Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile
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Rosalie Otterbourne said shortly:
‘It’s all right, I suppose. I think Aswan’s a gloomy sort of place. The hotel’s half empty, and everyone’s about a hundred-’
She stopped – biting her lip.
Hercule Poirot’s eyes twinkled.
‘It is true, yes, I have one leg in the grave.’
‘I–I wasn’t thinking of you,’ said the girl. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded rude.’
‘Not at all. It is natural you should wish for young companions of your own age. Ah, well, there is one young man, at least.’
‘The one who sits with his mother all the time? I like her – but I think he looks dreadful – so conceited!’
Poirot smiled.
‘And I – am I conceited?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’
She was obviously uninterested – but the fact did not seem to annoy Poirot. He merely remarked with placid satisfaction:
‘My best friend says that I am very conceited.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Rosalie vaguely, ‘I suppose you have something to be conceited about. Unfortunately crime doesn’t interest me in the least.’
Poirot said solemnly:
‘I am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide.’
Just for a moment the sulky mask of her face was transformed as she shot him a swift questioning glance. Poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on.
‘Madame, your mother, was not at lunch today. She is not indisposed, I trust?’
‘This place doesn’t suit her,’ said Rosalie briefly. ‘I shall be glad when we leave.’
‘We are fellow passengers, are we not? We both make the excursion up to Wadi Halfa and the Second Cataract?’
‘Yes.’
They came out from the shade of the gardens on to a dusty stretch of road bordered by the river. Five watchful bead sellers, two vendors of postcards, three sellers of plaster scarabs, a couple of donkey boys and some detached but hopeful infantile riff-raff closed in upon them.
‘You want beads, sir? Very good, sir. Very cheap…’
‘Lady, you want scarab? Look – great queen – very lucky…’
‘You look, sir – real lapis. Very good, very cheap…’
‘You want ride donkey, sir? This very good donkey. This donkey Whiskey and Soda, sir…’
‘You want to go granite quarries, sir? This very good donkey. Other donkey very bad, sir, that donkey fall down…’
‘You want postcard – very cheap – very nice…’
‘Look, lady… Only ten piastres – very cheap – lapis – this ivory…’
‘This very good fly whisk – this all amber…’
‘You go out in boat, sir? I got very good boat, sir…’
‘You ride back to hotel, lady? This first-class donkey…’
Hercule Poirot made vague gestures to rid himself of this human cluster of flies. Rosalie stalked through them like a sleep walker.
‘It’s best to pretend to be deaf and blind,’ she remarked.
The infantile riff-raff ran alongside murmuring plaintively:
‘Bakshish? Bakshish? Hip hip hurrah – very good, very nice…’
Their gaily coloured rags trailed picturesquely, and the flies lay in clusters on their eyelids. They were the most persistent. The others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next corner. Now Poirot and Rosalie only ran the gauntlet of the shops – suave, persuasive accents here…
‘You visit my shop today, sir?’
‘You want that ivory crocodile, sir?’
‘You not been in my shop yet, sir? I show you very beautiful things.’
They turned into the fifth shop and Rosalie handed over several rolls of film – the object of the walk.
Then they came out again and walked towards the river’s edge.
One of the Nile steamers was just mooring. Poirot and Rosalie looked interestedly at the passengers.
‘Quite a lot, aren’t there?’ commented Rosalie.
She turned her head as Tim Allerton came up and joined them. He was a little out of breath as though he had been walking fast. They stood there for a moment or two, and then Tim spoke.
‘An awful crowd as usual, I suppose,’ he remarked disparagingly, indicating the disembarking passengers.
‘They’re usually quite terrible,’ agreed Rosalie. All three wore the air of superiority assumed by people who are already in a place when studying new arrivals.
‘Hallo!’ exclaimed Tim, his voice suddenly excited. ‘I’m damned if that isn’t Linnet Ridgeway.’
If the information left Poirot unmoved, it stirred Rosalie’s interest. She leaned forward and her sulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked:
‘Where? That one in white?’
‘Yes, there with the tall man. They’re coming ashore now. He’s the new husband, I suppose. Can’t remember her name now.’
‘Doyle,’ said Rosalie. ‘Simon Doyle. It was in all the newspapers. She’s simply rolling, isn’t she?’
‘Only about the richest girl in England,’ said Tim cheerfully.
The three lookers-on were silent watching the passengers come ashore. Poirot gazed with interest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. He murmured:
‘She is beautiful.’
‘Some people have got everything,’ said Rosalie bitterly.
There was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the gangplank.
Linnet Doyle was looking as perfectly turned out as if she were stepping on to the centre of the stage in a revue. She had something too of the assurance of a famous actress. She was used to being looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.
She was aware of the keen glances bent upon her – and at the same time almost unaware of them; such tributes were part of her life.