Death on the Nile. Agatha Christie

her honeymoon. She turned, with a little smile and a light remark, to the tall man by her side. He answered, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest Hercule Poirot. His eyes lit up and he drew his brows together.

      The couple passed close to him. He heard Simon Doyle say:

      ‘We’ll try and make time for it, darling. We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here.’

      His face was turned towards her, eager, adoring, a little humble.

      Poirot’s eyes ran over him thoughtfully–the square shoulders, the bronzed face, the dark blue eyes, the rather childlike simplicity of the smile.

      ‘Lucky devil,’ said Tim after they had passed. ‘Fancy finding an heiress who hasn’t got adenoids and flat feet!’

      ‘They look frightfully happy,’ said Rosalie with a note of envy in her voice. She added suddenly, but so low that Tim did not catch the words, ‘It isn’t fair.’

      Poirot heard, however. He had been frowning somewhat perplexedly, but now he flashed a quick glance towards her.

      Tim said: ‘I must collect some stuff for my mother now.’

      He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie retraced their steps slowly in the direction of the hotel, waving aside fresh proffers of donkeys.

      ‘So it is not fair, Mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot gently.

      The girl flushed angrily.

      ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘I am repeating what you said just now under your breath. Oh, yes, you did.’

      Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged her shoulders.

      ‘It really seems a little too much for one person. Money, good looks, marvellous figure and–’

      She paused and Poirot said:

      ‘And love? Eh? And love? But you do not know–she may have been married for her money!’

      ‘Didn’t you see the way he looked at her?’

      ‘Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. I saw all there was to see–indeed I saw something that you did not.’

      ‘What was that?’

      Poirot said slowly: ‘I saw, Mademoiselle, dark lines below a woman’s eyes. I saw a hand that clutched a sun-shade so tight that the knuckles were white…’

      Rosalie was staring at him.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean that all is not the gold that glitters. I mean that, though this lady is rich and beautiful and beloved, there is all the same something that is not right. And I know something else.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I know,’ said Poirot, frowning, ‘that somewhere, at some time, I have heard that voice before–the voice of Monsieur Doyle–and I wish I could remember where.’

      But Rosalie was not listening. She had stopped dead. With the point of her sunshade she was tracing patterns in the loose sand. Suddenly she broke out fiercely:

      ‘I’m odious. I’m quite odious. I’m just a beast through and through. I’d like to tear the clothes off her back and stamp on her lovely, arrogant, self-confident face. I’m just a jealous cat–but that’s what I feel like. She’s so horribly successful and poised and assured.’

      Hercule Poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. He took her by the arm and gave her a friendly little shake.

      ‘Tenez–you will feel better for having said that!’

      ‘I just hate her! I’ve never hated anyone so much at first sight.’

      ‘Magnificent!’

      Rosalie looked at him doubtfully. Then her mouth twitched and she laughed.

      ‘Bien,’ said Poirot, and laughed too.

      They proceeded amicably back to the hotel.

      ‘I must find Mother,’ said Rosalie, as they came into the cool dim hall.

      Poirot passed out on the other side on to the terrace overlooking the Nile. Here were little tables set for tea, but it was early still. He stood for a few moments looking at the river, then strolled down through the garden.

      Some people were playing tennis in the hot sun. He paused to watch them for a while, then went on down the steep path. It was here, sitting on a bench overlooking the Nile, that he came upon the girl of Chez Ma Tante. He recognized her at once. Her face, as he had seen it that night, was securely etched upon his memory. The expression on it now was very different. She was paler, thinner, and there were lines that told of a great weariness and misery of spirit.

      He drew back a little. She had not seen him, and he watched her for a while without her suspecting his presence. Her small foot tapped impatiently on the ground. Her eyes, dark with a kind of smouldering fire, had a queer kind of suffering dark triumph in them. She was looking out across the Nile where the white-sailed boats glided up and down the river.

      A face–and a voice. He remembered them both. This girl’s face and the voice he had heard just now, the voice of a newly made bridegroom…

      And even as he stood there considering the unconscious girl, the next scene in the drama was played.

      Voices sounded above. The girl on the seat started to her feet. Linnet Doyle and her husband came down the path. Linnet’s voice was happy and confident. The look of strain and tenseness of muscle had quite disappeared, Linnet was happy.

      The girl who was standing there took a step or two forward. The other two stopped dead.

      ‘Hullo, Linnet,’ said Jacqueline de Bellefort. ‘So here you are! We never seem to stop running into each other. Hullo, Simon, how are you?’

      Linnet Doyle had shrunk back against the rock with a little cry. Simon Doyle’s good-looking face was suddenly convulsed with rage. He moved forward as though he would have liked to strike the slim girlish figure.

      With a quick birdlike turn of her head she signalled her realization of a stranger’s presence. Simon turned his head and noticed Poirot. He said awkwardly: ‘Hullo, Jacqueline; we didn’t expect to see you here.’

      The words were unconvincing in the extreme.

      The girl flashed white teeth at them.

      ‘Quite a surprise?’ she asked. Then, with a little nod, she walked up the path.

      Poirot moved delicately in the opposite direction. As he went, he heard Linnet Doyle say:

      ‘Simon–for God’s sake! Simon–what can we do?’

       Chapter 3

      Dinner was over. The terrace outside the Cataract Hotel was softly lit. Most of the guests staying at the hotel were 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 in the doorway, Tim Allerton rose from his chair nearby 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’–a faint tremor in the voice, pride, shyness?–‘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, vying for her attention. Mrs Allerton talked to Simon Doyle.

      The