Death on the Nile

  “And yet,” mused Poirot, “there was someone on board who was interested in Madame’s removal. She had a near escape before, you remember, at this very place, when that boulder crashed down—ah! but you were not there, perhaps?”

  “No. I was inside the temple at the time. I heard about it afterwards, of course. A very near escape. But possibly an accident, don’t you think?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “One thought so at the time. Now—one wonders.”

  “Yes—yes, of course.” Pennington wiped his face with a fine silk handkerchief.

  Colonel Race went on: “Mr. Doyle happened to mention someone being on board who bore a grudge—not against her personally, but against her family. Do you know who that could be?”

  Pennington looked genuinely astonished.

  “No, I’ve no idea.”

  “She didn’t mention the matter to you?”

  “No.”

  “You were an intimate friend of her father’s—you cannot remember any business operations of his that might have resulted in ruin for some business opponent?”

  Pennington shook his head helplessly. “No outstanding case. Such operations were frequent, of course, but I can’t recall anyone who uttered threats—nothing of that kind.”

  In short, Mr. Pennington, you cannot help us?”

  “It seems so. I deplore my inadequacy, gentlemen.”

  Race interchanged a glance with Poirot, then he said: “I’m sorry too. We’d had hopes.”

  He got up as a sign the interview was at an end.

  Andrew Pennington said: “As Doyle’s laid up, I expect he’d like me to see to things. Pardon me, Colonel, but what exactly are the arrangements?”

  “When we leave here we shall make a nonstop run to Shellal, arriving there tomorrow morning.”

  “And the body?”

  “Will be removed to one of the cold storage chambers.”

  Andrew Pennington bowed his head. Then he left the room.

  Poirot and Race again interchanged a glance.

  “Mr. Pennington,” said Race, lighting a cigarette, “was not at all comfortable.”

  Poirot nodded. “And,” he said, “Mr. Pennington was sufficiently perturbed to tell a rather stupid lie. He was not in the temple of Abu Simbel when that boulder fell. I—moi qui vous parle—can swear to that. I had just come from there.”

  “A very stupid lie,” said Race, “and a very revealing one.”

  Again Poirot nodded.

  “But for the moment,” he said, and smiled, “we handle him with the gloves of kid, is it not so?”

  “That was the idea,” agreed Race.

  “My friend, you and I understand each other to a marvel.”

  There was a faint grinding noise, a stir beneath their feet. The Karnak had started on her homeward journey to Shellal.

  “The pearls,” said Race. “That is the next thing to be cleared up.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “It will be lunchtime in half an hour. At the end of the meal I propose to make an announcement—just 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.”

  Poirot nodded approvingly.

  “It 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.”

  Race drew some sheets of paper towards him. He murmured apologetically: “I’d like to make a brief précis of the facts as I go along. It keeps one’s mind free of confusion.”

  “You do well. Method and order, they are everything,” replied Poirot.

  Race wrote for some minutes in his small neat script. Finally he pushed the result of his labours towards Poirot.

  “Anything you don’t agree with there?” 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 11:30–12:20 following have alibis: Cornelia Robson, James Fanthorp, Simon Doyle, Jacqueline de Bellefort—nobody else—but crime almost certainly committed after that time, since it is practically certain that pistol used was Jacqueline de Bellefort’s, which was then in her handbag. That her pistol was used is not absolutely certain until after postmortem and expert evidence re bullet—but 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 pistol—his 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 Bowers—same.

  Dr. Bessner—same.

  N.B.—Fanthorp 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 minutes’ 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 night’s shooting scene was an ideal opportunity.

  Objections to the theory of Pennington’s 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.—Cheap 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 Schuyler’s evidence or Rosalie’s 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 her—but 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 Schuyler’s 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. Possible—again no evidence.

  We know that there is a dangerous man on board—a killer. Here we have a killer and a death. May no
t 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 classes—those 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

  Group I: Fleetwood

  Group II: Tim Allerton

  Group I: Rosalie Otterbourne

  Group II: Cornelia Robson

  Group I: Miss Van Schuyler

  Group II: Miss Bowers

  Group I: Louise Bourget (Robbery?)

  Group II: Dr. Bessner

  Group I: Ferguson (Political?)

  Group II: Signor Richetti

  Group II: Mrs. Otterbourne

  Group II: James Fanthorp

  Poirot pushed the paper back.

  “It is very just, very exact, what you have written there.”

  “You agree with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now what is your contribution?”

  Poirot drew himself up in an important manner.

  “Me, I pose myself one question: ‘Why was the pistol thrown overboard?’”

  “That’s all?”

  “At the moment, yes. Until I can arrive at a satisfactory answer to that question, there is not sense anywhere. That is—that 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.”

  Race shrugged his shoulders.

  “Panic.”

  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.

  “Tell me, my friend,” he said suddenly. “You 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?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Not like a silencer, for instance.”

  Poirot nodded. He went on: “A man—certainly a man who had had much handling of firearms—would know that. But a woman—a woman would not know.”

  Race looked at him curiously. “Probably not.”

  “No. She would have read the detective stories where they are not always very exact as to details.”

  Race flicked the little pearl-handled pistol with his finger.

  “This little fellow wouldn’t make much noise anyway,” he said. “Just a pop, that’s all. With any other noise around, ten to one you wouldn’t notice it.”

  “Yes, I have reflected as to that.”

  Poirot picked up the handkerchief and examined it.

  “A man’s handkerchief—but not a gentleman’s handkerchief. Ce cher Woolworth, I imagine. Threepence at most.”

  “The sort of handkerchief a man like Fleetwood would own.”

  “Yes. Andrew Pennington, I notice, carries a very fine silk handkerchief.”

  “Ferguson?” suggested Race.

  “Possibly. As a gesture. But then it ought to be a bandana.”

  “Used it instead of a glove, I suppose, to hold the pistol and obviate fingerprints.” Race added, with slight facetiousness, “‘The Clue of the Blushing Handkerchief.’”

  “Ah, yes. Quite a jeune fille colour, is it not?” He laid it down and returned to the stole, once more examining the powder marks.

  “All the same,” he murmured, “it is odd….”

  “What’s that?”

  Poirot said gently: “Cette pauvre Madame Doyle. Lying there so peacefully…with the little hole in her head. You remember how she looked?”

  Race looked at him curiously. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got an idea you’re trying to tell me something—but I haven’t the faintest idea what it is.”

  Nineteen

  There was a tap on the door.

  “Come in,” Race called.

  A steward entered.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said to Poirot, “but Mr. Doyle is asking for you.”

  “I will come.”

  Poirot rose. He went out of the room and up the companion-way to the promenade deck and along it to Dr. Bessner’s cabin.

  Simon, his face flushed and feverish, was propped up with pillows. He looked embarrassed.

  “Awfully good of you to come along, Monsieur Poirot. Look here, there’s something I want to ask you.”

  “Yes?”

  Simon got still redder in the face.

  “It’s—it’s about Jackie. I want to see her. Do you think—would you mind—would she mind, d’you think, if you asked her to come along here? You know I’ve been lying here thinking…That wretched kid—she is only a kid after all—and I treated her damn’ badly—and—” He stammered to silence.

  Poirot looked at him with interest.

  “You desire to see Mademoiselle Jacqueline? I will fetch her.”

  “Thanks. Awfully good of you.”

  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: “Will you come with me, Mademoiselle? Monsieur Doyle wants to see you.”

  She started up. Her face flushed—then paled. She looked bewildered.

  “Simon? He wants to see me—to see me?”

  He found her incredulity moving.

  “Will you come, Mademoiselle?”

  She went with him in a docile fashion, like a child, but like a puzzled child.

  “I—yes, of course I will.”

  Poirot passed into the cabin.

  “Here is Mademoiselle.”

  She stepped in after him, wavered, stood still…standing there mute and dumb, her eyes fixed on Simon’s face.

  “Hullo, Jackie.” He, too, was embarrassed. He went on: “Awfully good of you to come. I wanted to say—I mean—what I mean is—”

  She interrupted him then. Her words came out in a rush—breathless, desperate.

  “Simon—I didn’t kill Linnet. You know I didn’t do that…I—I—was mad last night. Oh, can you ever forgive me?”

  Words came more easily to him now.

  “Of course. That’s all right! Absolutely all right! That’s what I wanted to say. Thought you might be worrying a bit, you know….”

  “Worrying? A bit? Oh! Simon!”

  “That’s what I wanted to see you about. It’s quite all right, see, old girl? You just got a bit rattled last night—a shade tight. All perfectly natural.”

  “Oh, Simon! I might have killed you!”

  “Not you. Not with a rotten little peashooter like that….”

  “And your leg! Perhaps you’ll never walk again….”

  “Now, look here, Jackie, don’t be maudlin. As soon as we get to Assuan they’re going to put the X-ray to work, and dig out that tin-pot bullet, and everything will be as right as rain.”

  Jacqueline gulped twice, then she rushed forward and knelt down by Simon’s bed, burying her face and sobbing. Simon patted her awkwardly on the head. His eyes met Poirot’s and, with a reluctant sigh, the latter left the cabin.

  He heard broken murmurs as he went:

  “How could I be such a devil? Oh, Simon!…I’m so dreadfully sorry.”

  Outside Cornelia Robson was leaning over the rail. She turned her head.

  “Oh, it’s you, Monsieur Poirot. It seems so awful somehow that it should be such a lovely day.”

  Poirot looked up at the sky.

  “When the sun shines you cannot see the moon,” he said. “But when the sun is gone—ah, when the sun is gone.”

  Cornelia’s mouth fell open.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was saying, Mademoiselle, that when the sun has gone down, we shall see the moon. That is so, is it not?”

  “Why—why, yes—certainly.”

  She looked at him doubtfully.

  Poirot lau
ghed gently.

  “I utter the imbecilities,” he said. “Take no notice.”

  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.

  “Utterly ungrateful—after all I’ve done for you—no consideration for your wretched mother—no idea of what I suffer….”

  Poirot’s lips stiffened as he pressed them together. He raised a hand and knocked.

  “Is Mademoiselle Rosalie there?”

  Rosalie appeared in the doorway. Poirot was shocked at her appearance. There were dark circles under her eyes and drawn lines round her mouth.

  “What’s the matter?” she said ungraciously. “What do you want?”

  “The pleasure of a few minutes’ conversation with you, Mademoiselle. Will you come?”

  Her mouth went sulky at once. She shot him a suspicious look.

  “Why should I?”

  “I entreat you, Mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, I suppose—”

  She stepped out on the deck, closing the door behind her.

  “Well?”

  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.

  “Well?” she asked again, and her voice held the same ungracious tone.

  Poirot spoke slowly, choosing his words. “I could ask you certain questions, Mademoiselle, but I do not think for one moment that you would consent to answer them.”

  “Seems rather a waste to bring me along here then.”

  Poirot drew a finger slowly along the wooden rail.

  “You are accustomed, Mademoiselle, to carrying your own burdens…But you can do that too long. The strain becomes too great. For you, Mademoiselle, the strain is becoming too great.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Rosalie.

  “I am talking about facts, Mademoiselle—plain ugly facts. Let us call the spade the spade and say it in one little short sentence. Your mother drinks, Mademoiselle.”