Death on the Nile

  Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.

  “A liqueur, Madame? A chartreuse? A crème de menthe?”

  Mrs. Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.

  “No, no. I am practically a teetotaller. You may have noticed I never drink anything but water—or perhaps lemonade. I cannot bear the taste of spirits.”

  “Then may I order you a lemon squash, Madame?”

  He gave the order—one lemon squash and one benedictine.

  The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came towards them, a book in her hand.

  “Here you are,” she said. Her voice was quite expressionless—almost remarkably so.

  “Monsieur Poirot has just ordered me a lemon squash,” said her mother.

  “And you, Mademoiselle, what will you take?”

  “Nothing.” She added, suddenly conscious of the curtness: “Nothing, thank you.”

  Poirot took the volume which Mrs. Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, a gaily coloured affair representing a lady, with smartly shingled hair and scarlet fingernails, sitting on a tiger skin, in the traditional costume of Eve. Above her was a tree with the leaves of an oak, bearing large and improbably coloured apples.

  It was entitled Under the Fig Tree, by Salome Otterbourne. On the inside was a publisher’s blurb. It spoke enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modern woman’s love life. “Fearless, unconventional, realistic,” were the adjectives used.

  Poirot bowed and murmured: “I am honoured, Madame.”

  As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress’s daughter. Almost involuntarily he made a little movement. He was astonished and grieved at the eloquent pain they revealed.

  It was at that moment that the drinks arrived and created a welcome diversion.

  Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.

  “A votre santé, Madame—Mademoiselle.”

  Mrs. Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade, murmured, “So refreshing—delicious!”

  Silence fell on the three of them. They looked down to the shining black rocks in the Nile. There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like vast prehistoric monsters lying half out of the water. A little breeze came up suddenly and as suddenly died away. There was a feeling in the air of hush—of expectancy.

  Hercule Poirot brought his gaze back to the terrace and its occupants. Was he wrong, or was there the same hush of expectancy there? It was like a moment on the stage when one is waiting for the entrance of the leading lady.

  And just at that moment the swing doors began to revolve once more. This time it seemed as though they did so with a special air of importance. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking towards them.

  A dark slender girl in a wine-coloured evening frock came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table. There was nothing flaunting, nothing out of the way about her demeanour, and yet it had somehow the studied effect of a stage entrance.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Otterbourne. She tossed her turbaned head. “She seems to think she is somebody, that girl!”

  Poirot did not answer. He was watching. The girl had sat down in a place where she could look deliberately across at Linnet Doyle. Presently, Poirot noticed, Linnet Doyle leant forward and said something and a moment later got up and changed her seat. She was now sitting facing in the opposite direction.

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully to himself.

  It was about five minutes later that the other girl changed her seat to the opposite side of the terrace. She sat smoking and smiling quietly, the picture of contented ease. But always, as though unconsciously, her meditative gaze was on Simon Doyle’s wife.

  After a quarter of an hour Linnet Doyle got up abruptly and went into the hotel. Her husband followed her almost immediately.

  Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and twisted her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.

  Four

  “Monsieur Poirot.”

  Poirot got hastily to his feet. He had remained sitting out on the terrace alone after everyone else had left. Lost in meditation he had been staring at the smooth shiny black rocks when the sound of his name recalled him to himself.

  It was a well-bred, assured voice, a charming voice, although perhaps a trifle arrogant.

  Hercule Poirot, rising quickly, looked into the commanding eyes of Linnet Doyle. She wore a wrap of rich purple velvet over her white satin gown and she looked more lovely and more regal than Poirot had imagined possible.

  “You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” said Linnet.

  It was hardly a question.

  “At your service, Madame.”

  “You know who I am, perhaps?”

  “Yes, Madame. I have heard your name. I know exactly who you are.”

  Linnet nodded. That was only what she had expected. She went on, in her charming autocratic manner: “Will you come with me into the card room, Monsieur Poirot? I am very anxious to speak to you.”

  “Certainly, Madame.”

  She led the way into the hotel. He followed. She led him into the deserted card room and motioned him to close the door. Then she sank down on a chair at one of the tables and he sat down opposite her.

  She plunged straightaway into what she wanted to say. There were no hesitations. Her speech came flowingly.

  “I have heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Poirot, and I know that you are a very clever man. It happens that I am urgently in need of someone to help me—and I think very possibly that you are the man who would do it.”

  Poirot inclined his head.

  “You are very amiable, Madame, but you see, I am on holiday, and when I am on holiday I do not take cases.”

  “That could be arranged.”

  It was not offensively said—only with the quiet confidence of a young woman who had always been able to arrange matters to her satisfaction.

  Linnet Doyle went on: “I am the subject, Monsieur Poirot, of an intolerable persecution. That persecution has got to stop! My own idea was to go to the police about it, but my—my husband seems to think that the police would be powerless to do anything.”

  “Perhaps—if you would explain a little further?” murmured Poirot politely.

  “Oh, yes, I will do so. The matter is perfectly simple.”

  There was still no hesitation—no faltering. Linnet Doyle had a clear-cut businesslike mind. She only paused a minute so as to present the facts as concisely as possible.

  “Before I met my husband, he was engaged to a Miss de Bellefort. She was also a friend of mine. My husband broke off his engagement to her—they were not suited in any way. She, I am sorry to say, took it rather hard…I—am very sorry about that—but these things cannot be helped. She made certain—well, threats—to which I paid very little attention, and which, I may say, she has not attempted to carry out. But instead she has adopted the extraordinary course of—of following us about wherever we go.”

  Poirot raised his eyebrows.

  “Ah—rather an unusual—er—revenge.”

  “Very unusual—and very ridiculous! But also—annoying.”

  She bit her lip.

  Poirot nodded.

  “Yes, I can imagine that. You are, I understand, on your honeymoon?”

  “Yes. It happened—the first time—at Venice. She was there—at Danielli’s. I thought it was just coincidence. Rather embarrassing, but that was all. Then we found her on board the boat at Brindisi. We—we understood that she was going on to Palestine. We left her, as we thought, on the boat. But—but when we got to Mena House she was there—waiting for us.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “And now?”

  “We came up the Nile by boat. I—I was half expecting to find her on board. When she wasn’t there I thought she had stopped being so—so childish. But when we got here—she—she was here—waiting.”

  Poir
ot eyed her keenly for a moment. She was still perfectly composed, but the knuckles of the hand that was gripping the table were white with the force of her grip.

  He said: “And you are afraid this state of things may continue?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “Of course the whole thing is idiotic! Jacqueline is making herself utterly ridiculous. I am surprised she hasn’t got more pride—more dignity.”

  Poirot made a slight gesture.

  “There are times, Madame, when pride and dignity—they go by the board! There are other—stronger emotions.”

  “Yes, possibly.” Linnet spoke impatiently. “But what on earth can she hope to gain by all this?”

  “It is not always a question of gain, Madame.”

  Something in his tone struck Linnet disagreeably. She flushed and said quickly: “You are right. A discussion of motives is beside the point. The crux of the matter is that this has got to be stopped.”

  “And how do you propose that that should be accomplished, Madame?” Poirot asked.

  “Well—naturally—my husband and I cannot continue being subjected to this annoyance. There must be some kind of legal redress against such a thing.”

  She spoke impatiently. Poirot looked at her thoughtfully as he asked: “Has she threatened you in actual words in public? Used insulting language? Attempted any bodily harm?”

  “No.”

  “Then, frankly, Madame, I do not see what you can do. If it is a young lady’s pleasure to travel in certain places, and those places are the same where you and your husband find themselves—eh bien—what of it? The air is free to all! There is no question of her forcing herself upon your privacy? It is always in public that these encounters take place?”

  “You mean there is nothing that I can do about it?”

  Linnet sounded incredulous.

  Poirot said placidly: “Nothing at all, as far as I can see. Mademoiselle de Bellefort is within her rights.”

  “But—but it is maddening! It is intolerable that I should have to put up with this!”

  Poirot said dryly: “I must sympathize with you, Madame—especially as I imagine that you have not often had to put up with things.”

  Linnet was frowning.

  “There must be some way of stopping it,” she murmured.

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “You can always leave—move on somewhere else,” he suggested.

  “Then she will follow!”

  “Very possibly—yes.”

  “It’s absurd!”

  “Precisely.”

  “Anyway, why should I—we—run away? As though—as though—”

  She stopped.

  “Exactly, Madame. As though—! It is all there, is it not?”

  Linnet lifted her head and stared at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  Poirot altered his tone. He leant forward; his voice was confidential, appealing. He said very gently: “Why do you mind so much, Madame?”

  “Why? But it’s maddening! Irritating to the last degree! I’ve told you why!”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “Not altogether.”

  “What do you mean?” Linnet asked again.

  Poirot leant back, folded his arms and spoke in a detached impersonal manner.

  “Ecoutez, Madame. I will recount to you a little history. It is that one day, a month or two ago, I am dining in a restaurant in London. At the table next to me are two people, a man and a girl. They are very happy, so it seems, very much in love. They talk with confidence of the future. It is not that I listen to what is not meant for me; they are quite oblivious of who hears them and who does not. The man’s back is to me, but I can watch the girl’s face. It is very intense. She is in love—heart, soul, and body—and she is not of those who love lightly and often. With her it is clearly the life and the death. They are engaged to be married, these two; that is what I gather; and they talk of where they shall pass the days of their honeymoon. They plan to go to Egypt.”

  He paused. Linnet said sharply: “Well?”

  Poirot went on: “That is a month or two ago, but the girl’s face—I do not forget it. I know that I shall remember if I see it again. And I remember too the man’s voice. And I think you can guess, Madame, when it is I see the one and hear the other again. It is here in Egypt. The man is on his honeymoon, yes—but he is on his honeymoon with another woman.”

  Linnet said sharply: “What of it? I had already mentioned the facts.”

  “The facts—yes.”

  “Well then?”

  Poirot said slowly: “The girl in the restaurant mentioned a friend—a friend who, she was very positive, would not let her down. That friend, I think, was you, Madame.”

  “Yes. I told you we had been friends.”

  Linnet flushed.

  “And she trusted you?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip impatiently; then, as Poirot did not seem disposed to speak, she broke out:

  “Of course the whole thing was very unfortunate. But these things happen, Monsieur Poirot.”

  “Ah! Yes, they happen, Madame.” He paused. “You are of the Church of England, I presume?”

  “Yes.” Linnet looked slightly bewildered.

  “Then you have heard portions of the Bible read aloud in church. You have heard of King David and of the rich man who had many flocks and herds and the poor man who had one ewe lamb—and of how the rich man took the poor man’s one ewe lamb. That was something that happened, Madame.”

  Linnet sat up. Her eyes flashed angrily.

  “I see perfectly what you are driving at, Monsieur Poirot! You think, to put it vulgarly, that I stole my friend’s young man. Looking at the matter sentimentally—which is, I suppose, the way people of your generation cannot help looking at things—that is possibly true. But the real hard truth is different. I don’t deny that Jackie was passionately in love with Simon, but I don’t think you take into account that he may not have been equally devoted to her. He was very fond of her, but I think that even before he met me he was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake. Look at it clearly, Monsieur Poirot. Simon discovers that it is I he loves, not Jackie. What is he to do? Be heroically noble and marry a woman he does not care for—and thereby probably ruin three lives—for it is doubtful whether he could make Jackie happy under those circumstances? If he were actually married to her when he met me I agree that it might be his duty to stick to her—though I’m not really sure of that. If one person is unhappy the other suffers too. But an engagement is not really binding. If a mistake has been made, then surely it is better to face the fact before it is too late. I admit that it was very hard on Jackie, and I’m very sorry about it—but there it is. It was inevitable.”

  “I wonder.”

  She stared at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is very sensible, very logical—all that you say! But it does not explain one thing.”

  “What is that?”

  “Your own attitude, Madame. See you, this pursuit of you, you might take it in two ways, It might cause you annoyance—yes, or it might stir your pity—that your friend should have been so deeply hurt as to throw all regard for the conventions aside. But that is not the way you react. No, to you this persecution is intolerable—and why? It can be for one reason only—that you feel a sense of guilt.”

  Linnet sprang to her feet.

  “How dare you? Really, Monsieur Poirot, this is going too far.”

  “But I do dare, Madame! I am going to speak to you quite frankly. I suggest to you that, although you may have endeavoured to gloss over the fact to yourself, you did deliberately set about taking your husband from your friend. I suggest that you felt strongly attracted to him at once. But I suggest that there was a moment when you hesitated, when you realized that there was a choice—that you could refrain or go on. I suggest that the initiative rested with you—not with Monsieur Doyle. You are beautiful, Madame;
you are rich; you are clever; intelligent—and you have charm. You could have exercised that charm or you could have restrained it. You had everything, Madame, that life can offer. Your friend’s life was bound up in one person. You knew that, but, though you hesitated, you did not hold your hand. You stretched it out and, like the rich man in the Bible, you took the poor man’s one ewe lamb.”

  There was a silence. Linnet controlled herself with an effort and said in a cold voice: “All this is quite beside the point!”

  “No, it is not beside the point. I am explaining to you just why the unexpected appearances of Mademoiselle de Bellefort have upset you so much. It is because though she may be unwomanly and undignified in what she is doing, you have the inner conviction that she has right on her side.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “You refuse to be honest with yourself.”

  “Not at all.”

  Poirot said gently: “I should say, Madame, that you have had a happy life, that you have been generous and kindly in your attitude towards others.”

  “I have tried to be,” said Linnet. The impatient anger died out of her face. She spoke simply—almost forlornly.

  “And that is why the feeling that you have deliberately caused injury to someone upsets you so much, and why you are so reluctant to admit the fact. Pardon me if I have been impertinent, but the psychology, it is the most important fact in a case.”

  Linnet said slowly: “Even supposing what you say were true—and I don’t admit it, mind—what can be done about it now? One can’t alter the past; one must deal with things as they are.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “You have the clear brain. Yes, one cannot go back over the past. One must accept things as they are. And sometimes, Madame, that is all one can do—accept the consequences of one’s past deeds.”

  “You mean,” asked Linnet incredulously, “that I can do nothing—nothing?”

  “You must have courage, Madame; that is what it seems like to me.”

  Linnet said slowly:

  “Couldn’t you—talk to Jackie—to Miss de Bellefort? Reason with her?”