Death On The Nile - Christie Agatha - Страница 44

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"Are you trying to console me, M. Poirot?" "The bon Dieu knows what I am trying to do! You should not have come on this journey." "No-I wish I hadn't. It's been-so awful. But-it will be soon over now." "Mais ouiis oui." "And Simon will go to the hospital and they'll give the proper treatment and everything will be all right." "You speak like the child] And they lived happily ever afterwards. That is it, is it not?" She flushed suddenly scarlet.

"M. Poirot. I never meant-never-" "It is too soon to think of such a thing! That is the proper hypocritical thing to say, is it not? But you aro partly a Latin, Mademoiselle Jacqueline. You should be able to admit facts even if they do not sound very decorous. Le roi est mort-vive le roi.t The sun has gone and the moon rises. That is so, is it not?" "You don't understand. He's just sorry for me-awfully sorry for me because he knows how terrible it is for me to know I've hurt him so badly." "Ah, well," said Poirot. "The pure pity, it is a very lofty sentiment." He looked at her half-mockingly, half with some other emotion. He murmured softly under his breath words in French:

La vie est vaine Un peu d'amour Un peu de haine Et puis bonjour.

La vie est brve On peu d'espoir Un peu de I've Et puis bonsoir

He went out again on to the deck. Colonel Race was striding along the deck and hailed him at once.

"Poirot. Good man. I want you. I've got an idea." Thrusting his arm through Poirot's he walked him up the deck.

"Just a chance remark Of Doyle's. I hardly noticed it at the time. Something about a telegram." "Tiens--c'est vrai." "Nothing in it, perhaps, but one can't leave any avenue unexplored. Damn it all, man, two murders and we're still in the dark." Poirot shook his head.

"No, not in the dark. In the light." Race looked at him curiously.

"You have an idea?" "It is more than an idea now. I am sure." "Since--when?"

"Since the death of the maid-Louise Bourget."

"Damned if I see it!"

"My friend, it is so clear-so clear. Only-there are difficulties! Embarrass ments-impediments!

See you, around a person like Linnet Doyle there is so much--so many conflicting hates and jealousies and envies and meannesses. It is like a cloud of flies-buzzing-buzzing…"

"But you think you know?" The other looked at him curiously. "You wouldn't say so unless you were sure. Can't say I've any real light, myself. I've suspicions, of course…

Poirot stopped. He laid an impressive hand on Race's arm.

"You are a great man, mon Colonel You do not say, 'Tell me.' 'What is it that you think?' 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 points… There is the statement of Mademoiselle de Bellefort that some one overheard our conversation that night in the garden at Assuan.

There is the statement of Mr. Tim Allerton as to what he heard and did on the night of the crime. There are Louise Bourget's significant answers to our questions this morning. There is the fact that Mrs. 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 overboard…" Race was silent a minute or two then he shook his head.

"No," he said, "I don't see it. Mind, I've got a faint idea what you're driving at. But as far as I can see it doesn't work." "But yes but yes-you are seeing only half the truth. And remember this-we must start again from the beginning since our first conception was entirely wrong." Race made a slight grimace.

"I'm used to that. It often seems to me that's all detective work is-wiping out your false starts and beginning again." "Yes, it is very true, that. And it is just what some people will not do. rhey conceive a certain theory and everything has to fit into that theory. If one little fact will not fit, they throw it aside. But it is always the facts that will notfit in that are significant. All along I have realised the significance of that pistol being removed from the scene of the ct/me. I knew that it meant something-but what that something was I only realised one little half-hour ago." "And I still don't see it!" "But 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." Dr. Bessner was still in a very bad humour. In answer to their knock he disclosed a scowling face.

"What 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." "Just one question," said Race. "Nothing more, I assure you." With an unwilling grunt the doctor moved aside and the two men entered the cabin.

Dr. Bessner, growling to himself, pushed past them.

"I return in three minutes," he said. "And then-positively-you go!"

They heard him stumping down the deck.

Simon Doyle looked from one to the other of them inquiringly.

"Yes," he said. "What is it?" "A very little thing," said Race. "Just now, when the stewards were reporting to me, they mentioned that Signor Richetti had been particularly troublesome.

You said that that didn't 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 that incident?" "Easily. It was at Wadi Halfa. We'd just come back from the Second Cataract.

Linnet thought she saw a 'telegram for her sticking up on the board.' She'd forgotten, you see, that she wasn't called Ridgeway any longer and Richetti and Ridgeway do look rather alike when written in an atrocious handwriting. So she tore it open, couldn't make head or tail of it, and was puzzling over it when this fellow Richetti canoe along, fairly tore it out of her hand, and gibbered with rage.

She went after hi to apologise and he was frightfully rude to her about it." Race drew a deep breath.

"And do you know at all, Mr. Doyle, what was in that telegram?" "Yes, Linnet read part of it out aloud. It said-" He paused. There was a commotion outside. A high-pitched voice was rapidly approaching.

"Where are M. Poirot and Colonel Race? I must see them immediately.t It is most important. I have vital information. I- Are they with Mr. Doyle?" Bessner had not closed the door. Only thecurtain 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.

"Mr. Doyle," she said dramatically, "I know who killed your wife!" "What?" Simon stared at her. So did the other two.

Mrs. Otterbourne swept all three of them with a triumphant glance. She was happy-superbly happy.

"Yes," she said. "My theories are completely vindicated--the deep primeval, primordial urges-it may appear impossiblc fantastie-but it is the truth!" Race said sharply: "Do I understand that you have evidence in your possession to show who killed Mrs. Doyle?" Mrs. Otterbourne sat down in a chair and leaned forward nodding her head vigorously.

"Certainly I have. You will agree, will you not, that whoever killed Louise Bourget also killed Linnet Doyle that the two crimes were committed by one and the same hand?" "Yes, yes," said Simon impatiently. "Of course. That stands to reason. Go on." "Then my assertion holds. I know who killed Louise Bourget-therefore I know who killed Linnet Doyle." "You mean, you have a theory as to who killed Louise Bourget," suggested Race sceptically.

Mrs. Otterbourne turned on him like a tiger.

"No, I have exact knowledge. I saw the person with my own eyes." Simon, fevered, shouted out: "For God's sake, start at the beginning. You know the person who killed Louise Bourget, you say." Mrs. Otterbourne nodded.

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