Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile. Агата Кристи
Allerton said quietly:
‘I am glad to hear you say that. All the same, God chooses his instruments.’
‘There is a danger in thinking like that, Madame.’
She adopted a lighter tone:
‘After this conversation, Monsieur Poirot, I shall wonder that there is anyone left alive!’ She got up. ‘We must be getting back. We have to start immediately after lunch.’
When they reached the landing stage they found the young man in the polo jumper just taking his place in the boat. The Italian was already waiting. As the boatman cast the sail loose and they started, Poirot addressed a polite remark to the stranger:
‘There are very wonderful things to be seen in Egypt, are there not?’
The young man was now smoking a somewhat noisome pipe. He removed it from his mouth and remarked briefly and emphatically in astonishingly well-bred accents:
‘They make me sick.’
Mrs Allerton put on her pince-nez and surveyed him with pleasurable interest. Poirot said:
‘Indeed? And why is that?’
‘Take the Pyramids. Great blocks of useless masonry put up to minister to the egoism of a despotic bloated king. Think of the sweated masses who toiled to build them and died doing it. It makes me sick to think of the suffering and torture they represent.’
Mrs Allerton said cheerfully:
‘You’d rather have no Pyramids, no Parthenon, no beautiful tombs or temples – just the solid satisfaction of knowing that people got three meals a day and died in their beds.’
The young man directed his scowl in her direction.
‘I think human beings matter more than stones.’
‘But they do not endure as well,’ remarked Hercule Poirot.
‘I’d rather see a well fed worker than any so-called work of art. What matters is the future – not the past.’
This was too much for Signor Richetti, who burst into a torrent of impassioned speech not too easy to follow.
The young man retorted by telling everybody exactly what he thought of the capitalist system. He spoke with the utmost venom.
When the tirade was over they had arrived at the hotel landing-stage.
Mrs Allerton murmured cheerfully: ‘Well, well,’ and stepped ashore.
The young man directed a baleful glance after her.
In the hall of the hotel Poirot encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was dressed in riding clothes. She gave him an ironical little bow.
‘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