Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile
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‘I’m going donkey-riding. Do you recommend the local villages, Monsieur Poirot?’
‘Is that your excursion today, Mademoiselle? Eh bien, they are picturesque – but do not spend large sums on local curios.’
‘Which are shipped here from Europe? No, I am not so easy to deceive as that.’
With a little nod she passed out into the brilliant sunshine.
Poirot completed his packing – a very simple affair, since his possessions were always in the most meticulous order. Then he repaired to the dining room and ate an early lunch.
After lunch the hotel bus took the passengers for the Second Cataract to the station where they were to catch the daily express from Cairo to Shellal – a ten-minute run. The Allertons, Poirot, the young man in the dirty flannel trousers and the Italian were the passengers. Mrs Otterbourne and her daughter had made the expedition to the Dam and to Philae and would join the steamer at Shellal.
The train from Cairo and Luxor was about twenty minutes late. However, it arrived at last, and the usual scenes of wild activity occurred. Porters taking suitcases out of the train collided with other porters putting them in.
Finally, somewhat breathless, Poirot found himself with an assortment of his own, the Allertons’, and some totally unknown luggage in one compartment, while Tim and his mother were elsewhere with the remains of the assorted baggage.
The compartment in which Poirot found himself was occupied by an elderly lady with a very wrinkled face, a stiff white stock, a good many diamonds and an expression of reptilian contempt for the majority of mankind.
She treated Poirot to an aristocratic glare and retired behind the pages of an American magazine. A big, rather clumsy young woman of under thirty was sitting opposite her. She had eager brown eyes rather like a dog’s, untidy hair, and a terrific air of willingness to please. At intervals the old lady looked over the top of her magazine and snapped an order at her.
‘Cornelia, collect the rugs. When we arrive look after my dressing-case. On no account let anyone else handle it. Don’t forget my paper-cutter.’
The train run was brief. In ten minutes’ time they came to rest on the jetty where the S. S. Karnak was awaiting them. The Otterbournes were already on board.
The Karnak was a smaller steamer than the Papyrus and the Lotus, the First Cataract steamers, which are too large to pass through the locks of the Aswan dam. The passengers went on board and were shown their accommodation. Since the boat was not full, most of the passengers had accommodation on the promenade deck. The entire forward part of this deck was occupied by an observation saloon, all glass-enclosed, where the passengers could sit and watch the river unfold before them. On the deck below were a smoking room and a small drawing room and on the deck below that, the dining saloon.
Having seen his possessions disposed in his cabin, Poirot came out on the deck again to watch the process of departure. He joined Rosalie Otterbourne, who was leaning over the side.
‘So now we journey into Nubia. You are pleased, Mademoiselle?’
The girl drew a deep breath.
‘Yes. I feel that one’s really getting away from things at last.’ She made a gesture with her hand. There was a savage aspect about the sheet of water in front of them, the masses of rock without vegetation that came down to the water’s edge – here and there a trace of houses abandoned and ruined as a result of the damming up of the waters. The whole scene had a melancholy, almost sinister charm. ‘Away from people,’ said Rosalie Otterbourne.
‘Except those of our own number, Mademoiselle?’
She shrugged her shoulders. Then she said:
‘There’s something about this country that makes me feel – wicked. It brings to the surface all the things that are boiling inside one. Everything’s so unfair – so unjust.’
‘I wonder. You cannot judge by material evidence.’
Rosalie muttered:
‘Look at – at some people’s mothers – and look at mine. There is no God but Sex, and Salome Otterbourne is its Prophet.’ She stopped. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, I suppose.’
Poirot made a gesture with his hands.
‘Why not say it – to me? I am one of those who hear many things. If, as you say, you boil inside – like the jam – Eh bien, let the scum come to the surface, and then one can take it off with a spoon, so.’ He made a gesture of dropping something into the Nile. ‘Then, it has gone.’
Rosalie said:
‘What an extraordinary man you are!’ Her sulky mouth twisted into a smile. Then she suddenly stiffened as she exclaimed: ‘Well, here are Mrs Doyle and her husband! I’d no idea they were coming on this trip!’
Linnet had just emerged from a cabin halfway down the deck. Simon was behind her. Poirot was almost startled by the look of her – so radiant, so assured. She looked positively arrogant with happiness. Simon Doyle, too, was a transformed being. He was grinning from ear to ear and looking like a happy schoolboy.
‘This is grand,’ he said as he too leaned on the rail. ‘I’m really looking forward to this trip, aren’t you, Linnet? It feels somehow so much less touristy – as though we were really going into the heart of Egypt.’
His wife responded quickly:
‘I know. It’s so much – wilder, somehow.’
Her hand slipped through his arm. He pressed it close to his side.
‘We’re off, Lin,’ he murmured.
The steamer was drawing away from the jetty. They had started on their seven-day journey to the Second Cataract and back.
Behind them a light silvery laugh rang out. Linnet whipped round.
Jacqueline de Bellefort was standing there. She seemed amused.
‘Hullo, Linnet! I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought you said you were staying in Aswan another ten days. This is a surprise!’
‘You – you didn’t-’Linnet’s tongue stammered. She forced a ghastly conventional smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you either.’
‘No?’
Jacqueline moved away to the other side of the boat. Linnet’s grasp on her husband’s arm tightened.
‘Simon – Simon-’
All Doyle’s good-natured pleasure had gone. He looked furious. His hands clenched themselves in spite of his effort at self-control.
The two of them moved a little away. Without turning his head Poirot caught scraps of disjointed words.