Nine

IThe steamer arrived early next morning at Ez-Zebua.

Cornelia Robson, her face beaming, a large flapping hat on her head, was one of the first tohurry on shore. Cornelia was not good at snubbing people. She was of an amiable¹ disposition² anddisposed to like all her fellow creatures.

The sight of Hercule Poirot, in a white suit, pink shirt, large black bow tie and a white topee, didnot make her wince³ as the aristocratic Miss Van Schuyler would assuredly have winced⁴. As theywalked together up an avenue of sphinxes, she responded readily to his conventional opening,“Your companions are not coming ashore⁵ to view the temple?”

“Well, you see, Cousin Marie—that’s Miss Van Schuyler—never gets up very early. She has tobe very, very careful of her health. And of course she wanted Miss Bowers⁶, that’s her hospitalnurse, to do things for her. And she said, too, that this isn’t one of the best temples—but she wasfrightfully kind and said it would be quite all right for me to come.”

“That was very gracious of her,” said Poirot dryly.

The ingenuous⁷ Cornelia agreed unsuspectingly.

“Oh, she’s very kind. It’s simply wonderful of her to bring me on this trip. I do feel I’m a luckygirl. I just could hardly believe it when she suggested to Mother that I should come too.”

“And you have enjoyed it—yes?”

“Oh, it’s been wonderful! I’ve seen Italy—Venice and Padua and Pisa—and then Cairo—onlycousin Marie wasn’t very well in Cairo, so I couldn’t get round much, and now this wonderful tripup the Wadi Halfa and back.”

Poirot said, smiling, “You have the happy nature, Mademoiselle.”

He looked thoughtfully from her to silent, frowning Rosalie, who was walking ahead by herself.

“She’s very nice- looking, isn’t she?” said Cornelia, following his glance. “Only kind ofscornful-looking. She’s very English, of course. She’s not as lovely as Mrs. Doyle. I think Mrs.

Doyle’s the loveliest, the most elegant woman I’ve ever seen! And her husband just worships theground she walks on, doesn’t he? I think that grey-haired lady is kind of distinguished-looking,don’t you? She’s a cousin of a Duke, I believe. She was talking about him right near us last night.

But she isn’t actually titled herself, is she?”

She prattled⁸ on until the dragoman in charge called a halt and began to intone: “This temple wasdedicated to Egyptian God Amun and the Sun God Re-Harakhte—whose symbol was a hawk’shead….”

It droned on. Dr. Bessner, Baedeker in hand, mumbled¹⁰ to himself in German. He preferred thewritten word.

Tim Allerton had not joined the party. His mother was breaking the ice with the reserved Mr.

Fanthorp. Andrew Pennington, his arm through Linnet Doyle’s, was listening attentively,seemingly most interested in the measurements as recited by the guide.

“Sixty-five feet high, is that so? Looks a little less to me. Great fellow, this Rameses. AnEgyptian live wire.”

“A big business man, Uncle Andrew.”

Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.

“You look fine this morning, Linnet. I’ve been a mite¹¹ worried about you lately. You’ve lookedkind of peaky.”

Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided¹² up the river. Thescenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation¹³.

It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had broodedover the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness¹⁴. Rosalie looked less sulky.

Linnet seemed almost lighthearted.

Pennington said to her: “It’s tactless to talk business to a bride on her honeymoon¹⁵, but there arejust one or two things—”

“Why, of course, Uncle Andrew.” Linnet at once became businesslike. “My marriage has madea difference, of course.”

“That’s just it. Some time or other I want your signature to several documents.”

“Why not now?”

Andrew Pennington glanced round. Their corner of the observation saloon was quiteuntenanted. Most of the people were outside on the deck space between the observation saloonand the cabin. The only occupants of the saloon were Mr. Ferguson—who was drinking beer at asmall table in the middle, his legs, encased in their dirty flannel¹⁶ trousers, stuck out in front of him,whilst he whistled to himself in the intervals¹⁷ of drinking—M. Hercule Poirot, who was sittingbefore him—and Miss Van Schuyler, who was sitting in a corner reading a book on Egypt.

“That’s fine,” said Andrew Pennington. He left the saloon.

Linnet and Simon smiled at each other—a slow smile that took a few minutes to come to fullfruition.

“All right, sweet?” he asked.

“Yes, still all right…Funny how I’m not rattled⁹ anymore.”

Simon said with deep conviction in his tone: “You’re marvellous.”

Pennington came back. He brought with him a sheaf of closely written documents.

“Mercy!” cried Linnet. “Have I got to sign all these?”

Andrew Pennington was apologetic.

“It’s tough on you, I know, but I’d just like to get your affairs put in proper shape. First of allthere’s the lease of the Fifth Avenue property…then there are the Western Land Concessions…”

He talked on, rustling¹⁸ and sorting the papers. Simon yawned.

The door to the deck swung open and Mr. Fanthorp came in. He gazed aimlessly round, thenstrolled forward and stood by Poirot looking out at the pale blue water and the yellow envelopingsands….

“—you sign just there,” concluded Pennington, spreading a paper before Linnet and indicating aspace.

Linnet picked up the document and glanced through it. She turned back once to the first page,then, taking up the fountain pen Pennington had laid beside her, she signed her name LinnetDoyle….

Pennington took away the paper and spread out another.

Fanthorp wandered over in their direction. He peered out through the side window at somethingthat seemed to interest him on the bank they were passing.

“That’s just the transfer,” said Pennington. “You needn’t read it.”

But Linnet took a brief glance through it. Pennington laid down a third paper. Again Linnetperused it carefully.

“They’re all quite straightforward,” said Andrew. “Nothing of interest. Only legal phraseology.”

Simon yawned again.

“My dear girl, you’re not going to read the whole lot through, are you? You’ll be at it tilllunchtime and longer.”

“I always read everything through,” said Linnet. “Father taught me to do that. He said theremight be some clerical error.”

Pennington laughed rather harshly.

“You’re a grand woman of business, Linnet.”

“She’s much more conscientious¹⁹ than I’d be,” said Simon, laughing. “I’ve never read a legaldocument in my life. I sign where they tell me to sign on the dotted line—and that’s that.”

“That’s frightfully slipshod,” said Linnet disapprovingly²⁰.

“I’ve no business head,” declared Simon cheerfully. “Never had. A fellow tells me to sign—Isign. It’s much the simplest way.”

Andrew Pennington was looking at him thoughtfully. He said dryly, stroking his upper lip, “Alittle risky²¹ sometimes, Doyle?”

“Nonsense,” replied Simon. “I’m not one of those people who believe the whole world is out todo one down. I’m a trusting kind of fellow—and it pays, you know. I’ve hardly ever been letdown.”

Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, the silent Mr. Fanthorp swung around and addressed Linnet.

“I hope I’m not butting²² in, but you must let me say how much I admire your businesslikecapacity. In my profession—er—I am a lawyer—I find ladies sadly unbusinesslike. Never to signa document unless you read it through is admirable—altogether admirable.”

He gave a little bow. Then, rather red in the face, he turned once more to contemplate²³ the banksof the Nile.

Linnet looked rather uncertainly: “Er—thank you…” She bit her lip to repress a giggle²⁴. Theyoung man had looked so preternaturally solemn.

Andrew Pennington looked seriously annoyed.

Simon Doyle looked uncertain whether to be annoyed or amused.

The backs of Mr. Fanthorp’s ears were bright crimson²⁵.

“Next, please,” said Linnet, smiling up at Pennington.

But Pennington looked decidedly ruffled²⁶.

“I think perhaps some other time would be better,” he said stiffly. “As—er—Doyle says, if youhave to read through all these we shall be here till lunchtime. We mustn’t miss enjoying thescenery. Anyway those first two papers were the only urgent ones. We’ll settle down to businesslater.”

“It’s frightfully hot in here,” Linnet said. “Let’s go outside.”

The three of them passed through the swing door. Hercule Poirot turned his head. His gazerested thoughtfully on Mr. Fanthorp’s back; then it shifted to the lounging figure of Mr. Fergusonwho had his head thrown back and was still whistling softly to himself.

Finally Poirot looked over at the upright figure of Miss Van Schuyler in her corner. Miss VanSchuyler was glaring at Mr. Ferguson.

The swing door on the port side opened and Cornelia Robson hurried in.

“You’ve been a long time,” snapped the old lady. “Where’ve you been?”

“I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. The wool wasn’t where you said it was. It was in another casealtogether—”

“My dear child, you are perfectly²⁷ hopeless at finding anything! You are willing, I know, mydear, but you must try to be a little cleverer and quicker. It only needs concentration.”

“I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. I’m afraid I am very stupid.”

“Nobody need be stupid if they try, my dear. I have brought you on this trip, and I expect a littleattention in return.”

Cornelia flushed.

“I’m very sorry, Cousin Marie.”

“And where is Miss Bowers? It was time for my drops ten minutes ago. Please go and find herat once. The doctor said it was most important—”

But at this stage Miss Bowers entered, carrying a small medicine glass.

“Your drops, Miss Van Schuyler.”

“I should have had them at eleven,” snapped the old lady. “If there’s one thing I detest²⁸ it’sunpunctuality.”

“Quite,” said Miss Bowers. She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s exactly half a minute toeleven.”

“By my watch it’s ten past.”

“I think you’ll find my watch is right. It’s a perfect timekeeper. It never loses or gains.” MissBowers was quite imperturbable²⁹.

Miss Van Schuyler swallowed the contents of the medicine glass.

“I feel definitely worse,” she snapped.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Van Schuyler.”

Miss Bowers did not sound sorry. She sounded completely uninterested. She was obviouslymaking the correct reply mechanically.

“It’s too hot in here,” snapped Miss Van Schuyler. “Find me a chair on the deck, Miss Bowers.

Cornelia, bring my knitting. Don’t be clumsy or drop it. And then I shall want you to wind somewool.”

The procession passed out.

Mr. Ferguson sighed, stirred his legs and remarked to the world at large, “Gosh, I’d like to scragthat dame³⁰.”

Poirot asked interestedly: “She is a type you dislike, eh?”

“Dislike? I should say so. What good has that woman ever been to anyone or anything? She’snever worked or lifted a finger. She’s just battened on other people. She’s a parasite³¹—and adamned unpleasant parasite. There are a lot of people on this boat I’d say the world could dowithout.”

“Really?”

“Yes. That girl in here just now, signing share transfers and throwing her weight about.

Hundreds and thousands of wretched workers slaving for a mere³² pittance³³ to keep her in silkstockings and useless luxuries. One of the richest women in England, so someone told me—andnever done a hand’s turn in her life.”

“Who told you she was one of the richest women in England?”

Mr. Ferguson cast a belligerent³⁴ eye at him.

“A man you wouldn’t be seen speaking to! A man who works with his hands and isn’t ashamedof it! Not one of your dressed-up, foppish³⁵ good-for-nothings.”

His eye rested unfavourably on the bow tie and pink shirt.

“Me, I work with my brains and am not ashamed of it,” said Poirot, answering the glance.

Mr. Ferguson merely snorted.

“Ought to be shot—the lot of them!” he asserted.

“My dear young man,” said Poirot, “what a passion you have for violence!”

“Can you tell me of any good that can be done without it? You’ve got to break down anddestroy before you can build up.”

“It is certainly much easier and much noisier and much more spectacular.”

“What do you do for a living? Nothing at all, I bet. Probably call yourself a middle man.”

“I am not a middle man. I am a top man,” declared Hercule Poirot with a slight arrogance³⁶.

“What are you?”

“I am a detective,” said Hercule Poirot with the modest air of one who says “I am a king.”

“Good God!” The young man seemed seriously taken aback. “Do you mean that girl actuallytotes about a dumb dick? Is she as careful of her precious skin as that?”

“I have no connection whatever with Monsieur and Madame Doyle,” said Poirot stiffly. “I amon holiday.”

“Enjoying a vacation—eh?”

“And you? Is it not that you are on holiday also?”

“Holiday!” Mr. Ferguson snorted. Then he added cryptically³⁷: “I’m studying conditions.”

“Very interesting,” murmured Poirot and moved gently out on to the deck.

Miss Van Schuyler was established in the best corner. Cornelia knelt in front of her, her armsoutstretched with a skein of grey wool upon them. Miss Bowers was sitting very upright readingthe Saturday Evening Post.

Poirot wandered gently onward³⁸ down the starboard deck. As he passed round the stern of theboat he almost ran into a woman who turned a startled face towards him—a dark, piquant³⁹, Latinface. She was neatly⁴⁰ dressed in black and had been standing⁴¹ talking to a big burly man in uniform—one of the engineers, by the look of him. There was a queer expression on both their faces—guilt and alarm. Poirot wondered what they had been talking about.

He rounded the stern and continued his walk along the port side. A cabin door opened and Mrs.

Otterbourne emerged and nearly fell into his arms. She was wearing a scarlet⁴² satin dressing-gown.

“So sorry,” she apologized. “Dear Mr. Poirot—so very sorry. The motion—just the motion, youknow. Never did have any sea legs. If the boat would only keep still…” She clutched at his arm.

“It’s the pitching I can’t stand…Never really happy at sea…And left all alone here hour after hour.

That girl of mine—no sympathy—no understanding of her poor old mother who’s done everythingfor her…” Mrs. Otterbourne began to weep. “Slaved for her I have—worn myself to the bone—tothe bone. A grande amoureuse—that’s what I might have been—a grande amoureuse—sacrificedeverything—everything…And nobody cares! But I’ll tell everyone—I’ll tell them now—how sheneglects me—how hard she is—making me come on this journey—bored to death…I’ll go and tellthem now—”

She surged forward. Poirot gently repressed the action.

“I will send her to you, Madame. Re-enter your cabin. It is best that way—”

“No. I want to tell everyone—everyone on the boat—”

“It is too dangerous, Madame. The sea is too rough. You might be swept overboard.”

Mrs. Otterbourne looked at him doubtfully.

“You think so. You really think so?”

“I do.”

He was successful. Mrs. Otterbourne wavered, faltered⁴³ and re-entered her cabin.

Poirot’s nostrils⁴⁴ twitched⁴⁵ once or twice. Then he nodded and walked on to where RosalieOtterbourne was sitting between Mrs. Allerton and Tim.

“Your mother wants you, Mademoiselle.”

She had been laughing quite happily. Now her face clouded over. She shot a quick suspiciouslook at him and hurried along the deck.

“I can’t make that child out,” said Mrs. Allerton. “She varies so. One day she’s friendly; thenext day, she’s positively⁴⁶ rude.”

“Thoroughly spoilt and bad-tempered,” said Tim.

Mrs. Allerton shook her head.

“No. I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s unhappy.”

Tim shrugged⁴⁷ his shoulders.

“Oh, well, I suppose we’ve all got our private troubles.” His voice sounded hard and curt⁴⁸.

A booming noise was heard.

“Lunch,” cried Mrs. Allerton delightedly.

“I’m starving.”

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