Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile

Кристи Агата

He said awkwardly:

‘Hullo, Jacqueline; we didn’t expect to see you here.’

The words were unconvincing in the extreme. The girl flashed white teeth at them.

‘Quite a surprise?’ she asked. Then, with a little nod, she walked up the path.

Poirot moved delicately in the opposite direction. As he went, he heard Linnet Doyle say:

‘Simon – for God’s sake – Simon – what can we do?’

Chapter 2

Dinner was over. The terrace outside the Cataract Hotel was softly lit. Most of the guests staying at the hotel were there sitting at little tables.

Simon and Linnet Doyle came out, a tall distinguished looking grey-haired man with a keen clean-shaven American face beside them. As the little group hesitated for a moment in the doorway, Tim Allerton rose from his chair nearby and came forward.

‘You don’t remember me, I’m sure,’ he said pleasantly to Linnet, ‘but I’m Joanna Southwood’s cousin.’

‘Of course – how stupid of me. You’re Tim Allerton. This is my husband’-a faint tremor in the voice, pride, shyness? – ‘and this is my American trustee, Mr Pennington.’

Tim said:

‘You must meet my mother.’

A few minutes later they were sitting together in a party – Linnet in the corner, Tim and Pennington each side of her, both talking to her, vying for her attention. Mrs Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.

The swing doors revolved. A sudden tension came into the beautiful upright figure sitting in the corner between the two men. Then it relaxed as a small man came out and walked across the terrace.

Mrs Allerton said:

‘You’re not the only celebrity here, my dear. That funny little man is Hercule Poirot.’

She had spoken lightly, just out of instinctive social tact to bridge an awkward pause, but Linnet seemed struck by the information.

‘Hercule Poirot? Of course – I’ve heard of him…’

She seemed to sink into a fit of abstraction. The two men on either side of her were momentarily at a loss.

Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace, but his attention was immediately solicited.

‘Sit down, Monsieur Poirot. What a lovely night!’

He obeyed.

‘Mais oui, Madame, it is indeed beautiful.’

He smiled politely at Mrs Otterbourne. What draperies of black ninon and that ridiculous turban effect! Mrs Otterbourne went on in her high complaining voice:

‘Quite a lot of notabilities here now, aren’t there? I expect we shall see a paragraph about it in the papers soon. Society beauties, famous novelists-’

She paused with a slight mock-modest laugh.

Poirot felt, rather than saw, the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch and set her mouth in a sulkier line than before.

‘You have a novel on the way at present, Madame?’ he inquired.

Mrs Otterbourne gave her little self-conscious laugh again.

‘I’m being dreadfully lazy. I really must set to. My public is getting terribly impatient – and my publisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables!’

Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.

‘I don’t mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot, I am partly here for local colour. Snow on the Desert’s Face – that is the title of my new book. Powerful – suggestive. Snow – on the desert – melted in the first flaming breath of passion.’

Rosalie got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.

‘One must be emphasis,’ went on Mrs Otterbourne, wagging the turban emphatically. ‘emphasis meat – that is what my books are. Libraries may ban them – no matter! I speak the truth. Sex – ah! Monsieur Poirot – why is everyone so afraid of sex? The pivot of the universe! You have read my books?’

‘Alas, Madame! You comprehend, I do not read many novels. My work-’

Mrs Otterbourne said firmly:

‘I must give you a copy of Under the Fig Tree. I think you will find it significant. It is outspoken – but it is real!’

‘That is most kind of you, Madame. I will read it with pleasure.’

Mrs Otterbourne was silent a minute or two. She fidgeted with a long chain of beads that was wound twice round her neck. She looked swiftly from side to side.

‘Perhaps – I’ll just slip up and get it for you now.’

‘Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself. Later-’

‘No, no. It’s no trouble.’ She rose. ‘I’d like to show you-’

‘What is it, Mother?’

Rosalie was suddenly at her side.

‘Nothing, dear. I was just going up to get a book for Monsieur Poirot.’

‘The Fig Tree? I’ll get it.’

‘You don’t know where it is, dear. I’ll go.’

‘Yes, I do.’

The girl went swiftly across the terrace and into the hotel.

‘Let me congratulate you, Madame, on a very lovely daughter,’ said Poirot, with a bow.

‘Rosalie? Yes, yes – she is good looking. But she’s very hard, Monsieur Poirot. And no sympathy with illness. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myself-’

Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.

‘A liqueur, Madame? A chartreuse? A cr'eme 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.’