idea. I think that when you came round the stern of the boat you stopped involuntarily because you saw a man come out of a cabin about halfway down the deckâLinnet Doyleâs cabin, as you realized next day. You saw him come out, close the door behind him, and walk away from you down the deck andâperhapsâenter one of the two end cabins. Now, then, am I right, Mademoiselle?â

She did not answer.

Poirot said: âPerhaps you think it is wiser not to speak. Perhaps you are afraid that, if you do, you too will be killed.â

For a moment he thought she had risen to the easy bait, that the accusation against her courage would succeed where more subtle arguments would have failed.

Her lips openedâtrembledâthen, âI saw no one,â said Rosalie Otterbourne.

Twenty-Four

Miss Bowers came out of Dr. Bessnerâs cabin, smoothing her cuffs over her wrists.

Jacqueline left Cornelia abruptly and accosted the hospital nurse.

âHow is he?â she demanded.

Poirot came up in time to hear the answer. Miss Bowers was looking rather worried.

âThings arenât going too badly,â she said.

Jacqueline cried: âYou mean, heâs worse?â

âWell, I must say I shall be relieved when we get in and can get a proper X-ray done and the whole thing cleaned up under an anaesthetic. When do you think we shall get to Shellal, Monsieur Poirot?â

âTomorrow morning.â

Miss Bowers pursed her lips and shook her head.

âItâs very fortunate. We are doing all we can, but thereâs always such a danger of septicÃ¦mia.â

Jacqueline caught Miss Bowersâ arm and shook it.

âIs he going to die? Is he going to die?â

âDear me, no, Miss de Bellefort. That is, I hope not, Iâm sure. The wound in itself isnât dangerous, but thereâs no doubt it ought to be X-rayed as soon as possible. And then, of course poor Mr. Doyle ought to have been kept absolutely quiet today. Heâs had far too much worry and excitement. No wonder his temperature is rising. What with the shock of his wifeâs death, and one thing and anotherââ

Jacqueline relinquished her grasp of the nurseâs arm and turned away. She stood leaning over the side, her back to the other two.

âWhat I say is, weâve got to hope for the best always,â said Miss Bowers. âOf course Mr. Doyle has a very strong constitutionâone can see thatâprobably never had a dayâs illness in his life. So thatâs in his favour. But thereâs no denying that this rise in temperature is a nasty sign andââ

She shook her head, adjusted her cuffs once more, and moved briskly away.

Jacqueline turned and walked gropingly, blinded by tears, towards her cabin. A hand below her elbow steadied and guided her. She looked up through the tears to find Poirot by her side. She leaned on him a little and he guided her through the cabin door.

She sank down on the bed and the tears came more freely, punctuated by great shuddering sobs.

âHeâll die! Heâll die! I know heâll dieâ¦And I shall have killed him. Yes, I shall have killed himâ¦.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head a little, sadly. âMademoiselle, what is done is done. One cannot take back the accomplished action. It is too late to regret.â

She cried out more vehemently: âI shall have killed him! And I love him soâ¦I love him so.â

Poirot sighed. âToo muchâ¦.â

It had been his thought long ago in the restaurant of M. Blondin. It was his thought again now.

He said, hesitating a little: âDo not, at all events, go by what Miss Bowers says. Hospital nurses, me, I find them always gloomy! The night nurse, always, she is astonished to find her patient alive in the evening; the day nurse, always, she is surprised to find him alive in the morning! They know too much, you see, of the possibilities that may arise. When one is motoring one might easily say to oneself: âIf a car came out from that crossroadâor if that lorry backed suddenlyâor if the wheel came off the car that is approachingâor if a dog jumped off the hedge on to my driving armâeh bien, I should probably be killed!â But one assumes, and usually rightly, that none of these things will happen, and that one will get to oneâs journeyâs end. But if, of course, one has been in an accident, or seen one or more accidents, then one is inclined to take the opposite point of view.â

Jacqueline asked, half smiling through her tears: âAre you trying to console me, Monsieur Poirot?â

âThe bon Dieu knows what I am trying to do! You should not have come on this journey.â

âNoâI wish I hadnât. Itâs beenâso awful. Butâit will be soon over now.â

âMais ouiâmais oui.â

âAnd Simon will go to the hospital, and theyâll give the proper treatment and everything will be all right.â

âYou speak like the child! âAnd they lived happily ever afterward.â That is it, is it not?â

She flushed suddenly scarlet.

âMonsieur Poirot, I never meantâneverââ

âIt is too soon to think of such a thing! That is the proper hypocritical thing to say, is it not? But you are partly a Latin, Mademoiselle Jacqueline. You should be able to admit facts even if they do not sound very decorous. Le roi est mortâvive le roi! The sun has gone and the moon rises. That is so, is it not?â

âYou donât understand. Heâs just sorry for meâawfully sorry for me, because he knows how terrible it is for me to know Iâve hurt him so badly.â

âAh, well,â said Poirot. âThe pure pity, it is a very lofty sentiment.â

He looked at her half mockingly, half with some other emotion.

He murmured softly under his breath words in French:

âLa vie est vaine.

Un peu dâamour,

Un peu de haine,

Et puis bonjour.

La vie est brÃ¨ve.

Un peu dâespoir,

Un peu de rÃªve,

Et puis bonsoir.â

He went out again on to the deck. Colonel Race was striding along the deck and hailed him at once.

âPoirot. Good man! I want you. Iâve got an idea.â

Thrusting his arm through Poirotâs he walked him up the deck.

âJust a chance remark of Doyleâs. I hardly noticed it at the time. Something about a telegram.â

âTiensâcâest vrai.â

âNothing in it, perhaps, but one canât leave any avenue unexplored. Damn it all, man, two murders, and weâre still in the dark.â

Poirot shook his head. âNo, not in the dark. In the light.â

Race looked at him curiously. âYou have an idea?â

âIt is more than an idea now. I am sure.â

âSinceâwhen?â

âSince the death of the maid, Louise Bourget.â

âDamned if I see it!â

âMy friend, it is so clearâso clear. Only there are difficultiesâembarrassmentsâimpediments! See you, around a person like Linnet Doyle there is so muchâso many conflicting hates and jealousies and envies and meannesses. It is like a cloud of flies, buzzing, buzzingâ¦.â

âBut you think you know?â The other looked at him curiously. âYou wouldnât say so unless you were sure. Canât say Iâve any real light, myself. Iâve suspicions, of courseâ¦.â

Poirot stopped. He laid an impressive hand on Raceâs arm.

âYou are a great man, mon Colonelâ¦ You do not say: âTell me. What is it that you think?â You know that if I could speak now I would. But there is much to be cleared away first. But think, think for a moment along the lines that I shall indicate. There are certain pointsâ¦There is the statement of Mademoiselle de Bellefort that someone overheard our conversation that night in the garden at Assuan. There is the statement of Monsieur Tim Allerton as to what he heard and did on the night of the crime. There are Louise Bourgetâs significant answers to our questions this morning. There is the fact that Madame Allerton drinks water, that her son drinks whisky and soda and that I drink wine. Add to that the fact of two bottles of nail polish and the proverb I quoted. And finally we come to the crux of the whole business, the fact that the pistol was wrapped up in a cheap handkerchief and a velvet stole and thrown overboardâ¦.â

Race was silent a minute or two, then he shook his head.

âNo,â he said. âI donât see it. Mind, Iâve got a faint idea what youâre driving at, but as far as I can see, it doesnât work.â

âBut yesâ¦but yes. You are seeing only half the truth. And remember thisâwe must start again from the beginning, since our first conception was entirely wrong.â

Race made a slight grimace.

âIâm used to that. It often seems to me thatâs all detective work is, wiping out your false starts and beginning again.â

âYes, it is very true, that. And it is just what some people will not do. They conceive a certain theory, and everything has to fit into that theory. If one little fact will not fit it, they throw it aside. But it is always the facts that will not fit in that are significant. All along I have realized the significance of that pistol being removed from the scene of the crime. I knew that it meant something, but what that something was I only realized one little half hour ago.â

âAnd I still donât see it!â

âBut you will! Only reflect along the lines I indicated. And now let us clear up this matter of a telegram. That is, if the Herr Doktor will admit us.â

Dr. Bessner was still in a very bad humour. In answer to their knock he disclosed a scowling face.

âWhat is it? Once more you wish to see my patient? But I tell you it is not wise. He has fever. He has had more than enough excitement today.â

âJust one question,â said Race. âNothing more, I assure you.â

With an unwilling grunt the doctor moved aside and the two men entered the cabin. Dr. Bessner, growling to himself, pushed past them.

âI return in three minutes,â he said. âAnd thenâpositivelyâyou go!â

They heard him stumping down the deck.

Simon Doyle looked from one to the other of them inquiringly.

âYes,â he said, âwhat is it?â

âA very little thing,â Race replied. âJust now, when the stewards were reporting to me, they mentioned that Signor Richetti had been particularly troublesome. You said that that didnât surprise you, as you knew he had a bad temper, and that he had been rude to your wife over some matter of a telegram. Now can you tell me about the incident?â

âEasily. It was at Wadi Halfa. Weâd just come back from the Second Cataract. Linnet thought she saw a telegram for her sticking up on the board. Sheâd forgotten, you see, that she wasnât called Ridgeway any longer, and Richetti and Ridgeway do look rather alike when written in an atrocious handwriting. So she tore it open, couldnât make head or tail of it, and was puzzling over it when this fellow Richetti came along, fairly tore it out of her hand and gibbered with rage. She went after him to apologize and he was frightfully rude to her about it.â

Race drew a deep breath. âAnd do you know at all, Mr. Doyle, what was in that telegram?â

âYes. Linnet read part of it out aloud. It saidââ

He paused. There was a commotion outside. A high-pitched voice was rapidly approaching.

âWhere are Monsieur Poirot and Colonel Race? I must see them immediately! It is most important. I have vital information. IâAre they with Mr. Doyle?â

Bessner had not closed the door. Only the curtain hung across the open doorway. Mrs. Otterbourne swept it to one side and entered like a tornado. Her face was suffused with colour, her gait slightly unsteady, her command of words not quite under her control.

âMr. Doyle,â she said dramatically, âI know who killed your wife!â

âWhat?â

Simon stared at her. So did the other two.

Mrs. Otterbourne swept all three of them with a triumphant glance. She was happyâsuperbly happy.

âYes,â she said. âMy theories are completely vindicated. The deep, primeval, primordial urgesâit may appear impossibleâfantasticâbut it is the truth!â

Race said sharply: âDo I understand that you have evidence in your possession to show who killed Mrs. Doyle?â

Mrs. Otterbourne sat down in a chair and leaned forward, nodding her head vigorously.

âCertainly I have. You will agree, will you not, that whoever killed Louise Bourget also killed Linnet Doyleâthat the two crimes were committed by one and the same hand?â

âYes, yes,â said Simon impatiently. âOf course. That stands to reason. Go on.â

âThen my assertion holds. I know who killed Louise Bourget; therefore I know who killed Linnet Doyle.â

âYou mean, you have a theory as to who killed Louise Bourget,â suggested Race sceptically.

Mrs. Otterbourne turned on him like a tiger.

âNo, I have exact knowledge. I saw the person with my own eyes.â

Simon, fevered, shouted out: âFor Godâs sake, start at the beginning. You know the person who killed Louise Bourget, you say.â

Mrs. Otterbourne nodded.

âI will tell you exactly what occurred.â

Yes, she was very happyâno doubt of it! This was her moment, her triumph! What of it if her books were failing to sell, if the stupid public that once had bought them and devoured them voraciously now turned to newer favourites? Salome Otterbourne would once again be notorious. Her name would be in all the papers. She would be principal witness for the prosecution at the trial.

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

âIt was when I went down to lunch. I hardly felt like eatingâall the horror of the recent tragedyâWell, I neednât go into that. Halfway down I remembered that I hadâerâleft something in my cabin. I told Rosalie to go on without me. She did.â

Mrs. Otterbourne paused a minute.

The curtain across the door moved slightly as though lifted by the wind, but none of the three men noticed it.

âIâerââ Mrs. Otterbourne paused. Thin ice to skate over here, but it must be done somehow. âIâerâhad an arrangement with one of theâerâpersonnel of the ship. He was toâerâget me something I needed, but I did not wish my daughter to know of it. She is inclined to be tiresome in certain waysââ

Not too good, this, but she could think of something that sounded better before it came to telling the story in court.

Raceâs eyebrows lifted as his eyes asked a question of Poirot.

Poirot gave an infinitesimal nod. His lips formed the word: âDrink.â

The curtain across the door moved again. Between it and the door itself something showed with a faint steel-blue gleam.

Mrs. Otterbourne continued: âThe arrangement was that I should go round to the stern on the deck below this, and there I should find the man waiting for me. As I went along the deck a cabin door opened and somebody looked out. It was this girlâLouise Bourget, or whatever her name is. She seemed to be expecting someone. When she saw it was me, she looked disappointed and went abruptly inside again. I didnât think anything of it, of course. I went along just as I had said I would and got theâthe stuff from the man. I paid him andâerâjust had a word with him. Then I started back. Just as I came around the corner I saw someone knock on the maidâs door and go into the cabin.â

Race said, âAnd that person wasâ?â

Bang!

The noise of the explosion filled the cabin. There was an acrid sour smell of smoke. Mrs. Otterbourne turned slowly sideways, as though in supreme inquiry, then her body slumped forward and she fell to the ground with a crash. From just behind her ear the blood flowed from a round neat hole.

There was a momentâs stupefied silence. Then both the able-bodied men jumped to their feet. The womanâs body hindered their movements a little. Race bent over her while Poirot made a catlike jump for the door and the deck.

The deck was empty. On the ground just in front of the sill lay a big Colt revolver.

Poirot glanced in both directions. The deck was empty. He then sprinted towards the stern. As he rounded the corner he ran into Tim Allerton, who was coming full tilt from the opposite direction.

âWhat the devil was that?â cried Tim breathlessly.

Poirot said sharply: âDid you meet anyone on your way here?â

âMeet anyone? No.â

âThen come with me.â He took the young man by the arm and retraced his steps. A little crowd had assembled by now. Rosalie, Jacqueline, and Cornelia had rushed out of their cabins. More people were coming along the deck from the saloonâFerguson, Jim Fanthorp, and Mrs. Allerton.

Race stood by the revolver. Poirot turned his head and said sharply to Tim Allerton: âGot any gloves in your pocket?â

Tim fumbled.

âYes, I have.â

Poirot seized them from him, put them on, and bent to examine the revolver. Race did the same. The others watched breathlessly.

Race said: âHe didnât go the other way. Fanthorp and Ferguson were sitting on this deck lounge; theyâd have seen him.â

Poirot responded, âAnd Mr. Allerton would have met him if heâd gone aft.â

Race said, pointing to the revolver: âRather fancy weâve seen this not so very long ago. Must make sure, though.â

He knocked on the door of Penningtonâs cabin. There was no answer. The cabin was empty. Race strode to the right-hand drawer of the chest and jerked it open. The revolver was gone.

âSettles that,â said Race. âNow then, whereâs Pennington himself?â

They went out again on deck. Mrs. Allerton had joined the group. Poirot moved swiftly over to her.

âMadame, take Miss Otterbourne with you and look after her. Her mother has beenââhe consulted Race with an eye and Race noddedââkilled.â

Dr. Bessner came bustling along.

âGott im Himmel! What is there now?â

They made way for him. Race indicated the cabin. Ressner went inside.

âFind Pennington,â said Race. âAny fingerprints on that revolver?â

âNone,â said Poirot.

They found Pennington on the deck below. He was sitting in the little drawing room writing letters. He lifted a handsome, clean-shaven face.

âAnything new?â he asked.

âDidnât you hear a shot?â

âWhyânow you mention itâI believe I did hear a kind of a bang. But I never dreamedâWhoâs been shot?â

âMrs. Otterbourne.â

âMrs. Otterbourne?â Pennington sounded quite astounded. âWell, you do surprise me. Mrs. Otterbourne.â He shook his head. âI canât see that at all.â He lowered his voice. âStrikes me, gentlemen, weâve got a homicidal maniac aboard. We ought to organize a defence system.â

âMr. Pennington,â said Race, âhow long have you been in this room?â

âWhy, let me see.â Mr. Pennington gently rubbed his chin. âI should say a matter of twenty minutes or so.â

âAnd you havenât left it?â

âWhy noâcertainly not.â

He looked inquiringly at the two men.

âYou see, Mr. Pennington,â said Race, âMrs. Otterbourne was shot with your revolver.â

Twenty-Five

Mr. Pennington was shocked. Mr. Pennington could hardly believe it.

âWhy, gentlemen,â he said, âthis is a very serious matter. Very serious indeed.â

âExtremely serious for you, Mr. Pennington.â

âFor me?â Penningtonâs eyebrows rose in startled surprise. âBut, my dear sir, I was sitting quietly writing in here when that shot was fired.â

âYou have, perhaps, a witness to prove that?â

Pennington shook his head.

âWhy, noâI wouldnât say that. But itâs clearly impossible that I should have gone to the deck above, shot this poor woman (and why should I shoot her anyway?) and come down again with no one seeing me. There are always plenty of people on the deck lounge this time of day.â

âHow do you account for your pistol being used?â

âWellâIâm afraid I may be to blame there. Quite soon after getting aboard there was a conversation in the saloon one evening, I remember, about firearms, and I mentioned then that I always carried a revolver with me when I travel.â

âWho was there?â

âWell, I canât remember exactly. Most people, I think. Quite a crowd, anyway.â

He shook his head gently.

âWhy, yes,â he said. âI am certainly to blame there.â

He went on: âFirst Linnet, then Linnetâs maid, and now Mrs. Otterbourne. There seems no reason in it all!â

âThere was reason,â said Race.

âThere was?â

âYes. Mrs. Otterbourne was on the point of telling us that she had seen a certain person go into Louiseâs cabin. Before she could name that person she was shot dead.â

Andrew Pennington passed a fine silk handkerchief over his brow.

âAll this is terrible,â he murmured.

Poirot said: âMonsieur Pennington, I would like to discuss certain aspects of the case with you. Will you come to my cabin in half an hourâs time?â

âI should be delighted.â

Pennington did not sound delighted. He did not look delighted either. Race and Poirot exchanged glances and then abruptly left the room.

âCunning old devil,â said Race, âbut heâs afraid. Eh?â

Poirot nodded. âYes, he is not happy, our Monsieur Pennington.â

As they reached the promenade deck again, Mrs. Allerton came out of her cabin and, seeing Poirot, beckoned him imperiously.

âMadame?â

âThat poor child! Tell me, Monsieur Poirot, is there a double cabin somewhere that I could share with her? She oughtnât to go back to the one she shared with her mother, and mine is only a single one.â

âThat can be arranged, Madame. It is very good of you.â

âItâs mere decency. Besides, Iâm very fond of the girl. Iâve always liked her.â

âIs she very upset?â

âTerribly. 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?â

Poirot nodded.

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

âShe did, Madame. She is very proud and she was very loyal.â

âYes, I like thatâloyalty, I mean. Itâs out of fashion nowadays. Sheâs an odd character, that girlâproud, reserved, stubborn, and terribly warm-hearted underneath, I fancy.â

âI see that I have given her into good hands, Madame.â

âYes, donât worry. Iâll look after her. Sheâs inclined to cling to me in the most pathetic fashion.â

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: âI donât understand, Monsieur Poirot. How did the person who shot her get away without our seeing him?â

âYes, how?â echoed Jacqueline.

âAh,â said Poirot, âit was not quite such a disappearing trick as you think, Mademoiselle. There were three distinct ways the murderer might have gone.â

Jacqueline looked puzzled. She said, âThree?â

âHe might have gone to the right, or he might have gone to the left, but I donât see any other way,â puzzled Cornelia.

Jacqueline too frowned. Then her brow cleared.

She said: âOf course. He could move in two directions on one plane, but he could go at right angles to that plane too. That is, he couldnât go up very well, but he could go down.â

Poirot smiled. âYou have brains, Mademoiselle.â

Cornelia said: âI know Iâm just a plain mutt, but I still donât see.â

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

âMy!â gasped Cornelia. âI never thought of that. Heâd have to be mighty quick about it, though. I suppose he could just do it?â

âHe could do it easily enough,â said Tim Allerton. âRemember, thereâs always a minute of shock after a thing like this. One hears a shot and oneâs too paralysed to move for a second or two.â

âThat was your experience, Monsieur Allerton?â

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

Race came out of Bessnerâs cabin and said authoritatively: âWould you mind all clearing off? We want to bring out the body.â

Everyone moved away obediently. Poirot went with them. Cornelia said to him with sad earnestness: âIâll never forget this trip as long as I live. Three deathsâ¦Itâs just like living in a nightmare.â

Ferguson overheard her. He said aggressively: âThatâs because youâre over-civilized. You should look on death as the Oriental does. Itâs a mere incidentâhardly noticeable.â

âThatâs all very well,â Cornelia said.

âTheyâre not educated, poor creatures.â

âNo, and a good thing too. Education has devitalized the white races. Look at Americaâgoes in for an orgy of culture. Simply disgusting.â

âI think youâre talking nonsense,â said Cornelia, flushing. âI attend lectures every winter on Greek Art and the Renaissance, and I went to some on famous Women of History.â

Mr. Ferguson groaned in agony: âGreek Art; Renaissance! Famous Women of History! It makes me quite sick to hear you. Itâs the future that matters, woman, not the past. Three women are dead on this boat. Well, what of it? Theyâre no loss! Linnet Doyle and her money! The French maidâa domestic parasite. Mrs. Otterbourneâa useless fool of a woman. Do you think anyone really cares whether theyâre dead or not? I donât. I think itâs a damned good thing!â

âThen youâre wrong!â Cornelia blazed out at him. âAnd it makes me sick to hear you talk and talk, as though nobody mattered but you. I didnât like Mrs. Otterbourne much, but her daughter was ever so fond of her, and sheâs all broken up over her motherâs death. I donât know much about the French maid, but I expect somebody was fond of her somewhere; and as for Linnet Doyleâwell, 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. Iâm homely myself, and that makes me appreciate beauty a lot more. She was as beautifulâjust as a womanâas anything in Greek Art. And when anything beautifulâs dead, itâs a loss to the world. So there!â

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

âI give it up,â he said. âYouâre unbelievable. Just havenât got a bit of natural female spite in you anywhere.â He turned to Poirot. âDo you know, sir, that Corneliaâs father was practically ruined by Linnet Ridgewayâs 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: âIsnât she beautiful?â like a blessed Baa Lamb. I donât believe she even felt sore at her.â

Cornelia flushed. âI didâjust for a minute. Poppa kind of died of discouragement, you know, because he hadnât made good.â

âFelt sore for a minute! I ask you.â

Cornelia flashed round on him.

âWell, didnât you say just now it was the future that mattered, not the past? All that was in the past, wasnât it? Itâs over.â

âGot me there,â said Ferguson. âCornelia Robson, youâre the only nice woman Iâve ever come across. Will you marry me?â

âDonât be absurd.â

âItâs a genuine proposalâeven if it is made in the presence of Old Man Sleuth. Anyway, youâre a witness, Monsieur Poirot. Iâve deliberately offered marriage to this femaleâagainst all my principles, because I donât believe in legal contracts between the sexes; but I donât think sheâd stand for anything else, so marriage it shall be. Come on, Cornelia, say yes.â

âI think youâre utterly ridiculous,â said Cornelia, flushing.

âWhy wonât you marry me?â

âYouâre not serious,â said Cornelia.

âDo you mean not serious in proposing or do you mean not serious in character?â

âBoth, but I really meant character. You laugh at all sorts of serious things. Education and Cultureâandâand Death. You wouldnât be reliable.â

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

Ferguson stared after her. âDamn the girl! I believe she really means it. She wants a man to be reliable. Reliableâye gods!â He paused and then said curiously: âWhatâs the matter with you, Monsieur Poirot? You seem very deep in thought.â

Poirot roused himself with a start.

âI reflect, that is all. I reflect.â

âMeditation on Death. Death, the Recurring Decimal, by Hercule Poirot. One of his well-known monographs.â

âMonsieur Ferguson,â said Poirot, âyou are a very impertinent young man.â

âYou must excuse me. I like attacking established institutions.â

âAnd I am an established institution?â

âPrecisely. What do you think of that girl?â

âOf Miss Robson?â

âYes.â

âI think that she has a great deal of character.â

âYouâre right. Sheâs got spirit. She looks meek, but she isnât. Sheâs got guts. Sheâsâoh, damn it, I want that girl. It mightnât 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.â

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.

âGood afternoon, Miss Van Schuyler.â

Miss Van Schuyler raised her eyes for a bare second, dropped them again and murmured frigidly, âErâgood afternoon.â

âLook here, Miss Van Schuyler, I want to talk to you about something pretty important. Itâs just this. I want to marry your cousin.â

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

She said in a venomous tone: âYou must be out of your senses, young man.â

âNot at all. Iâm determined to marry her. Iâve asked her to marry me!â

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

âIndeed? And I presume she sent you about your business.â

âShe refused me.â

âNaturally.â

âNot ânaturallyâ at all. Iâm going to go on asking her till she agrees.â

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

âWhat have you got against me?â

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

âCome now,â persisted Mr. Ferguson, âwhat have you got against me?â

âI should think that was quite obvious, MrâerâI donât know your name.â

âFerguson.â

âMr. Ferguson.â Miss Van Schuyler uttered the name with definite distaste. âAny such idea is quite out of the question.â

âYou mean,â said Ferguson, âthat Iâm not good enough for her?â

âI should think that would have been obvious to you.â

âIn what way am I not good enough?â

Miss Van Schuyler again did not answer.

âIâve got two legs, two arms, good health, and quite reasonable brains. Whatâs wrong with that?â

âThere is such a thing as social position, Mr. Ferguson.â

âSocial position is bunk!â

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: âCome along, Cornelia. Iâm asking for your hand in marriage in the best conventional manner.â

âCornelia,â said Miss Van Schuyler, and her voice was truly awful in quality, âhave you encouraged this young man?â

âIâno, of course notâat leastânot exactlyâI meanââ

âWhat do you mean?â

âShe hasnât encouraged me,â said Mr. Ferguson helpfully. âIâve done it all. She hasnât actually pushed me in the face, because sheâs got too kind a heart. Cornelia, your cousin says Iâm not good enough for you. That, of course, is true, but not in the way she means it. My moral nature certainly doesnât equal yours, but her point is that Iâm hopelessly below you socially.â

âThat I think, is equally obvious to Cornelia,â said Miss Van Schuyler.

âIs it?â Mr. Ferguson looked at her searchingly. âIs that why you wonât marry me?â

âNo, it isnât.â Cornelia flushed. âIfâif I liked you, Iâd marry you no matter who you were.â

âBut you donât like me?â

âIâI think youâre just outrageous. The way you say thingsâ¦The things you sayâ¦IâIâve never met anyone the least like you. Iââ

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

âOn the whole,â said Mr. Ferguson, âthatâs not too bad for a start.â He leaned back in his chair, gazed at the ceiling, whistled, crossed his disreputable knees and remarked: âIâll be calling you Cousin yet.â

Miss Van Schuyler trembled with rage. âLeave this room at once, sir, or Iâll ring for the steward.â

âIâve paid for my ticket,â said Mr. Ferguson. âThey canât possibly turn me out of the public lounge. But Iâll humour you.â He sang softly, âYo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.â 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.

âThank you, Monsieur Poirot. If you would send Miss Bowers to meâI feel quite upsetâthat insolent young man.â

âRather eccentric, Iâm afraid,â said Poirot. âMost of that family are. Spoilt, of course. Always inclined to tilt at windmills.â He added carelessly, âYou recognized him, I suppose?â

âRecognized him?â

âCalls himself Ferguson and wonât use his title because of his advanced ideas.â

âHis title?â Miss Van Schuylerâs tone was sharp.

âYes, thatâs young Lord Dawlish. Rolling in money, of course, but he became a communist when he was at Oxford.â

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

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âThere was a picture in one of these papersâI noticed the resemblance. Then I found a signet ring with a coat of arms on it. Oh, thereâs no doubt about it, I assure you.â

He quite enjoyed reading the conflicting expressions that succeeded each other on Miss Van Schuylerâs face. Finally, with a gracious inclination of the head, she said, âI am very much obliged to you, Monsieur Poirot.â

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.

âMais oui,â he said at last. âIt all fits in.â

Twenty-Six

Race found him still sitting there.

âWell, Poirot, what about it? Penningtonâs due in ten minutes. Iâm leaving this in your hands.â

Poirot rose quickly to his feet. âFirst, get hold of young Fanthorp.â

âFanthorp?â Race looked surprised.

âYes. Bring him to my cabin.â

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.

âNow, Monsieur Fanthorp,â he said, âto our business! I perceive that you wear the same tie that my friend Hastings wears.â

Jim Fanthorp looked down at his neckwear with some bewilderment.

âItâs an O.E. tie,â he said.

âExactly. 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 âthings which are doneâ and âthings which are not done.ââ

Jim Fanthorp grinned.

âWe donât say that sort of thing much nowadays, sir.â

âPerhaps 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.â

Fanthorp stared.

Poirot went on: âBut 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 ladyâMadame Simon Doyleâon the soundness of her business methods.â

Jim Fanthorpâs face got very red. Poirot swept on, not waiting for a comment.

âNow 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 solicitorâs 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 myselfâand am now asking youâwhat is the reason for your presence on this boat?â

Jim Fanthorp jerked his head back.

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

âI 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 remarkâa remark which you uttered with obvious embarrassment and malaise? Your object was to prevent Madame Doyle from signing any document unread.â

He paused.

âOn 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.â

Jim Fanthorp was silent for some minutes. At last he said: âYou 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.â

âYou mean that it is a case, merely, of suspicion.â

âYes.â

âAnd 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.â

Again Jim Fanthorp reflected. Then he said: âVery well. What is it you want to know?â

âWhy did you come on this trip?â

âMy uncle, Mr. Carmichael, Mrs. Doyleâs 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. Doyleâs American trustee. Several small incidents (I cannot enumerate them all) made my uncle suspicious that all was not quite as it should be.â

âIn plain language,â said Race, âyour uncle suspected that Pennington was a crook?â

Jim Fanthorp nodded, a faint smile on his face.

âYou put it rather more bluntly than I should, but the main idea is correct. Various excuses made by Pennington, certain plausible explanations of the disposal of funds, aroused my uncleâs distrust.

âWhile these suspicions of his were still nebulous, Miss Ridgeway married unexpectedly and went off on her honeymoon to Egypt. Her marriage relieved my uncleâs mind, as he knew that on her return to England the estate would have to be formally settled and handed over.

âHowever, in a letter she wrote him from Cairo, she mentioned casually that she had unexpectedly run across Andrew Pennington. My uncleâs suspicions became acute. He felt sure that Pennington, perhaps by now in a desperate position, was going to try and obtain signatures from her which would cover his own defalcations. Since my uncle had no definite evidence to lay before her, he was in a most difficult position. The only thing he could think of was to send me out here, travelling by air, with instruction to discover what was in the wind. I was to keep my eyes open and act summarily if necessaryâa most unpleasant mission, I can assure you. As a matter of fact, on the occasion you mention I had to behave more or less as a cad! It was awkward, but on the whole I was satisfied with the result.â

âYou mean you put Madame Doyle on her guard?â asked Race.

âNot so much that, but I think I put the wind up Pennington. I felt convinced he wouldnât try anymore funny business for some time, and by then I hoped to have got intimate enough with Mr. and Mrs. Doyle to convey some kind of a warning. As a matter of fact I hoped to do so through Doyle. Mrs. Doyle was so attached to Mr. Pennington that it would have been a bit awkward to suggest things to her about him. It would have been easier for me to approach the husband.â

Race nodded.

Poirot asked: âWill you give me a candid opinion on one point, Monsieur Fanthorp? If you were engaged in putting a swindle over, would you choose Madame Doyle or Monsieur Doyle as a victim?â

Fanthorp smiled faintly.

âMr. Doyle, every time. Linnet Doyle was very shrewd in business matters. Her husband, I should fancy, is one of those trustful fellows who know nothing of business and are always ready to âsign on the dotted lineâ as he himself put it.â

âI agree,â said Poirot. He looked at Race. âAnd thereâs your motive.â

Jim Fanthorp said: âBut this is all pure conjecture. It isnât evidence.â

Poirot replied, easily: âAh, bah! we will get evidence!â

âHow?â

âPossibly from Mr. Pennington himself.â

Fanthorp looked doubtful.

âI wonder. I very much wonder.â

Race glanced at his watch. âHeâs about due now.â

Jim Fanthorp was quick to take the hint. He left them.

Two minutes later Andrew Pennington made his appearance. His manner was all smiling urbanity. Only the taut line of his jaw and the wariness of his eyes betrayed the fact that a thoroughly experienced fighter was on his guard.

âWell, gentlemen,â he said, âhere I am.â

He sat down and looked at them inquiringly.

âWe asked you to come here, Monsieur Pennington,â began Poirot, âbecause it is fairly obvious that you have a very special and immediate interest in the case.â

Pennington raised his eyebrows slightly.

âIs that so?â

Poirot said gently: âSurely. You have known Linnet Ridgeway, I understand, since she was quite a child.â

âOh! thatââ His face altered, became less alert. âI beg pardon, I didnât quite get you. Yes, as I told you this morning, Iâve known Linnet since she was a cute little thing in pinafores.â

âYou were on terms of close intimacy with her father?â

âThatâs so. Melhuish Ridgeway and I were very closeâvery close.â

âYou were so intimately associated that on his death he appointed you business guardian to his daughter and trustee to the vast fortune she inherited?â

âWhy, roughly, that is so.â The wariness was back again. The note was more cautious. âI was not the only trustee, naturally; others were associated with me.â

âWho have since died?â

âTwo of them are dead. The other, Mr. Sterndale Rockford, is alive.â

âYour partner?â

âYes.â

âMademoiselle Ridgeway, I understand, was not yet of age when she married?â

âShe would have been twenty-one next July.â

âAnd in the normal course of events she would have come into control of her fortune then?â

âYes.â

âBut her marriage precipitated matters?â

Penningtonâs jaw hardened. He shot out his chin at them aggressively.

âYouâll pardon me, gentlemen, but what exact business is all this of yours?â

âIf you dislike answering the questionââ

âThereâs no dislike about it. I donât mind what you ask me. But I donât see the relevance of all this.â

âOh, but surely, Monsieur PenningtonââPoirot leaned forward, his eyes green and catlikeââthere is the question of motive. In considering that, financial considerations must always be taken into account.â

Pennington said sullenly: âBy Ridgewayâs will, Linnet got control of her dough when she was twenty-one or when she married.â

âNo conditions of any kind?â

âNo conditions.â

âAnd it is a matter, I am credibly assured, of millions.â

âMillions it is.â

Poirot said softly: âYour responsibility, Mr. Pennington, and that of your partner, has been a very grave one.â

Pennington replied curtly: âWeâre used to responsibility. Doesnât worry us any.â

âI wonder.â

Something in his tone flicked the other man on the raw. He asked angrily: âWhat the devil do you mean?â

Poirot replied with an air of engaging frankness: âI was wondering, Mr. Pennington, whether Linnet Ridgewayâs sudden marriage caused anyâconsternation, in your office?â

âConsternation?â

âThat was the word I used.â

âWhat the hell are you driving at?â

âSomething quite simple. Are Linnet Doyleâs affairs in the perfect order they should be?â

Pennington rose to his feet.

âThatâs enough. Iâm through.â He made for the door.

âBut you will answer my question first?â

Pennington snapped: âTheyâre in perfect order.â

âYou were not so alarmed when the news of Linnet Ridgewayâs marriage reached you that you rushed over to Europe by the first boat and staged an apparently fortuitous meeting in Egypt?â

Pennington came back towards them. He had himself under control once more.

âWhat you are saying is absolute balderdash! I didnât even know that Linnet was married till I met her in Cairo. I was utterly astonished. Her letter must have missed me by a day in New York. It was forwarded and I got it about a week later.â

âYou came over by the Carmanic, I think you said.â

âThatâs right.â

âAnd the letter reached New York after the Carmanic sailed?â

âHow many times have I got to repeat it?â

âIt is strange,â said Poirot.

âWhatâs strange?â

âThat on your luggage there are no labels of the Carmanic. The only recent labels of transatlantic sailing are the Normandie. The Normandie, I remember, sailed two days after the Carmanic.â

For a moment the other was at a loss. His eyes wavered.

Colonel Race weighed in with telling effect.

âCome now, Mr. Pennington,â he said. âWeâve several reasons for believing that you came over on the Normandie and not by the Carmanic, as you said. In that case, you received Mrs. Doyleâs letter before you left New York. Itâs no good denying it, for itâs the easiest thing in the world to check up the steamship companies.â

Andrew Pennington felt absentmindedly for a chair and sat down. His face was impassiveâa poker face. Behind that mask his agile brain looked ahead to the next move.

âIâll have to hand it to you, gentlemen. Youâve been too smart for me. But I had my reasons for acting as I did.â

âNo doubt.â Raceâs tone was curt.

âIf I give them to you, it must be understood I do so in confidence.â

âI think you can trust us to behave fittingly. Naturally I cannot give assurances blindly.â

âWellââ Pennington sighed. âIâll come clean. There was some monkey business going on in England. It worried me. I couldnât do much about it by letter. The only thing was to come over and see for myself.â

âWhat do you mean by monkey business?â

âIâd good reason to believe that Linnet was being swindled.â

âBy whom?â

âHer British lawyer. Now thatâs not the kind of accusation you can fling around anyhow. I made up my mind to come over right away and see into matters myself.â

âThat does great credit to your vigilance, I am sure. But why the little deception about not having received the letter?â

âWell, I ask youââ Pennington spread out his hands. âYou canât butt in on a honeymoon couple without more or less coming down to brass tacks and giving your reasons. I thought it best to make the meeting accidental. Besides, I didnât know anything about the husband. He might have been mixed up in the racket for all I knew.â

âIn fact all your actions were actuated by pure disinterestedness,â said Colonel Race dryly.

âYouâve said it, Colonel.â

There was a pause. Race glanced at Poirot. The little man leant forward.

âMonsieur Pennington, we do not believe a word of your story.â

âThe hell you donât! And what the hell do you believe?â

âWe believe that Linnet Ridgewayâs unexpected marriage put you in a financial quandary. That you came over posthaste to try and find some way out of the mess you were inâthat is to say, some way of gaining time. That, with that end in view, you endeavoured to obtain Madame Doyleâs signature to certain documents and failed. That on the journey up the Nile, when walking along the cliff top at Abu Simbel, you dislodged a boulder which fell and only very narrowly missed its objectââ

âYouâre crazy.â

âWe believe that the same kind of circumstances occurred on the return journey. That is to say, an opportunity presented itself of putting Madame Doyle out of the way at a moment when her death would be almost certainly ascribed to the action of another person. We not only believe, but know, that it was your revolver which killed a woman who was about to reveal to us the name of the person who she had reason to believe killed both Linnet Doyle and the maid Louiseââ

âHell!â The forcible ejaculation broke forth and interrupted Poirotâs stream of eloquence. âWhat are you getting at? Are you crazy? What motive had I to kill Linnet? I wouldnât get her money; that goes to her husband. Why donât you pick on him? Heâs the one to benefitânot me.â

Race said coldly: âDoyle never left the lounge on the night of the tragedy till he was shot at and wounded in the leg. The impossibility of his walking a step after that is attested to by a doctor and a nurseâboth independent and reliable witnesses. Simon Doyle could not have killed his wife. He could not have killed Louise Bourget. He most definitely did not kill Mrs. Otterbourne. You know that as well as we do.â

âI know he didnât kill her.â Pennington sounded a little calmer. âAll I say is, why pick on me when I donât benefit by her death?â

âBut, my dear sir,â Poirotâs voice came soft as a purring cat, âthat is rather a matter of opinion. Madame Doyle was a keen woman of business, fully conversant with her own affairs and very quick to spot any irregularity. As soon as she took up the control of her property, which she would have done on her return to England, her suspicions were bound to be aroused. But now that she is dead and that her husband, as you have just pointed out, inherits, the whole thing is different. Simon Doyle knows nothing whatever of his wifeâs affairs except that she was a rich woman. He is of a simple, trusting disposition. You will find it easy to place complicated statements before him, to involve the real issue in a net of figures, and to delay settlement with pleas of legal formalities and the recent depression. I think that it makes a very considerable difference to you whether you deal with the husband or the wife.â

Pennington shrugged his shoulders.

âYour ideas areâfantastic.â

âTime will show.â

âWhat did you say?â

âI said, âTime will show!â This is a matter of three deathsâthree murders. The law will demand the most searching investigation into the condition of Madame Doyleâs estate.â

He saw the sudden sag in the otherâs shoulders and knew that he had won. Jim Fanthorpâs suspicions were well founded.

Poirot went on: âYouâve playedâand lost. Useless to go on bluffing.â

âYou donât understand,â Pennington muttered. âItâs all square enough really. Itâs been this damned slumpâWall Streetâs been crazy. But Iâd staged a comeback. With luck everything will be O.K. by the middle of June.â

With shaking hands he took a cigarette, tried to light it, failed.

âI suppose,â mused Poirot, âthat the boulder was a sudden temptation. You thought nobody saw you.â

âThat was an accident. I swear it was an accident!â The man leant forward, his face working, his eyes terrified. âI stumbled and fell against it. I swear it was an accidentâ¦.â

The two men said nothing.

Pennington suddenly pulled himself together. He was still a wreck of a man, but his fighting spirit had returned in a certain measure. He moved towards the door.

âYou canât pin that on me, gentlemen. It was an accident. And it wasnât I who shot her. Dâyou hear? You canât pin that on me eitherâand you never will.â

He went out.

Twenty-Seven

As the door closed behind him, Race gave a deep sigh.

âWe got more than I thought we should. Admission of fraud. Admission of attempted murder. Further than that itâs impossible to go. A man will confess, more or less, to attempted murder, but you wonât get him to confess to the real thing.â

âSometimes it can be done,â said Poirot. His eyes were dreamyâcatlike.

Race looked at him curiously.

âGot a plan?â

Poirot nodded. Then he said, ticking off the items on his fingers: âThe garden at Assuan. Mr. Allertonâs statement. The two bottles of nail polish. My bottle of wine. The velvet stole. The stained handkerchief. The pistol that was left on the scene of the crime. The death of Louise. The death of Madame Otterbourne. Yes, itâs all there. Pennington didnât do it, Race!â

âWhat?â Race was startled.

âPennington didnât do it. He had the motive, yes. He had the will to do it, yes. He got as far as attempting to do it. Mais câest tout. For this crime, something was wanted that Pennington hadnât got! This is a crime that needed audacity, swift and faultless execution, courage, indifference to danger, and a resourceful, calculating brain. Pennington hasnât got those attributes. He couldnât do a crime unless he knew it to be safe. This crime wasnât safe! It hung on a razor edge. It needed boldness. Pennington isnât bold. Heâs only astute.â

Race looked at him with the respect one able man gives to another.

âYouâve got it all well taped,â he said.

âI think so, yes. There are one or two thingsâthat telegram for instance, that Linnet Doyle read. I should like to get that cleared up.â

âBy Jove, we forgot to ask Doyle. He was telling us when poor old Ma Otterbourne came along. Weâll ask him again.â

âPresently. First, I have someone else to whom I wish to speak.â

âWhoâs that?â

âTim Allerton.â

Race raised his eyebrows.

âAllerton? Well, weâll get him here.â

He pressed a bell and sent the steward with a message.

Tim Allerton entered with a questioning look.

âSteward said you wanted to see me?â

âThat is right, Monsieur Allerton. Sit down.â

Tim sat. His face was attentive but very slightly bored.

âAnything I can do?â His tone was polite but not enthusiastic.

Poirot said: âIn a sense, perhaps. What I really require is for you to listen.â

Timâs eyebrows rose in polite surprise.

âCertainly. Iâm the worldâs best listener. Can be relied on to say âOoer!â at the right moments.â

âThat is very satisfactory. âOo-er!â will be very expressive. Eh bien, let us commence. When I met you and your mother at Assuan, Monsieur Allerton, I was attracted to your company very strongly. To begin with, I thought your mother was one of the most charming people I had ever metââ

The weary face flickered for a moment; a shade of expression came into it.

âShe isâunique,â he said.

âBut the second thing that interested me was your mention of a certain lady.â

âReally?â

âYes, a Mademoiselle Joanna Southwood. You see, I had recently been hearing that name.â

He paused and went on: âFor the last three years there have been certain jewel robberies that have been worrying Scotland Yard a good deal. They are what may be described as Society robberies. The method is usually the sameâthe substitution of an imitation piece of jewellery for an original. My friend, Chief Inspector Japp, came to the conclusion that the robberies were not the work of one person, but of two people working in with each other very cleverly. He was convinced, from the considerable inside knowledge displayed, that the robberies were the work of people in a good social position. And finally his attention became riveted on Mademoiselle Joanna Southwood.

âEvery one of the victims had been either a friend or acquaintance of hers, and in each case she had either handled or been lent the piece of jewellery in question. Also, her style of living was far in excess of her income. On the other hand it was quite clear that the actual robberyâthat is to say the substitutionâhad not been accomplished by her. In some cases she had been out of England during the period when the jewellery must have been replaced.

âSo gradually a little picture grew up in Chief Inspector Jappâs mind. Mademoiselle Southwood was at one time associated with a Guild of Modern Jewellery. He suspected that she handled the jewels in question, made accurate drawings of them, got them copied by some humble but dishonest working jeweller and that the third part of the operation was the successful substitution by another personâsomebody who could have been proved never to have handled the jewels and never to have had anything to do with copies or imitations of precious stones. Of the identity of this other person Japp was ignorant.

âCertain things that fell from you in conversation interested me. A ring that disappeared when you were in Majorca, the fact that you had been in a house party where one of these fake substitutions had occurred, your close association with Mademoiselle Southwood. There was also the fact that you obviously resented my presence and tried to get your mother to be less friendly towards me. That might, of course, have been just personal dislike, but I thought not. You were too anxious to try and hide your distaste under a genial manner.

âEh bien! after the murder of Linnet Doyle, it is discovered that her pearls are missing. You comprehend, at once I think of you! But I am not quite satisfied. For if you are working, as I suspect, with Mademoiselle Southwood (who was an intimate friend of Madame Doyleâs), then substitution would be the method employedânot barefaced theft. But then, the pearls quite unexpectedly are returned, and what do I discover? That they are not genuine, but imitation.

âI know then who the real thief is. It was the imitation string which was stolen and returnedâan imitation which you had previously substituted for the real necklace.â

He looked at the young man in front of him. Tim was white under his tan. He was not so good a fighter as Pennington; his stamina was bad. He said, with an effort to sustain his mocking manner: âIndeed? And if so, what did I do with them?â

âThat I know also.â

The young manâs face changedâbroke up.

Poirot went on slowly: âThere is only one place where they can be. I have reflected, and my reason tells me that that is so. Those pearls, Monsieur Allerton, are concealed in a rosary that hangs in your cabin. The beads of it are very elaborately carved. I think you had it made specially. Those beads unscrew, though you would never think so to look at them. Inside each is a pearl, stuck with Seccotine. Most police searchers respect religious symbols unless there is something obviously queer about them. You counted on that. I endeavoured to find out how Mademoiselle Southwood sent the imitation necklace out to you. She must have done so, since you came here from Majorca on hearing that Madame Doyle would be here for her honeymoon. My theory is that it was sent in a bookâa square hole being cut out of the pages in the middle. A book goes with the ends open and is practically never opened in the post.â

There was a pauseâa long pause. Then Tim said quietly: âYou win! Itâs been a good game, but itâs over at last. Thereâs nothing for it now, I suppose, but to take my medicine.â

Poirot nodded gently.

âDo you realize that you were seen that night?â

âSeen?â Tim started.

âYes, on the night that Linnet Doyle died, someone saw you leave her cabin just after one in the morning.â

Tim said: âLook hereâyou arenât thinkingâ¦it wasnât I who killed her! Iâll swear that! Iâve been in the most awful stew. To have chosen that night of all othersâ¦God, itâs been awful!â

Poirot said: âYes, you must have had uneasy moments. But, now that the truth has come out, you may be able to help us. Was Madame Doyle alive or dead when you stole the pearls?â

âI donât know,â Tim said hoarsely. âHonest to God, Monsieur Poirot, I donât know! Iâd found out where she put them at nightâon the little table by the bed. I crept in, felt very softly on the table and grabbed âem, put down the others and crept out again. I assumed, of course, that she was asleep.â

âDid you hear her breathing? Surely you would have listened for that?â

Tim thought earnestly.

âIt was very stillâvery still indeed. No, I canât remember actually hearing her breathe.â

âWas there any smell of smoke lingering in the air, as there would have been if a firearm had been discharged recently?â

âI donât think so. I donât remember it.â

Poirot sighed.

âThen we are no further.â

Tim asked curiously, âWho was it saw me?â

âRosalie Otterbourne. She came round from the other side of the boat and saw you leave Linnet Doyleâs cabin and go to your own.â

âSo it was she who told you.â

Poirot said gently, âExcuse me; she did not tell me.â

âBut then, how do you know?â

âBecause I am Hercule Poirot I do not need to be told. When I taxed her with it, do you know what she said? She said: âI saw nobody.â And she lied.â

âBut why?â

Poirot said in a detached voice: âPerhaps because she thought the man she saw was the murderer. It looked like that, you know.â

âThat seems to me all the more reason for telling you.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. âShe did not think so, it seems.â

Tim said, a queer note in his voice: âSheâs an extraordinary sort of a girl. She must have been through a pretty rough time with that mother of hers.â

âYes, life has not been easy for her.â

âPoor kid,â Tim muttered. Then he looked towards Race.

âWell, sir, where do we go from here? I admit taking the pearls from Linnetâs cabin and youâll find them just where you say they are. Iâm guilty all right. But as far as Miss Southwood is concerned, Iâm not admitting anything. Youâve no evidence whatever against her. How I got hold of the fake necklace is my own business.â

Poirot murmured: âA very correct attitude.â

Tim said with a flash of humour: âAlways the gentleman!â He added: âPerhaps you can imagine how annoying it was to me to find my mother cottoning on to you! Iâm not a sufficiently hardened criminal to enjoy sitting cheek by jowl with a successful detective just before bringing off a rather risky coup! Some people might get a kick out of it. I didnât. Frankly, it gave me cold feet.â

âBut it did not deter you from making your attempt?â

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

âI couldnât funk it to that extent. The exchange had to be made sometime and Iâd got a unique opportunity on this boatâa cabin only two doors off, and Linnet herself so preoccupied with her own troubles that she wasnât likely to detect the change.â

âI wonder if that was soââ

Tim looked up sharply. âWhat do you mean?â

Poirot pressed the bell. âI am going to ask Miss Otterbourne if she will come here for a minute.â

Tim frowned but said nothing. A steward came, received the order and went away with the message.

Rosalie came after a few minutes. Her eyes, reddened with recent weeping, widened a little at seeing Tim, but her old attitude of suspicion and defiance seemed entirely absent. She sat down and with a new docility looked from Race to Poirot.

âWeâre very sorry to bother you, Miss Otterbourne,â said Race gently. He was slightly annoyed with Poirot.

âIt doesnât matter,â the girl said in a low voice.

Poirot said: âIt is necessary to clear up one or two points. When I asked you whether you saw anyone on the starboard deck at one-ten this morning, your answer was that you saw nobody. Fortunately I have been able to arrive at the truth without your help. Monsieur Allerton has admitted that he was in Linnet Doyleâs cabin last night.â

She flashed a swift glance at Tim. Tim, his face grim and set, gave a curt nod.

âThe time is correct, Monsieur Allerton?â

Allerton replied, âQuite correct.â

Rosalie was staring at him. Her lips trembledâfell apartâ¦.

âBut you didnâtâyou didnâtââ

He said quickly: âNo, I didnât kill her. Iâm a thief, not a murderer. Itâs all going to come out, so you might as well know. I was after her pearls.â

Poirot said, âMr. Allertonâs story is that he went to her cabin last night and exchanged a string of fake pearls for the real ones.â

âDid you?â asked Rosalie. Her eyes, grave, sad, childlike, questioned his.

âYes,â said Tim.

There was a pause. Colonel Race shifted restlessly.

Poirot said in a curious voice: âThat, as I say, is Monsieur Allertonâs story, partially confirmed by your evidence. That is to say, there is evidence that he did visit Linnet Doyleâs cabin last night, but there is no evidence to show why he did so.â

Tim stared at him. âBut you know!â

âWhat do I know?â

âWellâyou know Iâve got the pearls.â

âMais ouiâmais oui! I know you have the pearls, but I do not know when you got them. It may have been before last nightâ¦You said just now that Linnet Doyle would not have noticed the substitution. I am not so sure of that. Supposing she did notice itâ¦Supposing, even, she knew who did itâ¦Supposing that last night she threatened to expose the whole business, and that you knew she meant to do soâ¦and supposing that you overheard the scene in the saloon between Jacqueline de Bellefort and Simon Doyle and, as soon as the saloon was empty, you slipped in and secured the pistol, and then, an hour later, when the boat had quieted down, you crept along to Linnet Doyleâs cabin and made quite sure that no exposure would comeâ¦.â

âMy God!â said Tim. Out of his ashen face, two tortured, agonized eyes gazed dumbly at Hercule Poirot.

The latter went on: âBut somebody else saw youâthe girl Louise. The next day she came to you and blackmailed you. You must pay her handsomely or she would tell what she knew. You realized that to submit to blackmail would be the beginning of the end. You pretended to agree, made an appointment to come to her cabin just before lunch with the money. Then, when she was counting the notes, you stabbed her.

âBut again luck was against you. Somebody saw you go to her cabinââhe half turned to Rosalieââyour mother. Once again you had to actâdangerously, foolhardilyâbut it was the only chance. You had heard Pennington talk about his revolver. You rushed into his cabin, got hold of it, listened outside Dr. Bessnerâs cabin door, and shot Madame Otterbourne before she could reveal your name.â

âNo-o!â cried Rosalie. âHe didnât! He didnât!â

âAfter that, you did the only thing you could doârushed round the stern. And when I rushed after you, you had turned and pretended to be coming in the opposite direction. You had handled the revolver in gloves; those gloves were in your pocket when I asked for themâ¦.â

Tim said, âBefore God, I swear it isnât trueânot a word of it.â But his voice, ill-assured and trembling, failed to convince.

It was then that Rosalie Otterbourne surprised them.

âOf course it isnât true! And Monsieur Poirot knows it isnât! Heâs saying it for some reason of his own.â

Poirot looked at her. A faint smile came to his lips. He spread out his hands in token surrender.

âMademoiselle is too cleverâ¦But you agreeâit was a good case?â

âWhat the devilââ Tim began with rising anger, but Poirot held up a hand.

âThere is a very good case against you, Monsieur Allerton. I wanted you to realize that. Now I will tell you something more pleasant. I have not yet examined that rosary in your cabin. It may be that, when I do, I shall find nothing there. And then, since Mademoiselle Otterbourne sticks to it that she saw no one on the deck last night, eh bien! there is no case against you at all. The pearls were taken by a kleptomaniac who has since returned them. They are in a little box on the table by the door, if you would like to examine them with Mademoiselle.â

Tim got up. He stood for a moment unable to speak. When he did, his words seemed inadequate, but it is possible that they satisfied his listeners.

âThanks!â he said. âYou wonât have to give me another chance!â

He held the door open for the girl; she passed out and, picking up the little cardboard box, he followed her.

Side by side they went. Tim opened the box, took out the sham string of pearls and hurled it far from him into the Nile.

âThere!â he said. âThatâs gone. When I return the box to Poirot the real string will be in it. What a damned fool Iâve been!â

Rosalie said in a low voice: âWhy did you come to do it in the first place?â

âHow did I come to start, do you mean? Oh, I donât know. Boredomâlazinessâthe fun of the thing. Such a much more attractive way of earning a living than just pegging away at a job. Sounds pretty sordid to you, I expect, but you know there was an attraction about itâmainly the risk, I suppose.â

âI think I understand.â

âYes, but you wouldnât ever do it.â

Rosalie considered for a moment or two, her grave young head bent.

âNo,â she said simply. âI wouldnât.â

He said: âOh, my dearâyouâre so lovelyâ¦so utterly lovely. Why wouldnât you say youâd seen me last night?â

âI thoughtâthey might suspect you,â Rosalie said.

âDid you suspect me?â

âNo. I couldnât believe that youâd kill anyone.â

âNo. Iâm not the strong stuff murderers are made of. Iâm only a miserable sneak-thief.â

She put out a timid hand and touched his arm.

âDonât say that.â

He caught her hand in his.

âRosalie, would youâyou know what I mean? Or would you always despise me and throw it in my teeth?â

She smiled faintly. âThere are things you could throw in my teeth, tooâ¦.â

âRosalieâdarlingâ¦.â

But she held back a minute longer.

âThisâJoanna?â

Tim gave a sudden shout.

âJoanna? Youâre as bad as Mother. I donât care a damn about Joanna. Sheâs got a face like a horse and a predatory eye. A most unattractive female.â

Presently Rosalie said: âYour mother need never know about you.â

âIâm not sure,â Tim said thoughtfully. âI think I shall tell her. Motherâs got plenty of stuffing, you know. She can stand up to things. Yes, I think I shall shatter her maternal illusions about me. Sheâll be so relieved to know that my relations with Joanna were purely of a business nature that sheâll forgive me everything else.â

They had come to Mrs. Allertonâs cabin and Tim knocked firmly on the door. It opened and Mrs. Allerton stood on the threshold.

âRosalie and Iââ began Tim. He paused.

âOh, my dears,â said Mrs. Allerton. She folded Rosalie in her arms. âMy dear, dear child. I always hopedâbut Tim was so tiresomeâand pretended he didnât like you. But of course I saw through that!â

Rosalie said in a broken voice: âYouâve been so sweet to meâalways. I used to wishâto wishââ

She broke off and sobbed happily on Mrs. Allertonâs shoulder.

Twenty-Eight

As the door closed behind Tim and Rosalie, Poirot looked somewhat apologetically at Colonel Race. The Colonel was looking rather grim.

âYou will consent to my little arrangement, yes?â Poirot pleaded. âIt is irregularâI know it is irregular, yesâbut I have a high regard for human happiness.â

âYouâve none for mine,â said Race.

âThat jeune fille. I have a tenderness towards her, and she loves that young man. It will be an excellent match; she has the stiffening he needs; the mother likes her; everything thoroughly suitable.â

âIn fact the marriage has been arranged by heaven and Hercule Poirot. All I have to do is to compound a felony.â

âBut, mon ami, I told you, it was all conjecture on my part.â

Race grinned suddenly.

âItâs all right by me,â he said. âIâm not a damned policeman, thank God! I dare say the young fool will go straight enough now. The girlâs straight all right. No, what Iâm complaining of is your treatment of me! Iâm a patient man, but there are limits to patience! Do you know who committed the three murders on this boat or donât you?â

âI do.â

âThen why all this beating about the bush?â

âYou think that I am just amusing myself with side issues? And it annoys you? But it is not that. Once I went professionally to an archÃ¦ological expeditionâand I learnt something there. In the course of an excavation, when something comes up out of the ground, everything is cleared away very carefully all around it. You take away the loose earth, and you scrape here and there with a knife until finally your object is there, all alone, ready to be drawn and photographed with no extraneous matter confusing it. That is what I have been seeking to doâclear away the extraneous matter so that we can see the truthâthe naked shining truth.â

âGood,â said Race. âLetâs have this naked shining truth. It wasnât Pennington. It wasnât young Allerton. I presume it wasnât Fleetwood. Letâs hear who it was for a change.â

âMy friend, I am just about to tell you.â

There was a knock on the door. Race uttered a muffled curse. It was Dr. Bessner and Cornelia. The latter was looking upset.

âOh, Colonel Race,â she exclaimed, âMiss Bowers has just told me about Cousin Marie. Itâs been the most dreadful shock. She said she couldnât bear the responsibility all by herself any longer, and that Iâd better know, as I was one of the family. I just couldnât believe it at first, but Dr. Bessner here has been just wonderful.â

âNo, no,â protested the doctor modestly.

âHeâs been so kind, explaining it all, and how people really canât help it. Heâs had kleptomaniacs in his clinic And heâs explained to me how itâs very often due to a deep-seated neurosis.â

Cornelia repeated the words with awe.

âItâs planted very deeply in the subconscious; sometimes itâs just some little thing that happened when you were a child. And heâs cured people by getting them to think back and remember what that little thing was.â

Cornelia paused, drew a deep breath, and started off again.

âBut itâs worrying me dreadfully in case it all gets out. It would be too, too terrible in New York. Why, all the tabloids would have it. Cousin Marie and Mother and everybodyâtheyâd never hold up their heads again.â

Race sighed. âThatâs all right,â he said.

âThis is Hush Hush House.â

âI beg your pardon, Colonel Race?â

âWhat I was endeavouring to say was that anything short of murder is being hushed up.â

âOh!â Cornelia clasped her hands. âIâm so relieved. Iâve just been worrying and worrying.â

âYou have the heart too tender,â said Dr. Bessner, and patted her benevolently on the shoulder. He said to the others: âShe has a very sensitive and beautiful nature.â

âOh, I havenât really. Youâre too kind.â

Poirot murmured, âHave you seen anymore of Mr. Ferguson?â

Cornelia blushed.

âNoâbut Cousin Marieâs been talking about him.â

âIt seems the young man is highly born,â said Dr. Bessner. âI must confess he does not look it. His clothes are terrible. Not for a moment does he appear a well-bred man.â

âAnd what do you think, Mademoiselle?â

âI think he must be just plain crazy,â said Cornelia.

Poirot turned to the doctor. âHow is your patient?â

âAch, he is going on splendidly. I have just reassured the FrÃ¤ulein de Bellefort. Would you believe it, I found her in despair. Just because the fellow had a bit of a temperature this afternoon! But what could be more natural? It is amazing that he is not in a high fever now. But no, he is like some of our peasants; he has a magnificent constitution, the constitution of an ox. I have seen them with deep wounds that they hardly notice. It is the same with Mr. Doyle. His pulse is steady, his temperature only slightly above normal. I was able to pooh-pooh the little ladyâs fears. All the same, it is ridiculous, nicht wahr? One minute you shoot a man; the next you are in hysterics in case he may not be doing well.â

Cornelia said: âShe loves him terribly, you see.â

âAch! but it is not sensible, that. If you loved a man, would you try and shoot him? No, you are sensible.â

âI donât like things that go off with bangs anyway,â said Cornelia.

âNaturally you do not. You are very feminine.â

Race interrupted this scene of heavy approval. âSince Doyle is all right thereâs no reason I shouldnât come along and resume our talk of this afternoon. He was just telling me about a telegram.â

Dr. Bessnerâs bulk moved up and down appreciatively.

âHo, ho, ho, it was very funny that! Doyle, he tells me about it. It was a telegram all about vegetablesâpotatoes, artichokes, leeksâAch! pardon?â

With a stifled exclamation, Race had sat up in his chair.

âMy God,â he said. âSo thatâs it! Richetti!â

He looked round on three uncomprehending faces.

âA new codeâit was used in the South African rebellion. Potatoes mean machine guns, artichokes are high explosivesâand so on. Richetti is no more an archÃ¦ologist than I am! Heâs a very dangerous agitator, a man whoâs killed more than once, and Iâll swear that heâs killed once again. Mrs. Doyle opened that telegram by mistake, you see. If she were ever to repeat what was in it before me, he knew his goose would be cooked!â

He turned to Poirot. âAm I right?â he asked. âIs Richetti the man?â

âHe is your man,â said Poirot. âI always thought there was something wrong about him. He was almost too word-perfect in his rÃ´le; he was all archÃ¦ologist, not enough human being.â

He paused and then said: âBut it was not Richetti who killed Linnet Doyle. For some time now I have known what I may express as the âfirst half â of the murderer. Now I know the âsecond half â also. The picture is complete. But you understand that, although I know what must have happened, I have no proof that it happened. Intellectually the case is satisfying. Actually it is profoundly unsatisfactory. There is only one hopeâa confession from the murderer.â

Dr. Bessner raised his shoulders sceptically. âAh! but thatâit would be a miracle.â

âI think not. Not under the circumstances.â

Cornelia cried out: âBut who is it? Arenât you going to tell us?â

Poirotâs eyes ranged quietly over the three of them. Race, smiling sardonically, Bessner, still looking sceptical, Cornelia, her mouth hanging a little open, gazing at him with eager eyes.

âMais oui,â he said. âI like an audience, I must confess. I am vain, you see. I am puffed up with conceit. I like to say: âSee how clever is Hercule Poirot!ââ

Race shifted a little in his chair.

âWell,â he asked gently, âjust how clever is Hercule Poirot?â

Shaking his head sadly from side to side Poirot said: âTo begin with I was stupidâincredibly stupid. To me the stumbling block was the pistolâJacqueline de Bellefortâs pistol. Why had that pistol not been left on the scene of the crime? The idea of the murderer was quite plainly to incriminate her. Why then did the murderer take it away? I was so stupid that I thought of all sorts of fantastic reasons. The real one was very simple. The murderer took it away because he had to take it awayâbecause he had no choice in the matter.â

Twenty-Nine

âYou and I, my friend,â Poirot leaned towards Race, âstarted our investigation with a preconceived idea. That idea was that the crime was committed on the spur of the moment, without any preliminary planning. Somebody wished to remove Linnet Doyle and had seized their opportunity to do so at a moment when the crime would almost certainly be attributed to Jacqueline de Bellefort. It therefore followed that the person in question had overheard the scene between Jacqueline and Simon Doyle and had obtained possession of the pistol after the others had left the saloon.

âBut, my friends, if that preconceived idea was wrong, the whole aspect of the case altered. And it was wrong! This was no spontaneous crime committed on the spur of the moment. It was, on the contrary, very carefully planned and accurately timed, with all the details meticulously worked out beforehand, even to the drugging of Hercule Poirotâs bottle of wine on the night in question!

âBut yes, that is so! I was put to sleep so that there should be no possibility of my participating in the events of the night. It did just occur to me as a possibility. I drink wine; my two companions at table drink whisky and mineral water respectively. Nothing easier than to slip a dose of harmless narcotic into my bottle of wineâthe bottles stand on the tables all day. But I dismissed the thought. It had been a hot day; I had been unusually tired; it was not really extraordinary that I should for once have slept heavily instead of lightly as I usually do.

âYou see, I was still in the grip of the preconceived idea. If I had been drugged, that would have implied premeditation, it would mean that before seven-thirty, when dinner is served, the crime had already been decided upon; and that (always from the point of view of the preconceived idea) was absurd.

âThe first blow to the preconceived idea was when the pistol was recovered from the Nile. To begin with, if we were right in our assumptions, the pistol ought never to have been thrown overboard at allâ¦And there was more to follow.â

Poirot turned to Dr. Bessner.

âYou, Dr. Bessner, examined Linnet Doyleâs body. You will remember that the wound showed signs of scorchingâthat is to say, that the pistol had been placed close against the head before being fired.â

Bessner nodded. âSo. That is exact.â

âBut when the pistol was found it was wrapped in a velvet stole, and that velvet showed definite signs that a pistol had been fired through its folds, presumably under the impression that that would deaden the sound of the shot. But if the pistol had been fired through the velvet, there would have been no signs of burning on the victimâs skin. Therefore, the shot fired by Jacqueline de Bellefort at Simon Doyle? Again no, for there had been two witnesses of that shooting, and we knew all about it. It appeared, therefore, as though a third shot had been firedâone we knew nothing about. But only two shots had been fired from the pistol, and there was no hint or suggestion of another shot.

âHere we were face to face with a very curious unexplained circumstance. The next interesting point was the fact that in Linnet Doyleâs cabin I found two bottles of coloured nail polish. Now ladies very often vary the colour of their nails, but so far Linnet Doyleâs nails had always been the shade called Cardinalâa deep dark red. The other bottle was labelled Rose, which is a shade of pale pink, but the few drops remaining in the bottle were not pale pink but a bright red. I was sufficiently curious to take out the stopper and sniff. Instead of the usual strong odour of peardrops, the bottle smelt of vinegar! That is to say, it suggested that the drop or two of fluid in it was red ink. Now there is no reason why Madame Doyle should not have had a bottle of red ink, but it would have been more natural if she had had red ink in a red ink bottle and not in a nail polish bottle. It suggested a link with the faintly stained handkerchief which had been wrapped round the pistol. Red ink washes out quickly but always leaves a pale pink stain.

âI should perhaps have arrived at the truth with these slender indications, but an event occurred which rendered all doubt superfluous. Louise Bourget was killed in circumstances which pointed unmistakably to the fact that she had been blackmailing the murderer. Not only was a fragment of a mille franc note still clasped in her hand, but I remembered some very significant words she had used this morning.

âListen carefully, for here is the crux of the whole matter. When I asked her if she had seen anything the previous night she gave this very curious answer: âNaturally, if I had been unable to sleep, if I had mounted the stairs, then perhaps I might have seen this assassin, this monster enter or leave Madameâs cabinâ¦â Now what exactly did that tell us?â

Bessner, his nose wrinkling with intellectual interest, replied promptly: âIt told you that she had mounted the stairs.â

âNo, no; you fail to see the point. Why should she have said that, to us?â

âTo convey a hint.â

âBut why hint to us? If she knows who the murderer is, there are two courses open to herâto tell us the truth, or to hold her tongue and demand money for her silence from the person concerned! But she does neither. She neither says promptly: âI saw nobody. I was asleep.â Nor does she say: âYes, I saw someone, and it was so and so.â Why use that significant indeterminate rigmarole of words? Parbleu, there can be only one reason! She is hinting to the murderer; therefore the murderer must have been present at the time. But, besides myself and Colonel Race, only two people were presentâSimon Doyle and Dr. Bessner.â

The doctor sprang up with a roar.

âAch! what is that you say? You accuse me? Again? But it is ridiculousâbeneath contempt.â

Poirot said sharply: âBe quiet. I am telling you what I thought at the time. Let us remain impersonal.â

âHe doesnât mean he thinks itâs you now,â said Cornelia soothingly.

Poirot went on quickly: âSo it lay thereâbetween Simon Doyle and Dr. Bessner. But what reason has Bessner to kill Linnet Doyle? None, so far as I know. Simon Doyle, then? But that was impossible! There were plenty of witnesses who could swear that Doyle never left the saloon that evening until the quarrel broke out. After that he was wounded and it would then have been physically impossible for him to have done so. Had I good evidence on both those points? Yes, I had the evidence of Mademoiselle Robson, of Jim Fanthorp, and of Jacqueline de Bellefort as to the first, and I had the skilled testimony of Dr. Bessner and of Mademoiselle Bowers as to the other. No doubt was possible.

âSo Dr. Bessner must be the guilty one. In favour of this theory there was the fact that the maid had been stabbed with a surgical knife. On the other hand Bessner had deliberately called attention to this fact.

âAnd then, my friends, a second perfectly indisputable fact became apparent to me. Louise Bourgetâs hint could not have been intended for Dr. Bessner, because she could perfectly well have spoken to him in private at any time she liked. There was one person, and one person only, who corresponded to her necessityâSimon Doyle! Simon Doyle was wounded, was constantly attended by a doctor, was in that doctorâs cabin. It was to him therefore that she risked saying those ambiguous words, in case she might not get another chance. And I remember how she had gone on, turning to him: âMonsieur, I implore youâyou see how it is? What can I say?â And this answer: âMy good girl, donât be a fool. Nobody thinks you saw or heard anything. Youâll be quite all right. Iâll look after you. Nobodyâs accusing you of anything.â That was the assurance she wanted, and she got it!â

Bessner uttered a colossal snort.

âAch! it is foolish, that! Do you think a man with a fractured bone and a splint on his leg could go walking about the boat and stabbing people? I tell you, it was impossible for Simon Doyle to leave his cabin.â

Poirot said gently: âI know. That is quite true. The thing was impossible. It was impossible, but it was also true! There could be only one logical meaning behind Louise Bourgetâs words.

âSo I returned to the beginning and reviewed the crime in the light of this new knowledge. Was it possible that in the period preceding the quarrel Simon Doyle had left the saloon and the others had forgotten or not noticed it? I could not see that it was possible. Could the skilled testimony of Dr. Bessner and Mademoiselle Bowers be disregarded? Again I felt sure it could not. But, I remembered, there was a gap between the two. Simon Doyle had been alone in the saloon for a period of five minutes, and the skilled testimony of Dr. Bessner only applied to the time after that period. For that period we had only the evidence of visual appearance, and, though apparently that was perfectly sound, it was no longer certain. What had actually been seenâleaving assumption out of the question?

âMademoiselle Robson had seen Mademoiselle de Bellefort fire her pistol, had seen Simon Doyle collapse on to a chair, had seen him clasp a handkerchief to his leg and seen that handkerchief gradually soak through red. What had Monsieur Fanthorp heard and seen? He heard a shot, he found Doyle with a red-stained handkerchief clasped to his leg. What had happened then? Doyle had been very insistent that Mademoiselle de Bellefort should be got away, that she should not be left alone. After that, he suggested that Fanthorp should get hold of the doctor.

âAccordingly Mademoiselle Robson and Monsieur Fanthorp got out with Mademoiselle de Bellefort and for the next five minutes they are busy, on the port side of the deck. Mademoiselle Bowersâ, Dr. Bessnerâs and Mademoiselle de Bellefortâs cabins are all on the port side. Two minutes are all that Simon Doyle needs. He picks up the pistol from under the sofa, slips out of his shoes, runs like a hare silently along the starboard deck, enters his wifeâs cabin, creeps up to her as she lies asleep, shoots her through the head, puts the bottle that has contained the red ink on her washstand (it mustnât be found on him), runs back, gets hold of Mademoiselle Van Schuylerâs velvet stole, which he has quietly stuffed down the side of a chair in readiness, muffles it round the pistol and fires a bullet into his leg. His chair into which he falls (in genuine agony this time) is by a window. He lifts the window and throws the pistol (wrapped up with the telltale handkerchief in the velvet stole) into the Nile.â

âImpossible!â said Race.

âNo, my friend, not impossible. Remember the evidence of Tim Allerton. He heard a popâfollowed by a splash. And he heard something elseâthe footsteps of a man runningâa man running past his door. But nobody could have been running along the starboard side of the deck. What he heard was the stockinged feet of Simon Doyle running past his cabin.â

Race said: âI still say itâs impossible. No man could work out the whole caboodle like that in a flashâespecially a chap like Doyle who is slow in his mental processes.â

âBut very quick and deft in his physical actions!â

âThat, yes. But he wouldnât be capable of thinking the whole thing out.â

âBut he did not think it out himself, my friend. That is where we were all wrong. It looked like a crime committed on the spur of the moment, but it was not a crime committed on the spur of the moment. As I say, it was a very cleverly planned and well thought out piece of work. It could not be chance that Simon Doyle had a bottle of red ink in his pocket. No, it must be design. It was not chance that Jacqueline de Bellefortâs foot kicked the pistol under the settee, where it would be out of sight and unremembered until later.â

âJacqueline?â

âCertainly. The two halves of the murder. What gave Simon his alibi? The shot fired by Jacqueline. What gave Jacqueline her alibi? The insistence of Simon which resulted in a hospital nurse remaining with her all night. There, between the two of them, you get all the qualities you requireâthe cool, resourceful, planning brain, Jacqueline de Bellefortâs brain, and the man of action to carry it out with incredible swiftness and timing.â

âLook at it the right way, and it answers every question. Simon Doyle and Jacqueline had been lovers. Realize that they are still lovers, and it is all clear. Simon does away with his rich wife, inherits her money, and in due course will marry his old love. It was all very ingenious. The persecution of Madame Doyle by Jacqueline, all part of the plan. Simonâs pretended rageâ¦And yetâthere were lapses. He held forth to me once about possessive womenâheld forth with real bitterness. It ought to have been clear to me that it was his wife he was thinking aboutânot Jacqueline. Then his manner to his wife in public. An ordinary, inarticulate Englishman, such as Simon Doyle, is very embarrassed at showing any affection. Simon was not a really good actor. He overdid the devoted manner. That conversation I had with Mademoiselle Jacqueline, too, when she pretended that somebody had overheard, I saw no one. And there was no one! But it was to be a useful red herring later. Then one night on this boat I thought I heard Simon and Linnet outside my cabin. He was saying, âWeâve got to go through with it now.â It was Doyle all right, but it was to Jacqueline he was speaking.

âThe final drama was perfectly planned and timed. There was a sleeping draught for me, in case I might put an inconvenient finger in the pie. There was the selection of Mademoiselle Robson as a witnessâthe working up of the scene, Mademoiselle de Bellefortâs exaggerated remorse and hysterics. She made a good deal of noise, in case the shot should be heard. En vÃ©ritÃ©, it was an extraordinarily clever idea. Jacqueline says she has shot Doyle; Mademoiselle Robson says so; Fanthorp says soâand when Simonâs leg is examined he has been shot. It looks unanswerable! For both of them there is a perfect alibiâat the cost, it is true, of a certain amount of pain and risk to Simon Doyle, but it is necessary that his wound should definitely disable him.

âAnd then the plan goes wrong. Louise Bourget has been wakeful. She has come up the stairway and she has seen Simon Doyle run along to his wifeâs cabin and come back. Easy enough to piece together what has happened the following day. And so she makes her greedy bit for hush money, and in so doing signs her death warrant.â

âBut Mr. Doyle couldnât have killed her?â Cornelia objected.

âNo, the other partner did that murder. As soon as he can, Simon Doyle asks to see Jacqueline. He even asks me to leave them alone together. He tells her then of the new danger. They must act at once. He knows where Bessnerâs scalpels are kept. After the crime the scalpel is wiped and returned, and then, very late and rather out of breath, Jacqueline de Bellefort hurries in to lunch.

âAnd still all is not well, for Madame Otterbourne has seen Jacqueline go into Louise Bourgetâs cabin. And she comes hot-foot to tell Simon about it. Jacqueline is the murderess. Do you remember how Simon shouted at the poor woman? Nerves, we thought. But the door was open and he was trying to convey the danger to his accomplice. She heard and she actedâacted like lightning. She remembered Pennington had talked about a revolver. She got hold of it, crept up outside the door, listened and, at the critical moment, fired. She boasted once that she was a good shot, and her boast was not an idle one.

âI remarked after that third crime that there were three ways the murderer could have gone. I meant that he could have gone aft (in which case Tim Allerton was the criminal), he could have gone over the side (very improbable) or he could have gone into a cabin. Jacquelineâs cabin was just two away from Dr. Bessnerâs. She had only to throw down the revolver, bolt into the cabin, ruffle her hair and fling herself down on the bunk. It was risky, but it was the only possible chance.â

There was a silence, then Race asked: âWhat happened to the first bullet fired at Doyle by the girl?â

âI think it went into the table. There is a recently made hole there. I think Doyle had time to dig it out with a penknife and fling it through the window. He had, of course, a spare cartridge, so that it would appear that only two shots had been fired.â

Cornelia sighed. âThey thought of everything,â she said. âItâsâhorrible!â

Poirot was silent. But it was not a modest silence. His eyes seemed to be saying: âYou are wrong. They didnât allow for Hercule Poirot.â

Aloud he said, âAnd now, Doctor, we will go and have a word with your patient.â

Thirty

It was very much later that evening that Hercule Poirot came and knocked on the door of a cabin.

A voice said âCome inâ and he entered.

Jacqueline de Bellefort was sitting in a chair. In another chair, close against the wall, sat the big stewardess.

Jacquelineâs eyes surveyed Poirot thoughtfully. She made a gesture towards the stewardess.

âCan she go?â

Poirot nodded to the woman and she went out. Poirot drew up her chair and sat down near Jacqueline. Neither of them spoke. Poirotâs face was unhappy.

In the end it was the girl who spoke first.

âWell,â she said, âit is all over! You were too clever for us, Monsieur Poirot.â

Poirot sighed. He spread out his hands. He seemed strangely dumb.

âAll the same,â said Jacqueline reflectively, âI canât really see that you had much proof. You were quite right, of course, but if weâd bluffed you outââ

âIn no other way, Mademoiselle, could the thing have happened.â

âThatâs proof enough for a logical mind, but I donât believe it would have convinced a jury. Oh, wellâit canât be helped. You sprang it all on Simon, and he went down like a ninepin. He just lost his head utterly, poor lamb, and admitted everything.â She shook her head. âHeâs a bad loser.â

âBut you, Mademoiselle, are a good loser.â

She laughed suddenlyâa queer, gay, defiant little laugh.

âOh, yes, Iâm a good loser all right.â She looked at him.

She said suddenly and impulsively: âDonât mind so much, Monsieur Poirot! About me, I mean. You do mind, donât you?â

âYes, Mademoiselle.â

âBut it wouldnât have occurred to you to let me off?â

Hercule Poirot said quietly, âNo.â

She nodded her head in quiet agreement.

âNo, itâs no use being sentimental. I might do it againâ¦Iâm not a safe person any longer. I can feel that myselfâ¦â She went on broodingly: âItâs so dreadfully easyâkilling people. And you begin to feel that it doesnât matterâ¦that itâs only you that matters! Itâs dangerousâthat.â

She paused, then said with a little smile: âYou did your best for me, you know. That night at Assuanâyou told me not to open my heart to evilâ¦Did you realize then what was in my mind?â

He shook his head.

âI only knew that what I said was true.â

âIt was true. I could have stopped, then, you know. I nearly didâ¦I could have told Simon that I wouldnât go on with itâ¦But then perhapsââ

She broke off. She said: âWould you like to hear about it? From the beginning?â

âIf you care to tell me, Mademoiselle.â

âI think I want to tell you. It was all very simple really. You see, Simon and I loved each otherâ¦.â

It was a matter-of-fact statement, yet, underneath the lightness of her tone, there were echoesâ¦.

Poirot said simply: âAnd for you love would have been enough, but not for him.â

âYou might put it that way, perhaps. But you donât quite understand Simon. You see, heâs always wanted money so dreadfully. He liked all the things you get with moneyâhorses and yachts and sportânice things all of them, things a man ought to be keen about. And heâd never been able to have any of them. Heâs awfully simple, Simon is. He wants things just as a child wants themâyou knowâterribly.

âAll the same he never tried to marry anybody rich and horrid. He wasnât that sort. And then we metâandâand that sort of settled things. Only we didnât see when weâd be able to marry. Heâd had rather a decent job, but heâd lost it. In a way it was his own fault. He tried to do something smart over money, and got found out at once. I donât believe he really meant to be dishonest. He just thought it was the sort of thing people did in the City.â

A flicker passed over her listenerâs face, but he guarded his tongue.

âThere we were, up against it; and then I thought of Linnet and her new country house, and I rushed off to her. You know, Monsieur Poirot, I loved Linnet, really I did. She was my best friend, and I never dreamed that anything would ever come between us. I just thought how lucky it was she was rich. It might make all the difference to me and Simon if sheâd give him a job. And she was awfully sweet about it and told me to bring Simon down to see her. It was about then you saw us that night at Chez Ma Tante. We were making whoopee, although we couldnât really afford it.â

She paused, sighed, then went on: âWhat Iâm going to say now is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. Even though Linnet is dead, it doesnât alter the truth. Thatâs why Iâm not really sorry about her, even now. She went all out to get Simon away from me. Thatâs the absolute truth! I donât think she even hesitated for more than about a minute. I was her friend, but she didnât care. She just went bald-headed for Simonâ¦.

âAnd Simon didnât care a damn about her! I talked a lot to you about glamour, but of course that wasnât true. He didnât want Linnet. He thought her good-looking but terribly bossy, and he hated bossy women! The whole thing embarrassed him frightfully. But he did like the thought of her money.

âOf course I saw thatâ¦and at last I suggested to him that it might be a good thing if heâgot rid of me and married Linnet. But he scouted the idea. He said, money or no money, it would be hell to be married to her. He said his idea of having money was to have it himselfânot to have a rich wife holding the purse strings. âIâd be a kind of damned Prince Consort,â he said to me. He said, too, that he didnât want anyone but meâ¦.

âI think I know when the idea came into his head. He said one day: âIf Iâd any luck, Iâd marry her and sheâd die in about a year and leave me all the boodle.â And then a queer startled look came into his eyes. That was when he first thought of itâ¦.

âHe talked about it a good deal, one way and anotherâabout how convenient it would be if Linnet died. I said it was an awful idea, and then he shut up about it. Then, one day, I found him reading up all about arsenic. I taxed him with it then, and he laughed and said: âNothing venture, nothing have! Itâs about the only time in my life I shall be near to touching a far lot of money.â

âAfter a bit I saw that heâd made up his mind. And I was terrifiedâsimply terrified. Because, you see, I realized that heâd never pull it off. Heâs so childishly simple. Heâd have no kind of subtlety about itâand heâs got no imagination. He would probably have just bunged arsenic into her and assumed the doctor would say sheâd died of gastritis. He always thought things would go right.

âSo I had to come into it, too, to look after himâ¦.â

She said it very simply but in complete good faith. Poirot had no doubt whatever that her motive had been exactly what she said it was. She herself had not coveted Linnet Ridgewayâs money, but she had loved Simon Doyle, had loved him beyond reason and beyond rectitude and beyond pity.

âI thought and I thoughtâtrying to work out a plan. It seemed to me that the basis of the idea ought to be a kind of two-handed alibi. You knowâif Simon and I could somehow or other give evidence against each other, but actually that evidence would clear us of every thing. It would be easy enough for me to pretend to hate Simon. It was quite a likely thing to happen under the circumstances. Then, if Linnet was killed, I should probably be suspected, so it would be better if I was suspected right away. We worked out details little by little. I wanted it to be so that, if anything went wrong, theyâd get me and not Simon. But Simon was worried about me.

âThe only thing I was glad about was that I hadnât got to do it. I simply couldnât have! Not go along in cold blood and kill her when she was asleep! You see, I hadnât forgiven herâI think I could have killed her face to face, but not the other wayâ¦.

âWe worked everything out carefully. Even then, Simon went and wrote a J in blood which was a silly melodramatic thing to do. Itâs just the sort of thing he would think of! But it went off all right.â

Poirot nodded.

âYes. It was not your fault that Louise Bourget could not sleep that nightâ¦And afterwards, Mademoiselle?â

She met his eyes squarely.

âYes,â she said âitâs rather horrible isnât it? I canât believe that Iâdid that! I know now what you meant by opening your heart to evilâ¦You know pretty well how it happened. Louise made it clear to Simon that she knew. Simon got you to bring me to him. As soon as we were alone together he told me what had happened. He told me what Iâd got to do. I wasnât even horrified. I was so afraidâso deadly afraidâ¦Thatâs what murder does to you. Simon and I were safeâquite safeâexcept for this miserable blackmailing French girl. I took her all the money we could get hold of. I pretended to grovel. And then, when she was counting the money, Iâdid it! It was quite easy. Thatâs whatâs so horribly, horribly frightening about itâ¦Itâs so terribly easyâ¦.

âAnd even then we werenât safe. Mrs. Otterbourne had seen me. She came triumphantly along the deck looking for you and Colonel Race. Iâd no time to think. I just acted like a flash. It was almost exciting. I knew it was touch or go that time. That seemed to make it betterâ¦.â

She stopped again.

âDo you remember when you came into my cabin afterwards? You said you were not sure why you had come. I was so miserableâso terrified. I thought Simon was going to dieâ¦.â

âAnd Iâwas hoping it,â said Poirot.

Jacqueline nodded.

âYes, it would have been better for him that way.â

âThat was not my thought.â

Jacqueline looked at the sternness of his face.

She said gently: âDonât mind so much for me, Monsieur Poirot. After all, Iâve lived hard always, you know. If weâd won out, Iâd have been very happy and enjoyed things and probably should never have regretted anything. As it isâwell, one goes through with it.â

She added: âI suppose the stewardess is in attendance to see I donât hang myself or swallow a miraculous capsule of prussic acid as people always do in books. You neednât be afraid! I shanât do that. It will be easier for Simon if Iâm standing by.â

Poirot got up. Jacqueline rose also. She said with a sudden smile: âDo you remember when I said I must follow my star? You said it might be a false star. And I said: âThat very bad star, that star fell down.ââ

He went out to the deck with her laughter ringing in his ears.

Thirty-One

It was early dawn when they came into Shellal. The rocks came down grimly to the waterâs edge.

Poirot murmured: âQuel pays sauvage!â

Race stood beside him. âWell,â he said, âweâve done our job. Iâve arranged for Richetti to be taken ashore first. Glad weâve got him. Heâs been a slippery customer, I can tell you. Given us the slip dozens of times.â

He went on: âWe must get hold of a stretcher for Doyle. Remarkable how he went to pieces.â

âNot really,â said Poirot. âThat boyish type of criminal is usually intensely vain. Once prick the bubble of their self-esteem and it is finished! They go to pieces like children.â

âDeserves to be hanged,â said Race. âHeâs a cold-blooded scoundrel. Iâm sorry for the girlâbut thereâs nothing to be done about it.â

Poirot shook his head.

âPeople say love justifies everything, but that is not trueâ¦Women who care for men as Jacqueline cares for Simon Doyle are very dangerous. It is what I said when I saw her first. âShe cares too much, that little one!â It is true.â

Cornelia Robson came up beside him.

âOh,â she said, âweâre nearly in.â She paused a minute or two, then added, âIâve been with her.â

âWith Mademoiselle de Bellefort?â

âYes. I felt it was kind of awful for her boxed up with that stewardess. Cousin Marieâs very angry, though, Iâm afraid.â

Miss Van Schuyler was progressing slowly down the deck towards them. Her eyes were venomous.

âCornelia,â she snapped, âyouâve behaved outrageously. I shall send you straight home.â

Cornelia took a deep breath. âIâm sorry, Cousin Marie, but Iâm not going home. Iâm going to get married.â

âSo youâve seen sense at last,â snapped the old lady.

Ferguson came striding round the corner of the deck. He said: âCornelia, whatâs this I hear? Itâs not true!â

âItâs quite true,â said Cornelia. âIâm going to marry Dr. Bessner. He asked me last night.â

âAnd why are you going to marry him?â asked Ferguson furiously. âSimply because heâs rich?â

âNo, Iâm not,â said Cornelia indignantly. âI like him. Heâs kind, and he knows a lot. And Iâve always been interested in sick folks and clinics, and I shall have just a wonderful life with him.â

âDo you mean to say,â asked Mr. Ferguson incredulously, âthat youâd rather marry that disgusting old man than Me?â

âYes, I would. Youâre not reliable! You wouldnât be at all a comfortable sort of person to live with. And heâs not old. Heâs not fifty yet.â

âHeâs got a stomach,â said Mr. Ferguson venomously.

âWell, Iâve got round shoulders,â retorted Cornelia. âWhat one looks like doesnât matter. He says I really could help him in his work, and heâs going to teach me all about neurosis.â

She moved away.

Ferguson said to Poirot: âDo you think she really means that?â

âCertainly.â

âShe prefers that pompous old bore to me?â

âUndoubtedly.â

âThe girlâs mad,â declared Ferguson.

Poirotâs eyes twinkled.

âShe is a woman of an original mind,â he said. âIt is probably the first time you have met one.â

The boat drew in to the landing stage. A cordon had been drawn round the passengers. They had been asked to wait before disembarking.

Richetti, dark-faced and sullen, was marched ashore by two engineers.

Then, after a certain amount of delay, a stretcher was brought. Simon Doyle was carried along the deck to the gangway.

He looked a different manâcringing, frightened, all his boyish insouciance vanished.

Jacqueline de Bellefort followed. A stewardess walked beside her. She was pale but otherwise looked much as usual. She came up to the stretcher.

âHullo, Simon!â she said.

He looked up at her quickly. The old boyish look came back to his face for a moment.

âI messed it up,â he said. âLost my head and admitted everything! Sorry, Jackie. Iâve let you down.â

She smiled at him then. âItâs all right, Simon,â she said. âA foolâs game, and weâve lost. Thatâs all.â

She stood aside. The bearers picked up the handles of the stretcher. Jacqueline bent down and tied the lace of her shoe. Then her hand went to her stocking top and she straightened up with something in her hand.

There was a sharp explosive âpop.â

Simon Doyle gave one convulsed shudder and then lay still.

Jacqueline de Bellefort nodded. She stood for a minute, pistol in hand. She gave a fleeting smile at Poirot.

Then, as Race jumped forward, she turned the little glittering toy against her heart and pressed the trigger.

She sank down in a soft huddled heap.

Race shouted: âWhere the devil did she get that pistol?â

Poirot felt a hand on his arm. Mrs. Allerton said softly, âYouâknew?â

He nodded. âShe had a pair of these pistols. I realized that when I heard that one had been found in Rosalie Otterbourneâs handbag the day of the search. Jacqueline sat at the same table as they did. When she realized that there was going to be a search, she slipped it into the other girlâs handbag. Later she went to Rosalieâs cabin and got it back, after having distracted her attention with a comparison of lipsticks. As both she and her cabin had been searched yesterday, it wasnât thought necessary to do it again.â

Mrs. Allerton said: âYou wanted her to take that way out?â

âYes. But she would not take it alone. That is why Simon Doyle has died an easier death than he deserved.â

Mrs. Allerton shivered. âLove can be a very frightening thing.â

âThat is why most great love stories are tragedies.â

Mrs. Allertonâs eyes rested upon Tim and Rosalie, standing side by side in the sunlight, and she said suddenly and passionately: âBut thank God, there is happiness in the world.â

âAs you say, Madame, thank God for it.â

Presently the passengers went ashore.

Later the bodies of Louise Bourget and Mrs. Otterbourne were carried off the Karnak.

Lastly the body of Linnet Doyle was brought ashore, and all over the world wires began to hum, telling the public that Linnet Doyle, who had been Linnet Ridgeway, the famous, the beautiful, the wealthy Linnet Doyle was dead.

Sir George Wode read about it in his London club, and Sterndale Rockford in New York, and Joanna Southwood in Switzerland, and it was discussed in the bar of the Three Crowns in Malton-under-Wode.

And Mr. Burnaby said acutely: âWell, it doesnât seem to have done her much good, poor lass.â

But after a while they stopped talking about her and discussed instead who was going to win the Grand National. For, as Mr. Ferguson was saying at that minute in Luxor, it is not the past that matters but the future.

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

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The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

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Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

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The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Story Collection

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THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

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The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

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Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

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The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

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Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

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www.AgathaChristie.com

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Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Story Collection

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® POIROTÂ® DEATH ON THE NILEâ„¢. Copyright Â© 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved. Death on the Nile was first published in 1937.

DEATH ON THE NILE Â© 1938. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207355-6

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-176017-4

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