Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - Кристи Агата - Страница 16

‘Ah? Truly?’

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

‘You know her well, Madame?’

‘No, but a cousin of mine, Joanna Southwood, is one of her best friends.’

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

‘Oh, she knows how to advertise herself all right,’ snapped Mrs Allerton.

‘You do not like her, Madame?’

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

‘I see,’ said Poirot.

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

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

‘Why is that, Madame?’

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

‘Yes, she is not happy, poor little one.’

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

‘It is a possible contingency, Madame.’

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

‘It is awkward – yes,’ agreed Poirot.

Mrs Allerton shot a quick glance at him.

‘You know, it may sound foolish, but she almost frightened me. She looked so – intense.’

Poirot nodded his head slowly.

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

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

‘Madame – that category would not leave many people outside it.’

Mrs Allerton looked a trifle startled.

‘Do you really mean that?’

‘Given the particular incentive, that is to say,’ Poirot added.

‘Which would differ?’

‘Naturally.’

Mrs Allerton hesitated – a little smile on her lips.

‘Even I perhaps?’

‘Mothers, Madame, are particularly ruthless when their children are in danger.’

She said gravely:

‘I think that’s true – yes, you’re quite right.’

She was silent a minute or two, then she said, smiling:

‘I’m trying to imagine motives for crime suitable for everyone in the hotel. It’s quite entertaining. Simon Doyle, for instance?’

Poirot said, smiling:

‘A very simple crime – a direct short cut to his objective. No subtlety about it.’

‘And therefore very easily detected?’

‘Yes; he would not be ingenious.’

‘And Linnet?’

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

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

Poirot hesitated for a minute or two, then he said doubtfully:

‘Yes, I think she could.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘No. She puzzles me, that little one.’

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

‘But possibly a emphasis sense of self-preservation.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. And poor Mrs Otterbourne in her turban?’

‘There is always vanity.’

‘As a motive for murder?’ Mrs Allerton asked doubtfully.

‘Motives for murder are sometimes very trivial, Madame.’

‘What are the most usual motives, Monsieur Poirot?’

‘Most frequent – money. That is to say, gain in its various ramifications. Then there is revenge, and love, and fear – and pure hate, and beneficence-’

‘Monsieur Poirot!’

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

He spoke gravely.

Mrs Allerton said quietly:

‘I am glad to hear you say that. All the same, God chooses his instruments.’

‘There is a danger in thinking like that, Madame.’

She adopted a lighter tone:

‘After this conversation, Monsieur Poirot, I shall wonder that there is anyone left alive!’ She got up. ‘We must be getting back. We have to start immediately after lunch.’

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

‘There are very wonderful things to be seen in Egypt, are there not?’

The young man was now smoking a somewhat noisome pipe. He removed it from his mouth and remarked briefly and emphatically in astonishingly well-bred accents:

‘They make me sick.’

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

‘Indeed? And why is that?’

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

Mrs Allerton said cheerfully:

‘You’d rather have no Pyramids, no Parthenon, no beautiful tombs or temples – just the solid satisfaction of knowing that people got three meals a day and died in their beds.’

The young man directed his scowl in her direction.

‘I think human beings matter more than stones.’

‘But they do not endure as well,’ remarked Hercule Poirot.

‘I’d rather see a well fed worker than any so-called work of art. What matters is the future – not the past.’

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: ‘Well, well,’ 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.

‘I’m going donkey-riding. Do you recommend the local villages, Monsieur Poirot?’

‘Is that your excursion today, Mademoiselle? Eh bien, they are picturesque – but do not spend large sums on local curios.’

‘Which are shipped here from Europe? No, I am not so easy to deceive as that.’

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

Poirot completed his packing – a 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 Shellal – a 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.