Death on the Nile

  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.

  “Nothing much,” he said. “The Devenishes are getting a divorce. Old Monty’s been had up for being drunk in charge of a car. Windlesham’s gone to Canada. Seems he was pretty badly hit when Linnet Ridgeway turned him down. She’s definitely going to marry this land agent person.”

  “How extraordinary! Is he very dreadful?”

  “No, no, not at all. He’s one of the Devonshire Doyles. No money, of course—and he was actually engaged to one of Linnet’s best friends. Pretty thick, that.”

  “I don’t think it’s at all nice,” said Mrs. Allerton, flushing.

  Tim flashed her a quick affectionate glance.

  “I know, darling. You don’t approve of snaffling other people’s husbands and all that sort of thing.”

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

  Tim smiled. “They don’t only think it. They do it.

  Vide Linnet Ridgeway!”

  “Well, I think it’s horrid!”

  Tim twinkled at her.

  “Cheer up, you old die-hard! Perhaps I agree with you. Anyway, I haven’t helped myself to anyone’s wife or fiancée yet.”

  “I’m sure you’d never do such a thing,” said Mrs. Allerton. She added with spirit, “I’ve brought you up properly.”

  “So the credit is yours, not mine.”

  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: “Most letters he shows to me. He only reads me snippets from Joanna’s.”

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

  “Is Joanna enjoying life?” she asked.

  “So so. Says she thinks of opening a delicatessen shop in Mayfair.”

  “She always talks about being hard up,” said Mrs. Allerton with a tinge of spite, “but she goes about everywhere and her clothes must cost her a lot. She’s always beautifully dressed.”

  “Ah, well,” said Tim, “she probably doesn’t pay for them. No, mother, I don’t mean what your Edwardian mind suggests to you. I just mean quite literally that she leaves her bills unpaid.”

  Mrs. Allerton sighed.

  “I never know how people manage to do that.”

  “It’s a kind of special gift,” said Tim. “If only you have sufficiently extravagant tastes, and absolutely no sense of money values, people will give you any amount of credit.”

  “Yes, but you come to the Bankruptcy Court in the end like poor Sir George Wode.”

  “You have a soft spot for that old horse coper—probably because he called you a rosebud in eighteen seventy-nine at a dance.”

  “I wasn’t born in eighteen seventy-nine,” Mrs. Allerton retorted with spirit. “Sir George has charming manners, and I won’t have you calling him a horse coper.”

  “I’ve heard funny stories about him from people that know.”

  “You and Joanna don’t mind what you say about people; anything will do so long as it’s sufficiently ill-natured.”

  Tim raised his eyebrows.

  “My dear, you’re quite heated. I didn’t know old Wode was such a favourite of yours.”

  “You don’t realize how hard it was for him, having to sell Wode Hall. He cared terribly about that place.”

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

  “You know, I think you’re not far wrong there. Linnet asked him to come down and see what she’d done to the place, and he refused quite rudely.”

  “Of course. She ought to have known better than to ask him.”

  “And I believe he’s quite venomous about her—mutters things under his breath whenever he sees her. Can’t forgive her for having given him an absolutely top price for the worm-eaten family estate.”

  “And you can’t understand that?” Mrs. Allerton spoke sharply.

  “Frankly,” said Tim calmly, “I can’t. Why live in the past? Why cling on to things that have been?”

  “What are you going to put in their place?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Excitement, 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 yourself—by your own brains and skill.”

  “A successful deal on the Stock Exchange, in fact!”

  He laughed. “Why not?”

  “And what about an equal loss on the Stock Exchange?”

  “That, dear, is rather tactless. And quite inappropriate today…What about this Egypt plan?”

  “Well—”

  He cut in smiling at her: “That’s settled. We’ve both always wanted to see Egypt.”

  “When do you suggest?”

  “Oh, next month. January’s about the best time there. We’ll enjoy the delightful society in this hotel a few weeks longer.”

  “Tim,” said Mrs. Allerton reproachfully. Then she added guiltily: “I’m afraid I promised Mrs. Leech that you’d go with her to the police station. She doesn’t understand any Spanish.”

  Tim made a grimace.

  “About her ring? The blood-red ruby of the horse-leech’s daughter? Does she still persist in thinking it’s been stolen? I’ll go if you like, but it’s a waste of time. She’ll 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.”

  “She says she is quite sure she took it off and left it on her dressing table.”

  “Well, she didn’t. I saw it with my own eyes. The woman’s a fool. Any woman’s a fool who goes prancing into the sea in December, pretending the water’s quite warm just because the sun happens to be shining rather brightly at the moment. Stout women oughtn’t to be allowed to bathe anyway; they look so revolting in bathing dresses.”

  Mrs. Allerton murmured, “I really feel I ought to give up bathing.”

  Tim gave a shout of laughter.

  “You? You can give most of the young things points and to spare.”

  Mrs. Allerton sighed and said, “I wish there were a few more young people for you here.”

  Tim Allerton shook his head decidedly.

  “I don’t. You and I get along rather comfortably without outside distractions.”

  “You’d like it if Joanna were here.”

  “I wouldn’t.” His tone was unexpectedly resolute. “You’re all wrong there. Joanna amuses me, but I don’t really like her, and to have her around much gets on my nerves. I’m thankful she isn’t here. I should be quite resigned if I were never to see Joanna again.”

  He added, almost below his breath, “There’s only one woman in the world I’ve got a real respect and admiration for, and I think, Mrs. Allerton, you know very well who that woman is.”

  His mother blushed and looked quite confused.

  Tim said gravely: “There aren’t very many really nice women in the world. You happen to be one of them.”

  IX

  In an apartment overlooking Central Park in New York Mrs. Robson exclaimed: “If that isn’t just too lovely! You really are the luckiest girl, Cornelia.”

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

  “Oh, it will be wonderful!” she gasped.

  Old Miss Van Schuyler inclined her head in a satisfied fashion at this correct attitude on the part of poor relations. “I’ve always dreamed of a trip to Europe,” sighed Cornelia, “but I just didn’t feel I’d ever get there.”

  “Miss Bowers will come with me as usual, of course,” said Miss Van Schuyler, “but as a social companion I find her limited—very limited. There are many little things that Cornelia can do for
me.”

  “I’d just love to, Cousin Marie,” said Cornelia eagerly.

  “Well, well, then that’s settled,” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Just run and find Miss Bowers, my dear. It’s time for my eggnog.”

  Cornelia departed. Her mother said: “My dear Marie, I’m 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 places—but you know how it’s been since Ned died.”

  “I’m very glad to take her,” said Miss Van Schuyler. “Cornelia has always been a nice handy girl, willing to run errands, and not so selfish as some of these young people nowadays.”

  Mrs. Robson rose and kissed her rich relative’s wrinkled and slightly yellow face.

  “I’m just ever so grateful,” she declared.

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

  “Well, Miss Bowers, so you’re off to Europe?”

  “Why, yes, Mrs. Robson.”

  “What a lovely trip!”

  “Why, yes, I should think it would be very enjoyable.”

  “But you’ve been abroad before?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Robson. I went over to Paris with Miss Van Schuyler last fall. But I’ve never been to Egypt before.”

  Mrs. Robson hesitated.

  “I do hope—there won’t be any—trouble.”

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

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

  But there was still a faint shadow on Mrs. Robson’s 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.

  “Tell Mr. Rockford to step in here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pennington.”

  A few minutes later, Sterndale Rockford, Pennington’s partner, entered the office. The two men were not unlike—both tall, spare, with greying hair and clean-shaven, clever faces.

  “What’s up, Pennington?”

  Pennington looked up from the letter he was rereading. He said. “Linnet’s married….”

  “What?”

  “You heard what I said! Linnet Ridgeway’s married!”

  “How? When? Why didn’t we hear about it?”

  Pennington glanced at the calendar on his desk.

  “She wasn’t married when she wrote this letter, but she’s married now. Morning of the fourth. That’s today.”

  Rockford dropped into a chair.

  “Whew! No warning! Nothing? Who’s the man?”

  Pennington referred again to the letter.

  “Doyle. Simon Doyle.”

  “What sort of a fellow is he? Ever heard of him?”

  “No. She doesn’t say much…” He scanned the lines of clear, upright handwriting. “Got an idea there’s something hole-and-corner about this business…That doesn’t matter. The whole point is, she’s married.”

  The eyes of the two men met. Rockford nodded.

  “This needs a bit of thinking out,” he said quietly.

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  The two men sat silent. Then Rockford asked, “Got any plan?”

  Pennington said slowly: “The Normandie sails today. One of us could just make it.”

  “You’re crazy! What’s the big idea?”

  Pennington began: “Those British lawyers—” and stopped.

  “What about ’em. Surely you’re not going over to tackle ’em? You’re mad!”

  “I’m not suggesting that you—or I—should go to England.”

  “What’s the big idea, then?”

  Pennington smoothed out the letter on the table.

  “Linnet’s going to Egypt for her honeymoon. Expects to be there a month or more….”

  “Egypt—eh?”

  Rockford considered. Then he looked up and met the other’s glance.

  “Egypt,” he said. “That’s your idea!”

  “Yes—a chance meeting. Over on a trip. Linnet and her husband—honeymoon atmosphere. It might be done.”

  Rockford said doubtfully: “She’s sharp, Linnet is…but—”

  Pennington went on softly: “I think there might be ways of—managing it.”

  Again their eyes met. Rockford nodded.

  “All right, big boy.”

  Pennington looked at the clock.

  “We’ll have to hustle—whichever of us is going.”

  “You go,” said Rockford promptly. “You always made a hit with Linnet. ‘Uncle Andrew.’ That’s the ticket!”

  Pennington’s face had hardened. He said: “I hope I can pull it off.”

  “You’ve got to pull it off,” his partner said.

  “The situation’s critical….”

  XI

  William Carmichael said to the thin, weedy youth who opened the door inquiringly: “Send Mr. Jim to me, please.”

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

  “Humph, there you are.”

  “You asked for me?”

  “Just cast an eye over this.”

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

  “Well?”

  The answer came promptly. “Looks fishy to me, sir.”

  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:

  …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 Cook’s this morning to see about our tickets who do you think was the first person I saw?—my 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. Isn’t it a coincidence? Thank you so much for all you have done in this busy time. I—

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

  “That’s all,” he said. “The rest doesn’t matter. Well, what do you think?”

  His nephew considered for a moment—then he said:

  “Well—I think—not a coincidence….”

  The other nodded approval.

  “Like a trip to Egypt?” he barked out.

  “You think that’s advisable?”

  “I think there’s no time to lose.”

  “But, why me?”

  “Use 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.”

  “I—I don’t like it.”

  “Perhaps not—but you’ve got to do it.”

  “It’s—necessary?”

  “In my opinion,” said Mr. Carmichael, “it’s absolutely vital.”

  XII

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

  “I really don’t see why we shouldn’t go on to Egypt. I’m sick and tired of Jerusalem.”

  As her daughter made no reply, she said, “You might at least answer when you’re spoken to.”

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

  Mrs. Simon Doyle, who before her m
arriage was the well-known society beauty, Miss Linnet Ridgeway. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle are spending their holiday in Egypt. Rosalie said, “You’d like to move on to Egypt, Mother?”

  “Yes, I would,” Mrs. Otterbourne snapped. “I consider they’ve treated us in a most cavalier fashion here. My being here is an advertisement—I ought to get a special reduction in terms. When I hinted as much, I consider they were most impertinent—most impertinent. I told them exactly what I thought of them.”

  The girl sighed. She said: “One place is very like another. I wish we could get right away.”

  “And this morning,” went on Mrs. Otterbourne, “the 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 days’ time.”

  “So we’ve got to go somewhere.”

  “Not at all. I’m quite prepared to fight for my rights.”

  Rosalie murmured: “I suppose we might as well go on to Egypt. It doesn’t make any difference.”

  “It’s certainly not a matter of life or death,” agreed Mrs. Otterbourne.

  But there she was quite wrong—for a matter of life and death was exactly what it was.

  Two

  “That’s Hercule Poirot, the detective,” 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 people—a short man dressed in a white silk suit and a tall slim girl.

  Tim Allerton sat up in an unusually alert fashion.

  “That funny little man?” he asked incredulously.

  “That funny little man!”

  “What on earth’s he doing here?” Tim asked.

  His mother laughed. “Darling, you sound quite excited. Why do men enjoy crime so much? I hate detective stories and never read them. But I don’t think Monsieur Poirot is here with any ulterior motive. He’s made a good deal of money and he’s seeing life, I fancy.”