Death on the Nile

  “The 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 witness—the working up of the scene, Mademoiselle de Bellefort’s exaggerated remorse and hysterics. She made a good deal of noise, in case the shot should be heard. En vérité, it was an extraordinarily clever idea. Jacqueline says she has shot Doyle; Mademoiselle Robson says so; Fanthorp says so—and when Simon’s leg is examined he has been shot. It looks unanswerable! For both of them there is a perfect alibi—at 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.

  “And 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 wife’s 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.”

  “But Mr. Doyle couldn’t have killed her?” Cornelia objected.

  “No, 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 Bessner’s 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.

  “And still all is not well, for Madame Otterbourne has seen Jacqueline go into Louise Bourget’s 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 acted—acted 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.

  “I 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. Jacqueline’s cabin was just two away from Dr. Bessner’s. 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.”

  There was a silence, then Race asked: “What happened to the first bullet fired at Doyle by the girl?”

  “I 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.”

  Cornelia sighed. “They thought of everything,” she said. “It’s—horrible!”

  Poirot was silent. But it was not a modest silence. His eyes seemed to be saying: “You are wrong. They didn’t allow for Hercule Poirot.”

  Aloud he said, “And now, Doctor, we will go and have a word with your patient.”

  Thirty

  It was very much later that evening that Hercule Poirot came and knocked on the door of a cabin.

  A voice said “Come in” and he entered.

  Jacqueline de Bellefort was sitting in a chair. In another chair, close against the wall, sat the big stewardess.

  Jacqueline’s eyes surveyed Poirot thoughtfully. She made a gesture towards the stewardess.

  “Can she go?”

  Poirot nodded to the woman and she went out. Poirot drew up her chair and sat down near Jacqueline. Neither of them spoke. Poirot’s face was unhappy.

  In the end it was the girl who spoke first.

  “Well,” she said, “it is all over! You were too clever for us, Monsieur Poirot.”

  Poirot sighed. He spread out his hands. He seemed strangely dumb.

  “All the same,” said Jacqueline reflectively, “I can’t really see that you had much proof. You were quite right, of course, but if we’d bluffed you out—”

  “In no other way, Mademoiselle, could the thing have happened.”

  “That’s proof enough for a logical mind, but I don’t believe it would have convinced a jury. Oh, well—it can’t 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.” She shook her head. “He’s a bad loser.”

  “But you, Mademoiselle, are a good loser.”

  She laughed suddenly—a queer, gay, defiant little laugh.

  “Oh, yes, I’m a good loser all right.” She looked at him.

  She said suddenly and impulsively: “Don’t mind so much, Monsieur Poirot! About me, I mean. You do mind, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle.”

  “But it wouldn’t have occurred to you to let me off?”

  Hercule Poirot said quietly, “No.”

  She nodded her head in quiet agreement.

  “No, it’s no use being sentimental. I might do it again…I’m not a safe person any longer. I can feel that myself…” She went on broodingly: “It’s so dreadfully easy—killing people. And you begin to feel that it doesn’t matter…that it’s only you that matters! It’s dangerous—that.”

  She paused, then said with a little smile: “You did your best for me, you know. That night at Assuan—you told me not to open my heart to evil…Did you realize then what was in my mind?”

  He shook his head.

  “I only knew that what I said was true.”

  “It was true. I could have stopped, then, you know. I nearly did…I could have told Simon that I wouldn’t go on with it…But then perhaps—”

  She broke off. She said: “Would you like to hear about it? From the beginning?”

  “If you care to tell me, Mademoiselle.”

  “I think I want to tell you. It was all very simple really. You see, Simon and I loved each other….”

  It was a matter-of-fact statement, yet, underneath the lightness of her tone, there were echoes….

  Poirot said simply: “And for you love would have been enough, but not for him.”

  “You might put it that way, perhaps. But you don’t quite understand Simon. You see, he’s always wanted money so dreadfully. He liked all the things you get with money—horses and yachts and sport—nice things all of them, things a man ought to be keen about. And he’d never been able to have any of them. He’s awfully simple, Simon is. He wants things just as a child wants them—you know—terribly.

  “All the same he never tried to marry anybody rich and horrid. He wasn’t that sort. And then we met—and—and that sort of settled things. Only we didn’t see when we’d be able to marry. He’d had rather a decent job, but he’d 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 don’t believe he really meant to be dishonest. He just thought it was the sort of thing people did in the City.”

  A flicker passed over her listener’s face, but he guarded his tongue.

  “There 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 she’d 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 couldn’t really afford it.”

  She paused, sighed, then went on: “What I’m going to say now is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. Even though Linnet is dead, it doesn’t alter the truth. That’s why I’m not really sorry about her, even now. She went all out to get Simon away from me. That’s the absolute truth! I don’t think she even hesitated for more than about a minute. I was her friend, but s
he didn’t care. She just went bald-headed for Simon….

  “And Simon didn’t care a damn about her! I talked a lot to you about glamour, but of course that wasn’t true. He didn’t 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.

  “Of course I saw that…and at last I suggested to him that it might be a good thing if he—got 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 himself—not to have a rich wife holding the purse strings. ‘I’d be a kind of damned Prince Consort,’ he said to me. He said, too, that he didn’t want anyone but me….

  “I think I know when the idea came into his head. He said one day: ‘If I’d any luck, I’d marry her and she’d die in about a year and leave me all the boodle.’ And then a queer startled look came into his eyes. That was when he first thought of it….

  “He talked about it a good deal, one way and another—about 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: ‘Nothing venture, nothing have! It’s about the only time in my life I shall be near to touching a far lot of money.’

  “After a bit I saw that he’d made up his mind. And I was terrified—simply terrified. Because, you see, I realized that he’d never pull it off. He’s so childishly simple. He’d have no kind of subtlety about it—and he’s got no imagination. He would probably have just bunged arsenic into her and assumed the doctor would say she’d died of gastritis. He always thought things would go right.

  “So I had to come into it, too, to look after him….”

  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 Ridgeway’s money, but she had loved Simon Doyle, had loved him beyond reason and beyond rectitude and beyond pity.

  “I thought and I thought—trying 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 know—if 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, they’d get me and not Simon. But Simon was worried about me.

  “The only thing I was glad about was that I hadn’t got to do it. I simply couldn’t have! Not go along in cold blood and kill her when she was asleep! You see, I hadn’t forgiven her—I think I could have killed her face to face, but not the other way….

  “We worked everything out carefully. Even then, Simon went and wrote a J in blood which was a silly melodramatic thing to do. It’s just the sort of thing he would think of! But it went off all right.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “Yes. It was not your fault that Louise Bourget could not sleep that night…And afterwards, Mademoiselle?”

  She met his eyes squarely.

  “Yes,” she said “it’s rather horrible isn’t it? I can’t believe that I—did that! I know now what you meant by opening your heart to evil…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 I’d got to do. I wasn’t even horrified. I was so afraid—so deadly afraid…That’s what murder does to you. Simon and I were safe—quite safe—except 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, I—did it! It was quite easy. That’s what’s so horribly, horribly frightening about it…It’s so terribly easy….

  “And even then we weren’t safe. Mrs. Otterbourne had seen me. She came triumphantly along the deck looking for you and Colonel Race. I’d 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 better….”

  She stopped again.

  “Do you remember when you came into my cabin afterwards? You said you were not sure why you had come. I was so miserable—so terrified. I thought Simon was going to die….”

  “And I—was hoping it,” said Poirot.

  Jacqueline nodded.

  “Yes, it would have been better for him that way.”

  “That was not my thought.”

  Jacqueline looked at the sternness of his face.

  She said gently: “Don’t mind so much for me, Monsieur Poirot. After all, I’ve lived hard always, you know. If we’d won out, I’d have been very happy and enjoyed things and probably should never have regretted anything. As it is—well, one goes through with it.”

  She added: “I suppose the stewardess is in attendance to see I don’t hang myself or swallow a miraculous capsule of prussic acid as people always do in books. You needn’t be afraid! I shan’t do that. It will be easier for Simon if I’m standing by.”

  Poirot got up. Jacqueline rose also. She said with a sudden smile: “Do you remember when I said I must follow my star? You said it might be a false star. And I said: ‘That very bad star, that star fell down.’”

  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 water’s edge.

  Poirot murmured: “Quel pays sauvage!”

  Race stood beside him. “Well,” he said, “we’ve done our job. I’ve arranged for Richetti to be taken ashore first. Glad we’ve got him. He’s been a slippery customer, I can tell you. Given us the slip dozens of times.”

  He went on: “We must get hold of a stretcher for Doyle. Remarkable how he went to pieces.”

  “Not really,” said Poirot. “That 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.”

  “Deserves to be hanged,” said Race. “He’s a cold-blooded scoundrel. I’m sorry for the girl—but there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “People say love justifies everything, but that is not true…Women who care for men as Jacqueline cares for Simon Doyle are very dangerous. It is what I said when I saw her first. ‘She cares too much, that little one!’ It is true.”

  Cornelia Robson came up beside him.

  “Oh,” she said, “we’re nearly in.” She paused a minute or two, then added, “I’ve been with her.”

  “With Mademoiselle de Bellefort?”

  “Yes. I felt it was kind of awful for her boxed up with that stewardess. Cousin Marie’s very angry, though, I’m afraid.”

  Miss Van Schuyler was progressing slowly down the deck towards them. Her eyes were venomous.

  “Cornelia,” she snapped, “you’ve behaved outrageously. I shall send you straight home.”

  Cornelia took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Cousin Marie, but I’m not going home. I’m going to get married.”

  “So you’ve seen sense at last,” snapped the old lady.

  Ferguson came striding round the corner of the deck. He said: “Cornelia, what’s this I hear? It’s not true!”

  “It’s quite true,” said Cornelia. “I’m going to marry Dr. Bessner. He asked me last night.”

  “And why are you going to marry him?” asked Ferguson furiously. “Simply because he’s rich?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Cornelia indignantly. “I like him. He’s kind, and he knows a lot. And I’ve always been interested in sick folks and clinics, and I shall have just a wonderful life with him.”

&nbs
p; “Do you mean to say,” asked Mr. Ferguson incredulously, “that you’d rather marry that disgusting old man than Me?”

  “Yes, I would. You’re not reliable! You wouldn’t be at all a comfortable sort of person to live with. And he’s not old. He’s not fifty yet.”

  “He’s got a stomach,” said Mr. Ferguson venomously.

  “Well, I’ve got round shoulders,” retorted Cornelia. “What one looks like doesn’t matter. He says I really could help him in his work, and he’s going to teach me all about neurosis.”

  She moved away.

  Ferguson said to Poirot: “Do you think she really means that?”

  “Certainly.”

  “She prefers that pompous old bore to me?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “The girl’s mad,” declared Ferguson.

  Poirot’s eyes twinkled.

  “She is a woman of an original mind,” he said. “It is probably the first time you have met one.”

  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 man—cringing, 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.