Читать книгу Death on the Nile - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 12

On the following morning Simon Doyle joined Hercule Poirot as the latter was leaving the hotel to walk down to the town.

‘Good morning, Monsieur Poirot.’

‘Good morning, Monsieur Doyle.’

‘You going to the town? Mind if I stroll along with you?’

‘But certainly. I shall be delighted.’

The two men walked side by side, passed out through the gateway and turned into the cool shade of the gardens. Then Simon removed his pipe from his mouth and said, ‘I understand, Monsieur Poirot, that my wife had a talk with you last night?’

‘That is so.’

Simon Doyle was frowning a little. He belonged to that type of men of action who find it difficult to put thoughts into words and who have trouble in expressing themselves clearly.

‘I’m glad of one thing,’ he said. ‘You’ve made her realize that we’re more or less powerless in the matter.’

‘There is clearly no legal redress,’ agreed Poirot.

‘Exactly. Linnet didn’t seem to understand that.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘Linnet’s been brought up to believe that every annoyance can automatically be referred to the police.’

‘It would be pleasant if such were the case,’ said Poirot.

There was a pause. Then Simon said suddenly, his face going very red as he spoke:

‘It’s–it’s infamous that she should be victimized like this! She’s done nothing! If anyone likes to say I behaved like a cad, they’re welcome to say so! I suppose I did. But I won’t have the whole thing visited on Linnet. She had nothing whatever to do with it.’

Poirot bowed his head gravely but said nothing.

‘Did you–er–have you–talked to Jackie–Miss de Bellefort?’

‘Yes, I have spoken with her.’

‘Did you get her to see sense?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Simon broke out irritably: ‘Can’t she see what an ass she’s making of herself? Doesn’t she realize that no decent woman would behave as she is doing? Hasn’t she got any pride or self-respect?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘She has only a sense of–injury, shall we say?’ he replied.

‘Yes, but damn it all, man, decent girls don’t behave like this! I admit I was entirely to blame. I treated her damned badly and all that. I should quite understand her being thoroughly fed up with me and never wishing to see me again. But this following me round–it’s–it’s indecent! Making a show of herself! What the devil does she hope to get out of it?’

‘Perhaps–revenge!’

‘Idiotic! I’d really understand better if she’d tried to do something melodramatic–like taking a pot shot at me.’

‘You think that would be more like her–yes?’

‘Frankly I do. She’s hot-blooded–and she’s got an ungovernable temper. I shouldn’t be surprised at her doing anything while she was in a white-hot rage. But this spying business–’ He shook his head.

‘It is more subtle–yes! It is intelligent!’

Doyle stared at him.

‘You don’t understand. It’s playing hell with Linnet’s nerves.’

‘And yours?’

Simon looked at him with momentary surprise.

‘Me? I’d like to wring the little devil’s neck.’

‘There is nothing, then, of the old feeling left?’

‘My dear Monsieur Poirot–how can I put it? It’s like the moon when the sun comes out. You don’t know it’s there any more. When once I’d met Linnet–Jackie didn’t exist.’

‘Tiens, c’est drôle, ça!’ muttered Poirot.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your simile interested me, that is all.’

Again flushing, Simon said: ‘I suppose Jackie told you that I’d only married Linnet for her money? Well, that’s a damned lie! I wouldn’t marry any woman for money! What Jackie doesn’t understand is that it’s difficult for a fellow when–when–a woman cares for him as she cared for me.’

‘Ah?’

Poirot looked up sharply.

Simon blundered on: ‘It–it–sounds a caddish thing to say, but Jackie was too fond of me!’

‘Une qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer,’ murmured Poirot.

‘Eh? What’s that you say? You see, a man doesn’t want to feel that a woman cares more for him than he does for her.’ His voice grew warm as he went on. ‘He doesn’t want to feel owned, body and soul. It’s the damned possessive attitude! This man is mine–he belongs to me! That’s the sort of thing I can’t stick–no man could stick! He wants to get away–to get free. He wants to own his woman; he doesn’t want her to own him.’

He broke off, and with fingers that trembled slightly he lit a cigarette.

Poirot said: ‘And it is like that that you felt with Mademoiselle Jacqueline?’

‘Eh?’ Simon stared and then admitted: ‘Er–yes–well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. She doesn’t realize that, of course. And it’s not the sort of thing I could ever tell her. But I was feeling restless–and then I met Linnet, and she just swept me off my feet! I’d never seen anything so lovely. It was all so amazing. Everyone kowtowing to her–and then her singling out a poor chump like me.’

His tone held boyish awe and astonishment.

‘I see,’ said Poirot. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes–I see.’

‘Why can’t Jackie take it like a man?’ demanded Simon resentfully.

A very faint smile twitched Poirot’s upper lip.

‘Well, you see, Monsieur Doyle, to begin with she is not a man.’

‘No, no–but I meant take it like a good sport! After all, you’ve got to take your medicine when it comes to you. The fault’s mine, I admit. But there it is! If you no longer care for a girl, it’s simply madness to marry her. And, now that I see what Jackie’s really like and the lengths she is likely to go to, I feel I’ve had rather a lucky escape.’

‘The lengths she is likely to go to,’ Poirot repeated thoughtfully. ‘Have you an idea, Monsieur Doyle, what those lengths are?’

Simon looked at him rather startled.

‘No–at least, what do you mean?’

‘You know she carries a pistol about with her?’

Simon frowned, then shook his head.

‘I don’t believe she’ll use that–now. She might have done so earlier. But I believe it’s got past that. She’s just spiteful now–trying to take it out of us both.’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘It may be so,’ he said doubtfully.

‘It’s Linnet I’m worrying about,’ declared Simon, somewhat unnecessarily.

‘I quite realize that,’ said Poirot.

‘I’m not really afraid of Jackie doing any melodramatic shooting stuff, but this spying and following business has absolutely got Linnet on the raw. I’ll tell you the plan I’ve made, and perhaps you can suggest improvements on it. To begin with, I’ve announced fairly openly that we’re going to stay here ten days. But tomorrow the steamer Karnak starts from Shellal to Wadi Halfa. I propose to book passages on that under an assumed name. Tomorrow we’ll go on an excursion to Philae. Linnet’s maid can take the luggage. We’ll join the Karnak at Shellal. When Jackie finds we don’t come back, it will be too late–we shall be well on our way. She’ll assume we have given her the slip and gone back to Cairo. In fact I might even bribe the porter to say so. Inquiry at the tourist offices won’t help her, because our names won’t appear. How does that strike you?’

‘It is well imagined, yes. And suppose she waits here till you return?’

‘We may not return. We would go on to Khartoum and then perhaps by air to Kenya. She can’t follow us all over the globe.’

‘No; there must come a time when financial reasons forbid. She has very little money, I understand.’

Simon looked at him with admiration.

‘That’s clever of you. Do you know, I hadn’t thought of that. Jackie’s as poor as they make them.’

‘And yet she has managed to follow you so far?’

Simon said doubtfully:

‘She’s got a small income, of course. Something under two hundred a year, I imagine. I suppose–yes, I suppose she must have sold out the capital to do what she’s doing.’

‘So that the time will come when she has exhausted her resources and is quite penniless?’

‘Yes…’

Simon wriggled uneasily. The thought seemed to make him uncomfortable. Poirot watched him attentively.

‘No,’ he remarked. ‘No, it is not a pretty thought…’

Simon said rather angrily, ‘Well, I can’t help it!’ Then he added, ‘What do you think of my plan?’

‘I think it may work, yes. But it is, of course, a retreat.’

Simon flushed.

‘You mean, we’re running away? Yes, that’s true…But Linnet–’

Poirot watched him, then gave a short nod.

‘As you say, it may be the best way. But remember, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has brains.’

Simon said sombrely: ‘Some day, I feel, we’ve got to make a stand and fight it out. Her attitude isn’t reasonable.’

‘Reasonable, mon Dieu!’ cried Poirot.

‘There’s no reason why women shouldn’t behave like rational beings,’ Simon asserted stolidly.

Poirot said dryly: ‘Quite frequently they do. That is even more upsetting!’ He added, ‘I, too, shall be on the Karnak. It is part of my itinerary.’

‘Oh!’ Simon hesitated, then said, choosing his words with some embarrassment: ‘That isn’t–isn’t–er–on our account in any way? I mean I wouldn’t like to think–’

Poirot disabused him quickly:

‘Not at all. It was all arranged before I left London. I always make my plans well in advance.’

‘You don’t just move on from place to place as the fancy takes you? Isn’t the latter really pleasanter?’

‘Perhaps. But to succeed in life every detail should be arranged well beforehand.’

Simon laughed and said: ‘That is how the more skilful murderer behaves, I suppose.’

‘Yes–though I must admit that the most brilliant crime I remember and one of the most difficult to solve was committed on the spur of the moment.’

Simon said boyishly: ‘You must tell us something about your cases on board the Karnak.’

‘No, no; that would be to talk–what do you call it?–the shop.’

‘Yes, but your kind of shop is rather thrilling. Mrs Allerton thinks so. She’s longing to get a chance to cross-question you.’

‘Mrs Allerton? That is the charming grey-haired woman who has such a devoted son?’

‘Yes. She’ll be on the Karnak too.’

‘Does she know that you–?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Simon with emphasis. ‘Nobody knows. I’ve gone on the principle that it’s better not to trust anybody.’

‘An admirable sentiment–and one which I always adopt. By the way, the third member of your party, the tall grey-haired man–’

‘Pennington?’

‘Yes. He is travelling with you?’

Simon said grimly: ‘Not very usual on a honeymoon, you were thinking? Pennington is Linnet’s American trustee. We ran across him by chance in Cairo.’

‘Ah, vraiment! You permit a question? She is of age, Madame your wife?’

Simon looked amused.

‘She isn’t actually twenty-one yet–but she hadn’t got to ask anyone’s consent before marrying me. It was the greatest surprise to Pennington. He left New York on the Carmanic two days before Linnet’s letter got there telling him of our marriage, so he knew nothing about it.’

‘The Carmanic–’ murmured Poirot.

‘It was the greatest surprise to him when we ran into him at Shepheard’s in Cairo.’

‘That was indeed the coincident!’

‘Yes, and we found that he was coming on this Nile trip–so naturally we foregathered; couldn’t have done anything else decently. Besides that, it’s been–well, a relief in some ways.’ He looked embarrassed again. ‘You see, Linnet’s been all strung up–expecting Jackie to turn up anywhere and everywhere. While we were alone together, the subject kept coming up. Andrew Pennington’s a help that way, we have to talk of outside matters.’

‘Your wife has not confided in Mr Pennington?’

‘No.’ Simon’s jaw looked aggressive. ‘It’s nothing to do with anyone else. Besides, when we started on this Nile trip we thought we’d seen the end of the business.’

Poirot shook his head.

‘You have not seen the end of it yet. No–the end is not yet at hand. I am very sure of that.’

‘I say, Monsieur Poirot, you’re not very encouraging.’

Poirot looked at him with a slight feeling of irritation. He thought to himself: ‘The Anglo-Saxon, he takes nothing seriously but playing games! He does not grow up.’

Linnet Doyle–Jacqueline de Bellefort–both of them took the business seriously enough. But in Simon’s attitude he could find nothing but male impatience and annoyance. He said: ‘You will permit me an impertinent question? Was it your idea to come to Egypt for your honeymoon?’

Simon flushed.

‘No, of course not. As a matter of fact I’d rather have gone anywhere else, but Linnet was absolutely set upon it. And so–and so–’

He stopped rather lamely.

‘Naturally,’ said Poirot gravely.

He appreciated the fact that, if Linnet Doyle was set upon anything, that thing had to happen.

He thought to himself: ‘I have now heard three separate accounts of the affair–Linnet Doyle’s, Jacqueline de Bellefort’s, Simon Doyle’s. Which of them is nearest to the truth?’