In his office down town Mr Andrew Pennington was opening his personal mail. Suddenly his fist clenched itself and came down on his desk with a bang; his face crimsoned and two big veins stood out on his forehead. He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a smart looking stenographer appeared. “Tell Mr Rockford to step in here.”
“Yes, Mr Pennington.”
A few minutes later, Stemdale Rockford, Pennington's partner, entered the office.
“ What's up, Pennington?”
Pennington looked up from the letter he was re-reading.
He said, “Linnet's married.”
“What?”
“You heard what I said! Linnet Ridgeway's married!”
“How? When? Why didn't we hear about it?”
Pennington glanced at the calendar on his desk.
“She wasn't married when she wrote this letter, but she's married now. Morning of the fourth. That's today.”
Rockford dropped into a chair.
“No warning? Nothing? Who's the man?”
Pennington referred again to the letter.
“Doyle. Simon Doyle.”
“What sort of a fellow is he? Ever heard of him?”
“No. She doesn't say much…” He scanned the lines of clear, upright handwriting. “Got an idea there's something hole-and-corner about the business.[50] That doesn't matter. The whole point is, she's married.”
The eyes of the two men met. Rockford nodded.
“This needs a bit of thinking out,” he said quietly.
“What are we going to do about it?”
The two men sat silent. Then Rockford asked, “Got any plan?”
Pennington said slowly: “The Normandie[51] sails today. One of us could just make it.[52]”
“You're crazy! What's the big idea?”
Pennington began, “Those British lawyers – ” and stopped.
“What about 'em? Surely you're not going over to tackle 'em? You're mad!”
“I'm not suggesting that you – or I – should go to England.”
“What's the big idea, then?”
Pennington smoothed out the letter on the table.
“Linnet's going to Egypt for her honeymoon. Expects to be there a month or more. Yes – a chance meeting. Over on a trip. Linnet and her husband – honeymoon atmosphere. It might be done.”
Rockford said doubtfully, “She's sharp, Linnet is… but – ”
Pennington went on softly, “I think there might be ways of managing it.”
Again their eyes met. Rockford nodded.
“All right, big boy.”
Pennington looked at the clock.
“We'll have to hustle – whichever of us is going.”
“You go,” said Rockford promptly. “You always made a hit with Linnet. 'Uncle Andrew.' That's the ticket![53]”
Pennington's face had hardened. He said, “I hope I can pull it off.”
“You've got to pull it off,” his partner said. “The situation's critical.”
Mrs Otterbourne, with the turban of native material draped round her head, said fretfully:
“I really don't see why we shouldn't go on to Egypt. I'm sick and tired of Jerusalem.”
As her daughter made no reply, she said, “You might at least answer when you're spoken to.”
Rosalie Otterbourne was looking at a newspaper reproduction of a face. Below it was printed:
Mrs Simon Doyle, who before her marriage was the well-known society beauty, Miss Linnet Ridgeway. Mr and Mrs Doyle are spending their holiday in Egypt.
Rosalie said, “You'd like to move on to Egypt, Mother?”
“Yes, I would,” Mrs Otterbourne snapped. “I consider they've treated us in a most peculiar fashion here.
And this morning, the manager actually had the impertinence to tell me that all the rooms had been booked in advance and that he would require ours in two days' time.”
“So we've got to go somewhere.”
“Not at all. I'm quite prepared to fight for my rights.”
Rosalie murmured: “I suppose we might as well go on to Egypt. It doesn't make any difference.”
“It's certainly not a matter of life or death,” agreed Mrs Otterbourne.
But there she was quite wrong – for a matter of life and death was exactly what it was.
“That's Hercule Poirot, the detective,” said Mrs Allerton.
She and her son were sitting outside the Cataract[54] Hotel at Assuan. They were watching the figures of two people – a short man dressed in a white silk suit and a tall slim girl. Tim Allerton sat up.
“That funny little man?” he asked incredulously.
“ That funny little man!”
“What on earth's he doing out here?” Tim asked.
His mother laughed. “Darling, you sound quite excited. Why do men enjoy crime so much? I hate detective stories and never read them. But I don't think Monsieur Poirot is here with any motive. He's made a good deal of money and he's seeing life, I fancy[55].”
“Seems to have an eye for the best-looking girl in the place.”
Mrs Allerton tilted her head a little on one side as she considered the backs of M. Poirot and his companion.
“I suppose she is quite good-looking,” said Mrs Allerton.
She shot a little glance at Tim. To her amusement, he got interested in the girl.
“She's more than 'quite'. Pity she looks so bad-tempered and sulky.”
“Perhaps that's just expression, dear.”
The subject of these remarks was walking slowly by Poirot's side. Rosalie Otterbourne was holding an unopened parasol, and she really looked both sulky and bad-tempered. Her eyebrows were drawn together in a frown and the scarlet line of her mouth was drawn downward.
They turned to the left out of the hotel gate and entered the cool shade of the public gardens.
Hercule Poirot was talking gently, his expression that of good humour. He wore a white silk suit, carefully pressed, and a panama hat.
“– it excites me,” he was saying. “The black rocks of Elephantine[56], and the sun, and the little boats on the river. Yes, it is good to be alive.” He paused and then added, “You do not find it so, Mademoiselle?”
Rosalie Otterbourne said shortly: “It's all right, I suppose. I think Assuan's a gloomy sort of place. The hotel's half empty, and everyone's about a hundred – ”
She stopped – biting her lip.
Hercule Poirot's eyes twinkled.
“It is true, yes, I have one leg in the grave.”
“I–I wasn't thinking of you,” said the girl. “I'm sorry. That sounded rude.”
“Not at all. It is natural you should wish for companions of your own age. Ah, well, there is one young man, at least.”
“ The one who sits with his mother all the time? I like her – but I think he looks dreadful – so conceited!”
Poirot sniffed.
“And I – am I conceited?”
“Oh, I don't think so.”
She was obviously uninterested – but the fact did not seem to annoy Poirot.
“Oh, well,” said Rosalie, “I suppose you have something to be conceited about. Unfortunately crime doesn't interest me in the least.”
Poirot said solemnly, “I am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide.”
She shot him a questioning glance. Poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on: “Madame, your mother, was not at lunch today. She is not unwell, I hope?”
“This place doesn't suit her,” said Rosalie briefly. “I shall be glad when we leave.”
“We are fellow passengers, are we not?[57] We both make the excursion up to Wadi Halfa[58] and the Second Cataract?”
“Yes.”
They came out from the shade of the gardens onto a dusty road by the river. Five bead sellers, two vendors of postcards, a couple of donkey boys and some riff-raff closed in upon them. “You want beads, sir? Very good, sir. Very cheap.”
“ You want ride donkey, sir? This very good donkey, sir.”
“You want postcard – very cheap – very nice.”
“Look, lady. Only ten piastres[59] – very ivory.”
“You ride back to hotel, lady? This first class donkey.”
Hercule Poirot made gestures to rid himself of the vendors. Rosalie didn't pay attention to them.
“It's best to pretend to be deaf and blind,” she remarked.
But they were the most persistent. The others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next comer.
“You visit my shop today, sir?”
“You want that ivory crocodile, sir?”
They turned into the fifth shop and Rosalie bought several rolls of films – the object of the walk.
Then they came out again and walked toward the river.
One of the Nile steamers was just mooring. Poirot and Rosalie looked interestedly at the passengers.
“Quite a lot, aren't there?” commented Rosalie.
She turned her head as Tim Allerton came up and joined them. He was a little out of breath[60] as though he had been walking fast.
They stood there for a moment or two and then Tim spoke.
“An awful crowd as usual, I suppose,” he remarked, indicating the disembarking passengers.
“They're usually quite terrible,” agreed Rosalie.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Tim, his voice suddenly excited. “I'm damned if that isn't Linnet Ridgeway.”
If the information left Poirot unmoved, it stirred Rosalie's interest[61]. She leaned forward and her sulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked:
“Where? That one in white?”
“Yes, there with the tall man. They're coming ashore now. He's the new husband, I suppose. Can't remember her name now.”
“Doyle,” said Rosalie. “Simon Doyle. It was in all the newspapers. She's very rich, isn't she?”
“About the richest girl in England,” replied Tim cheerfully.
The three lookers-on were silent watching the passengers come ashore.
Poirot gazed with interest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. He murmured, “She is beautiful.”
“Some people have got everything,” said Rosalie bitterly.
There was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the gangplank.
Linnet Doyle was looking perfect. She had the assurance of a famous actress. She was used to being looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.
She came ashore playing a role, even though she played it unconsciously. The rich beautiful bride on 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.[62] We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here.”
His face was turned toward 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.
“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, and he flashed a quick glance toward her[63].
Tim said, “I must collect some stuff for my mother now.”
He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie went slowly in the direction of the hotel, waving aside new offers of donkeys[64]. “So it is not fair, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot gently.
Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged her shoulders[65].
“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 sunshade 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[66]. 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.[67] Suddenly she broke out fiercely:
“I'm awful. I'm just a beast through and through.[68] 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 assured.”
Hercule Poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. He took her by the arm and gave her a friendly little shake.
“You will feel better for having said that!”[69]
“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.
Poirot laughed too. They went amicably back to the hotel.
“I must find Mother,” said Rosalie, as they came into the cool, dim hall.
Some people were playing tennis in the hot sun. Poirot paused to watch them for a while, then went on down the steep path. It was there, 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 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. 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 had a strange kind of dark triumph in them. She was looking out across the Nile where the white sail-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 watching the girl, the next scene in the drama was played.
Voices sounded above. The girl on the seat stood up. Linnet Doyle and her husband came down the path. Linnet's voice was happy and confident. The look of strain 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.[70] Hullo, Simon, how are you?”
Linnet Doyle had shrunk back against the rock with a little cry.[71] 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.
Then Simon turned his head and noticed Poirot. He said awkwardly, “Hullo, Jacqueline; we didn't expect to see you here.”
The girl flashed white teeth at them.[72]
“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?”
О проекте
О подписке