尼罗河的惨案19

Eight

Mrs. Allerton, looking quiet and distinguished¹ in her simple black lace evening gown, descendedtwo decks to the dining room. At the door of it her son caught her up.

“Sorry, darling. I thought I was going to be late.”

“I wonder where we sit.” The saloon was dotted with little tables. Mrs. Allerton paused till thesteward, who was busy seating a party of people, could attend to them.

“By the way,” she added, “I asked little Hercule Poirot to sit at our table.”

“Mother, you didn’t!” Tim sounded really taken aback and annoyed.

His mother stared at him in surprise. Tim was usually so easy-going.

“My dear, do you mind?”

“Yes, I do. He’s an unmitigated little bounder!”

“Oh, no, Tim! I don’t agree with you.”

“Anyway, what do we want to get mixed up with an outsider for? Cooped up like this on asmall boat, that sort of thing is always a bore. He’ll be with us morning, noon, and night.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” Mrs. Allerton looked distressed³. “I thought really it would amuse you. Afterall, he must have had a varied⁴ experience. And you love detective stories.”

Tim grunted⁵.

“I wish you wouldn’t have these bright ideas, Mother. We can’t get out of it now, I suppose?”

“Really, Tim, I don’t see how we can.”

“Oh, well, we shall have to put up with it, I suppose.”

The steward² came to them at this minute and led them to a table. Mrs. Allerton’s face worerather a puzzled expression as she followed him. Tim was usually so easy- going and good-tempered. This outburst was quite unlike him. It wasn’t as though he had the ordinary Britisher’sdislike—and mistrust—of foreigners. Tim was very cosmopolitan⁶. Oh, well—she sighed. Menwere incomprehensible! Even one’s nearest and dearest had unsuspected reactions and feelings.

As they took their places, Hercule Poirot came quickly and silently into the dining saloon. Hepaused with his hand on the back of the third chair.

“You really permit, Madame, that I avail myself of your kind suggestion?”

“Of course. Sit down, Monsieur Poirot.”

“You are most amiable⁷.”

She was uneasily conscious that, as he seated himself, he shot a swift glance at Tim, and thatTim had not quite succeeded in masking a somewhat sullen⁸ expression.

Mrs. Allerton set herself to produce a pleasant atmosphere. As they drank their soup, she pickedup the passenger list which had been placed beside her plate.

“Let’s try and identify everybody,” she suggested cheerfully. “I always think that’s rather fun.”

She began reading: “Mrs. Allerton, Mr. T. Allerton. That’s easy enough! Miss de Bellefort.

They’ve put her at the same table as the Otterbournes, I see. I wonder what she and Rosalie willmake of each other. Who comes next? Dr. Bessner. Dr. Bessner? Who can identify Dr. Bessner?”

She bent⁹ her glance on a table at which four men sat together.

“I think he must be the fat one with the closely shaved head and the moustache. A German, Ishould imagine. He seems to be enjoying his soup very much.” Certain succulent noises floatedacross to them.

Mrs. Allerton continued: “Miss Bowers¹⁰? Can we make a guess at Miss Bowers? There are threeor four women—no, we’ll leave her for the present. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle. Yes, indeed, the lions ofthis trip. She really is very beautiful, and what a perfectly¹¹ lovely frock she is wearing.”

Tim turned round in his chair. Linnet and her husband and Andrew Pennington had been givena table in the corner. Linnet was wearing a white dress and pearls.

“It looks frightfully simple to me,” said Tim. “Just a length of stuff with a kind of cord roundthe middle.”

“Yes, darling,” said his mother. “A very nice manly¹² description of an eighty-guinea model.”

“I can’t think why women pay so much for their clothes,” Tim said. “It seems absurd to me.”

Mrs. Allerton proceeded with her study of her fellow passengers.

“Mr. Fanthorp must be one of the four at that table. The intensely quiet young man who neverspeaks. Rather a nice face, cautious and intelligent.”

Poirot agreed.

“He is intelligent—yes. He does not talk, but he listens very attentively¹³, and he also watches.

Yes, he makes good use of his eyes. Not quite the type you would expect to find travelling forpleasure in this part of the world. I wonder what he is doing here.”

“Mr. Ferguson,” read Mrs. Allerton. “I feel that Ferguson must be our anti-capitalist friend.

Mrs. Otterbourne, Miss Otterbourne. We know all about them. Mr. Pennington? Alias¹⁴ UncleAndrew. He’s a good-looking man, I think—”

“Now, Mother,” said Tim.

“I think he’s very good-looking in a dry sort of way,” said Mrs. Allerton. “Rather a ruthless jaw¹⁵.

Probably the kind of man one reads about in the paper, who operates on Wall Street—or is it inWall Street? I’m sure he must be extremely rich. Next—Monsieur Hercule Poirot—whose talentsare really being wasted. Can’t you get up a crime for Monsieur Poirot, Tim?”

But her well-meant banter¹⁶ only seemed to annoy her son anew. He scowled¹⁷ and Mrs. Allertonhurried on: “Mr. Richetti. Our Italian archaeological friend. Then Miss Robson and last of all MissVan Schuyler. The last’s easy. The very ugly old American lady who is clearly going to be veryexclusive and speak to nobody who doesn’t come up to the most exacting¹⁸ standards! She’s rathermarvellous, isn’t she, really? A kind of period piece. The two women with her must be MissBowers and Miss Robson—perhaps a secretary, the thin one with pince-nez, and a poor relation,the rather pathetic young woman who is obviously enjoying herself in spite of being treated like ablack slave. I think Robson’s the secretary woman and Bowers is the poor relation.”

“Wrong, Mother,” said Tim, grinning. He had suddenly recovered his good humour.

“How do you know?”

“Because I was in the lounge before dinner and the old bean said to the companion woman:

‘Where’s Miss Bowers? Fetch her at once, Cornelia.’ And away trotted¹⁹ Cornelia like an obedientdog.”

“I shall have to talk to Miss Van Schuyler,” mused²⁰ Mrs. Allerton.

Tim grinned again.

“She’ll snub you, Mother.”

“Not at all. I shall pave the way by sitting near her and conversing²¹, in low (but penetrating),well-bred tones, about any titled relations and friends I can remember. I think a casual mention ofyour second cousin, once removed, the Duke of Glasgow, would probably do the trick.”

“How unscrupulous you are, Mother!”

Events after dinner were not without their amusing side to a student of human nature.

The socialistic young man (who turned out to be Mr. Ferguson as deduced) retired²² to thesmoking room, scorning the assemblage of passengers in the observation saloon on the top deck.

Miss Van Schuyler duly secured the best and most undraughty position there by advancingfirmly on a table at which Mrs. Otterbourne was sitting and saying, “You’ll excuse me, I am sure,but I think my knitting was left here!”

Fixed²³ by a hypnotic eye, the turban rose and gave ground. Miss Van Schuyler establishedherself and her suite²⁴. Mrs. Otterbourne sat down nearby and hazarded various remarks, whichwere met with such chilling politeness that she soon gave up. Miss Van Schuyler then sat inglorious isolation²⁵. The Doyles sat with the Allertons. Dr. Bessner retained the quiet Mr. Fanthorpas a companion. Jacqueline de Bellefort sat by herself with a book. Rosalie Otterbourne wasrestless. Mrs. Allerton spoke²⁶ to her once or twice and tried to draw her into their group, but the girlresponded ungraciously.

M. Hercule Poirot spent his evening listening to an account of Mrs. Otterbourne’s mission as awriter.

On his way to his cabin that night he encountered Jacqueline de Bellefort. She was leaning overthe rail and, as she turned her head, he was struck by the look of acute misery²⁷ on her face. Therewas now no insouciance²⁸, no malicious²⁹ defiance³⁰, no dark flaming triumph.

“Good night, Mademoiselle.”

“Good night, Monsieur Poirot.” She hesitated, then said: “You were surprised to find me here?”

“I was not so much surprised as sorry—very sorry….”

He spoke gravely.

“You mean sorry—for me?”

“That is what I meant. You have chosen, Mademoiselle, the dangerous course…As we here inthis boat have embarked³¹ on a journey, so you too have embarked on your own private journey—ajourney on a swift moving river, between dangerous rocks, and heading for who knows whatcurrents of disaster….”

“Why do you say this?”

“Because it is true…You have cut the bonds that moored³² you to safety. I doubt now if youcould turn back if you would.”

She said very slowly: “That is true….”

Then she flung her head back.

“Ah, well—one must follow one’s star, wherever it leads.”

“Beware, Mademoiselle, that it is not a false star….”

She laughed and mimicked³³ the parrot cry of the donkey boys:

“That very bad star, sir! That star fall down….”

He was just dropping off to sleep when the murmur³⁴ of voices awoke him. It was Simon Doyle’svoice he heard, repeating the same words he had used when the steamer left Shellal.

“We’ve got to go through with it now….”

“Yes,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself, “we have got to go through with it now….”

He was not happy.