Death on the Nile. Agatha Christie

      ‘Nice little thing, isn’t it? she said. ‘Looks too foolish to be real, but it is real! One of those bullets would kill a man or a woman. And I’m a good shot.’ She smiled a faraway, reminiscent smile.

      ‘When I went home as a child with my mother, to South Carolina, my grandfather taught me to shoot. He was the old-fashioned kind that believes in shooting–especially where honour is concerned. My father, too, he fought several duels as a young man. He was a good swordsman. He killed a man once. That was over a woman. So you see, Monsieur Poirot’–she met his eyes squarely–‘I’ve hot blood in me! I bought this when it first happened. I meant to kill one or other of them–the trouble was I couldn’t decide which. Both of them would have been unsatisfactory. If I’d thought Linnet would have looked afraid–but she’s got plenty of physical courage. She can stand up to physical action. And then I thought I’d–wait! That appealed to me more and more. After all, I could do it any time; it would be more fun to wait and–think about it! And then this idea came to my mind–to follow them! Whenever they arrived at some faraway spot and were together and happy, they should see Me! And it worked. It got Linnet badly–in a way nothing else could have done! It got right under her skin…That was when I began to enjoy myself…And there’s nothing she can do about it! I’m always perfectly pleasant and polite! There’s not a word they can take hold of! It’s poisoning everything–everything–for them.’ Her laugh rang out, clear and silvery.

      Poirot grasped her arm.

      ‘Be quiet. Quiet, I tell you.’

      Jacqueline looked at him.

      ‘Well?’ she asked. Her smile was definitely challenging.

      ‘Mademoiselle, I beseech you, do not do what you are doing.’

      ‘Leave dear Linnet alone, you mean!’

      ‘It is deeper than that. Do not open your heart to evil.’

      Her lips fell apart; a look of bewilderment came into her eyes.

      Poirot went on gravely: ‘Because–if you do–evil will come…Yes, very surely evil will come…It will enter in and make its home within you, and after a little while it will no longer be possible to drive it out.’

      Jacqueline stared at him. Her glance seemed to waver, to flicker uncertainly.

      She said: ‘I–don’t know–’ Then she cried out definitely, ‘You can’t stop me.’

      ‘No,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘I cannot stop you.’ His voice was sad.

      ‘Even if I were to–kill her, you couldn’t stop me.’

      ‘No–not if you were willing to pay the price.’

      Jacqueline de Bellefort laughed.

      ‘Oh, I’m not afraid of death! What have I got to live for, after all? I suppose you believe it’s very wrong to kill a person who has injured you–even if they’ve taken away everything you had in the world?’

      Poirot said steadily: ‘Yes, Mademoiselle. I believe it is the unforgivable offence–to kill.’

      Jacqueline laughed again.

      ‘Then you ought to approve of my present scheme of revenge; because, you see, as long as it works, I shan’t use that pistol…But I’m afraid–yes, afraid sometimes–it all goes red–I want to hurt her–to stick a knife into her, to put my dear little pistol close against her head and then–just press with my finger–Oh!’

      The exclamation startled him.

      ‘What is it, Mademoiselle!’

      She turned her head and was staring into the shadows.

      ‘Someone–standing over there. He’s gone now.’

      Hercule Poirot looked round sharply.

      The place seemed quite deserted.

      ‘There seems no one here but ourselves, Mademoiselle.’ He got up. ‘In any case I have said all I came to say. I wish you good night.’

      Jacqueline got up too. She said almost pleadingly, ‘You do understand–that I can’t do what you ask me to do?’

      Poirot shook his head.

      ‘No–for you could do it! There is always a moment! Your friend Linnet–there was a moment, too, in which she could have held her hand…She let it pass by. And if one does that, then one is committed to the enterprise and there comes no second chance.’

      ‘No second chance…’ said Jacqueline de Bellefort.

      She stood brooding for a moment; then she lifted her head defiantly.

      ‘Good night, Monsieur Poirot.’

      He shook his head sadly and followed her up the path to the hotel.

       Chapter 6

      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!’