Читать книгу Death on the Nile / Смерть на Ниле - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 6

M. Gaston Blondin, the proprietor of that little restaurant Chez Ma Tante, was not a man who honoured many of his clientele. Only in the rarest cases did M. Blondin greet a guest, accompany him to a privileged table, and exchange with him suitable remarks.

On this night, M. Blondin had greeted a little man of comical appearance with immense black moustaches. He conducted the client to the table in a most favourable position.

“But naturally, for you there is always a table, Monsieur Poirot! How I wish that you would honour us oftener.”

Hercule Poirot smiled,

“You are too amiable, Monsieur Blondin,” he said.

“And you are alone, Monsieur Poirot?”

“Yes, I am alone.”

“Oh, well, our chef here will compose for you a little meal that will be a poem – positively a poem! Women, however charming, have this disadvantage: they distract the mind from food! You will enjoy your dinner, Monsieur Poirot; I promise you that.”

Before departing, M. Blondin lingered a moment, lowering his voice confidentially.

“You have grave affairs on hand?”[25]

Poirot shook his head.

“I am a man of leisure,” he said sadly. “I have made the economies in my time and I have now the means to enjoy a life of idleness.[26]”

“I envy you.”

“No, no, you would be unwise to do so. I can assure you, it is not so gay as it sounds.” He sighed. “How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the need to think.”

M. Blondin threw up his hands.[27]

“But there is so much! There is travel!”

“Yes, there is travel. Already I have done not so badly. This winter I shall visit Egypt, I think. The climate, they say, is superb! One will escape from the fogs, the greyness, the monotony of the constantly falling rain.”

“Ah! Egypt,” sighed M. Blondin.

“One can even voyage there now, I believe, by train, escaping all sea travel except the Channel[28].”

Smooth-footed, deft-handed waiters served the table.[29]

The Negro orchestra broke into an ecstasy of strange noises. London danced.

Hercule Poirot looked on, registering impressions in his mind.

How bored and weary most of the faces were! Some of those stout men, however, were enjoying themselves. The fat woman in purple was looking radiant…

A good number of young people – some bored, some definitely unhappy. How absurd to call youth the time of happiness – youth, the time of greatest vulnerability!

His glance softened as it rested on one particular couple. A well-matched pair – tall broad-shouldered man, slender delicate girl. Two bodies that moved in a perfect rhythm of happiness.

The dance stopped abruptly. Hands clapped and it started again. After a second encore the couple returned to their table close by Poirot. The girl was flushed, laughing. As she sat, he could study her face, laughing to her companion. There was something else beside laughter in her eyes.

Hercule Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

“She cares too much, that little one,” he said to himself.

“It is not safe. No, it is not safe.”

And then a word caught his ear, “Egypt.”

Their voices came to him clearly – the girl's young, fresh, arrogant, with just a trace of foreign R's[30], and the man's pleasant, low-toned, well-bred English.

“I'm not counting my chickens before they're hatched[31], Simon. I tell you Linnet won't let us down!”

“I might let her down.”

“Nonsense – it's just the right job for you.”

“As a matter of fact I think it is… I haven't really any doubts as to my capability. And I want to make good – for your sake!”

The girl laughed softly, a laugh of pure happiness.

“We'll wait three months – to make sure you don't get the sack – and then we'll go to Egypt for our honeymoon. I've always wanted to go to Egypt all my life. The Nile and the pyramids and the sand.”

He said, his voice slightly indistinct: “We'll see it together, Jackie… together. Won't it be marvellous?”

“I wonder.[32] Will it be as marvellous to you as it is to me? Do you really care – as much as I do?”

Her voice was suddenly sharp – almost with fear.

The man's answer came quickly, “Don't be absurd, Jackie.”

Then she shrugged her shoulders.

“Let's dance.”

Hercule Poirot murmured to himself:

“Un qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer.[33] Yes, I wonder too.”