Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile. Агата Кристи

so Cornelia went on (‘Of course, Mother’s very delicate – some days she touches nothing but cereals-’) unhappily conscious that all she said was supremely uninteresting, yet flattered by the other girl’s seeming interest. But was she interested? Wasn’t she, somehow, listening to something else – or, perhaps, for something else? She was looking at Cornelia, yes, but wasn’t there someone else, sitting in the room…?

      ‘And of course we get very good art classes, and last winter I had a course of-’

      (How late was it? Surely very late. She had been talking and talking. If only something definite would happen…)

      And immediately, as though in answer to the wish, something did happen. Only, at that moment, it seemed very natural.

      Jacqueline turned her head and spoke to Simon Doyle.

      ‘Ring the bell, Simon. I want another drink.’

      Simon Doyle looked up from his magazine and said quietly:

      ‘The stewards have gone to bed. It’s after midnight.’

      ‘I tell you I want another drink.’

      Simon said: ‘You’ve had quite enough to drink, Jackie.’

      She swung round at him.

      ‘What damned business is it of yours?’

      He shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘None.’

      She watched him for a minute or two. Then she said:

      ‘What’s the matter, Simon? Are you afraid?’

      Simon did not answer. Rather elaborately he picked up his magazine again.

      Cornelia murmured:

      ‘Oh, dear – as late as that – I-must-’

      She began to fumble, dropped a thimble…

      Jacqueline said: ‘Don’t go to bed. I’d like another woman here – to support me.’ She began to laugh again. ‘Do you know what Simon over there is afraid of? He’s afraid I’m going to tell you the story of my life.’

      ‘Oh – er-’ Cornelia spluttered a little.

      Jacqueline said clearly:

      ‘You see, he and I were once engaged.’

      ‘Oh, really?’

      Cornelia was the prey of conflicting emotions. She was deeply embarrassed but at the same time pleasurably thrilled. How – how black Simon Doyle was looking.

      ‘Yes, it’s a very sad story,’ said Jacqueline; her soft voice was low and mocking. ‘He treated me rather badly, didn’t you, Simon?’

      Simon Doyle said brutally: ‘Go to bed, Jackie. You’re drunk.’

      ‘If you’re embarrassed, Simon dear, you’d better leave the room.’

      Simon Doyle looked at her. The hand that held the magazine shook a little, but he spoke bluntly.

      ‘I’m staying,’ he said.

      Cornelia murmured for the third time, ‘I really must – it’s so late-’

      ‘You’re not to go,’ said Jacqueline. Her hand shot out and held the other girl in her chair. ‘You’re to stay and hear what I’ve go to say.’

      ‘Jackie,’ said Simon sharply, ‘you’re making a fool of yourself! For God’s sake, go to bed.’

      Jacqueline sat up suddenly in her chair. Words poured from her rapidly in a soft hissing stream.

      ‘You’re afraid of a scene, aren’t you? That’s because you’re so English – so reticent! You want me to behave “decently”, don’t you? But I don’t care whether I behave decently or not! You’d better get out of here quickly – because I’m going to talk – a lot.’

      Jim Fanthorp carefully shut his book, yawned, glanced at his watch, got up and strolled out. It was a very British and utterly unconvincing performance.

      Jacqueline swung round in her chair and glared at Simon.

      ‘You damned fool,’ she said thickly, ‘do you think you can treat me as you have done and get away with it?’

      Simon Doyle opened his lips, then shut them again. He sat quite still as though he were hoping that her outburst would exhaust itself if he said nothing to provoke her further.

      Jacqueline’s voice came thick and blurred. It fascinated Cornelia, totally unused to naked emotions of any kind.

      ‘I told you,’ said Jacqueline, ‘that I’d kill you sooner than see you go to another woman… You don’t think I meant that? You’re wrong. I’ve only been – waiting! You’re my man! Do you hear? You belong to me…’

      Still half did not speak. Jacqueline’s hand fumbled a moment or two on her lap. She leant forward.

      ‘I told you I’d kill you and I meant it…’ Her hand came up suddenly with something in it that flashed and gleamed. ‘I’ll shoot you like a dog – like the dirty dog you are…’

      Now at last Simon acted. He sprang to his feet, but at the same moment she pulled the trigger…

      Simon half twisted – fell across a chair… Cornelia screamed and rushed to the door. Jim Fanthorp was on the deck leaning over the rail. She called to him.

      ‘Mr Fanthorp… Mr Fanthorp…’

      He ran to her; she clutched at him incoherently…

      ‘She’s shot him – Oh! She’s shot him…’

      Simon Doyle still lay as he had fallen half into and across a chair… Jacqueline stood as though paralysed. She was trembling violently, and her eyes, dilated and frightened, were staring at the crimson stain slowly soaking through Simon’s trouser leg just below the knee where he held a handkerchief close against the wound.

      She stammered out:

      ‘I didn’t mean… Oh, my God, I didn’t really mean…’

      The pistol dropped from her nervous fingers with a clatter on the floor. She kicked it away with her foot. It slid under one of the settees.

      Simon, his voice faint, murmured:

      ‘Fanthorp, for heaven’s sake – there’s someone coming… Say it’s all right – an accident – something. There mustn’t be a scandal over this.’

      Fanthorp nodded in quick comprehension. He wheeled round to the door where a startled face showed. He said:

      ‘All right – all right – just fun!’

      The servant’s face looked doubtful, puzzled, then reassured. He nodded and went off. Fanthorp turned back.

      ‘That’s all right. Don’t think anybody else heard. Only sounded like a cork, you know. Now the next thing-’

      He was startled. Jacqueline suddenly began to weep hysterically.

      ‘Oh, God, I wish I were dead… I’ll kill myself. I’ll be better dead… Oh, what have I done – what have I done?’

      Cornelia hurried to her.

      ‘Hush, dear, hush.’

      Simon, his brow wet, his face twisted with pain, said urgently:

      ‘Get her away. For God’s sake, get her out of here! Get her to her cabin, Fanthorp. Look here, Miss Robson, get that hospital nurse of yours.’ He looked appealingly from one to the other of them. ‘Don’t leave her. Make quite sure she’s safe with the nurse looking after her. Then get hold of old Bessner and bring him here. For God’s sake, don’t let any news of this get to my wife.’

      Jim Fanthorp nodded comprehendingly. The quiet young man was cool and competent in an emergency.

      Between them he and Cornelia got the weeping, struggling