Читать книгу Death on the Nile / Смерть на Ниле - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 13

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 near by 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 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. Mrs Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.

The swing doors revolved. 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 to bridge an awkward pause[73], but Linnet seemed struck by the information.

“Hercule Poirot? Of course – I've heard of him.”

Poirot had strolled across to the edge of the terrace when he heard Mrs Otterbourne say,

“Sit down, Monsieur Poirot. What a lovely night.”

He obeyed.

“Mais oui,[74] Madame, it is indeed beautiful.”

He smiled politely at her. 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 laugh.

Poirot saw the sulky frowning girl opposite him flinch.

“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.[75] My public is getting terribly impatient – and my publisher, poor man! Appeals by every post! Even cables![76]” Again he felt the girl shift in the darkness.

“I don't mind telling you, Monsieur Poirot[77], I am partly here for local colour. Snow on the Desert's Face – that is the title of my new book. Snow – on the desert – melted in the first flaming breath of passion.” Rosalie, her daughter, got up, muttering something, and moved away down into the dark garden.

“One must be strong,” went on Mrs Otterbourne. “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 see, 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 looked swiftly from side to side. “Perhaps – I'll just slip up and get it for you now.”[78]

“Oh, Madame, pray do not trouble yourself 1. 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. She always thinks she knows best. She imagines she knows more about my health than I do myself – ”

Poirot signalled to a passing waiter.

Mrs Otterbourne shook her head vigorously.

“No, no. I am practically a tee-totaller. You may have noticed I never drink anything but water – or perhaps lemonade. I cannot bear the taste of spirits.”

“Then may I order you a lemon squash, Madame?”

He gave the order – one lemon squash and one Benedictine[79][80].

The swing door revolved. Rosalie passed through and came toward them, a book in her hand.

“Here you are,” she said. Her voice was quite expressionless.

“Monsieur Poirot has just ordered me a lemon squash,” said her mother.

“And you, Mademoiselle, what will you take?”

“Nothing.” She added, suddenly conscious of the curtness, “Nothing, thank you.”

Poirot took the volume which Mrs Otterbourne held out to him. It still bore its original jacket, representing a lady with scarlet fingernails, sitting on a tiger skin, in the traditional costume of Eve. Above her was a tree with the leaves of an oak, bearing large and improbably coloured apples.

It was entitled Under the Fig Tree, by Salome Otterbourne. On the inside was a publisher's blurb. It spoke enthusiastically of the superb courage and realism of this study of a modern woman's love life.

Poirot bowed and murmured, “I am honoured, Madame[81].”

As he raised his head, his eyes met those of the authoress's daughter. He was astonished at the pain in them.

It was at that moment that the drinks arrived. Poirot lifted his glass gallantly.

“A votre sante[82], Madame – Mademoiselle.”

Mrs Otterbourne, sipping her lemonade, murmured, “So refreshing – delicious!”

Silence fell on the three of them.[83] They looked down to the black rocks in the Nile. There was something fantastic about them in the moonlight. They were like prehistoric monsters lying half out of the water. There was a feeling in the air of hush – of expectancy.[84]

Hercule Poirot looked around the terrace and its occupants. Was he wrong, or was there the same hush of expectancy there? It was like a moment on the stage when one is waiting for the entrance of the leading lady. And just at that moment the swing doors began to revolve once more. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking toward them.

A dark slender girl in a wine coloured evening dress came through. She paused for a minute, then walked deliberately across the terrace and sat down at an empty table.

“Well,” said Mrs Otterbourne. She tossed her turbaned head. “She seems to think she is somebody, that girl!”

Poirot did not answer. He was watching. The girl had sat down in a place where she could look deliberately across at Linnet Doyle. Presently, Poirot noticed, Linnet Doyle leant forward and said something and a moment later got up and changed her seat. She was now sitting facing in the opposite direction.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully to himself.

It was about five minutes later that the other girl changed her seat to the opposite side of the terrace. She sat smoking and smiling quietly. But always, as though unconsciously, her meditative gaze was on Simon Doyle's wife.

After a quarter of an hour Linnet Doyle got up abruptly and went into the hotel. Her husband followed her almost immediately.

Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and turned her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.