Agatha Christie – Death On The Nile

Poirot shook his head.

“You have not seen the end of it yet. No–the end is not yet at hand. I am very sure of that.”

“I must say, M. Poirot, you’re not very encouraging.”

Poirot looked at him with a slight feeling of irritation. He thought to himself: “The Anglo Saxon, he takes nothing seriously but playing games! He does not grow up.

Linnet Doyle–Jacqueline de Bellefort both Of them took the business seriously enough. But in Simon’s attitude he could find nothing but male impatience and annoyance.

He said:

“You will permit me an impertinent question? Was it tour idea to come to

Egypt for your honeymoon?”

Simon flushed.

“No, of course not. As a matter of fact I’d rather have gone anywhere else. But

Linnet was absolutely set upon it. And so–and so” He stopped rather lamely.

“Naturally,” said Poirot gravely.

He appreciated the fact that if Linnet Doyle was set upon anything, that thing had to happen.

He thought to himself:

“I have now heard three separate accounts of the affair. Linnet Doyle’s Jacqueline de Bellefort’s–Simon Doyle’s. Which of them is nearest to the truth?”

CHAPTER 6

Simon and Linnet Doyle set off on their expedition to Phila about eleven o’clock the following morning. Jacqueline de Bellefort, sitting on the hotel balcony, watched them set off in the picturesque sailing boat. What she did not see was the departure of a car laden with luggage and in which sat a demure-looking maid from the front door of the hotel and which turned to the right in the direction of Shellal.

Hercule Poirot decided to pass the remaining two hours before lunch on the island of Elephantine immediately opposite the hotel.

He went down to the landing stage. There were two men just stepping into one of the hotel boats and Poirot joined them. The men were obviously strangers to each other. The younger of them had arrived by train the day before. He was a tall dark-haired young man with a thin face and a pugnacious chin. He was wearing an extremely dirty pair of grey flannel trousers and a high-necked polo jumper singularly unsuited to the climate. The other was a slightly podgy middle-aged man who lost no time in entering into conversation with Poirot in idiometic but slightly broken English. Far from taking part in the conversation, the younger man merely scowled at them both and then deliberately turned his back on them and proceeded to admire the agility with which the Nubian boatman steered the boat with his toes as he manipulated the sail with his hands.

It was very peaceful on the water, the great smooth slippery black rocks gliding by and the soft breeze fanning their faces. Elephantine was reached very quickly and on going ashore Poirot and his loquacious acquaintance made straight for the museum. By this time the latter had produced a card which he handed to

Poirot with a little bow. It bore the inscription:

Signor Guido Richetti, Archeologo.

Not to be outdone, Poirot returned the bow and extracted his own card. These formalities completed, the two men stepped into the museum together, the Italian pouring forth a stream of erudite information. They were by now conversing in French.

The young man in the flannel trousers strolled listlessly round the museum yawning from time to time and then escaped to the outer air.

Poirot and Signor Richetti at last followed him. The Italian was energetic in examining the ruins, but presently Poirot, espying a green-lined sunshade which he recognised on the rocks down by the river, escaped in that direction.

Mrs. Allerton was sitting on a large rock, a sketchbook by her side and a book on her lap.

Poirot removed his hat politely and Mrs. Allerton at once entered into conversation.

“Good-morning,” she said. “I suppose it would be quite impossible to get rid of some of these awful children.’

A group of small black figures surrounded her, all grinning and posturing and holding out imploring hands as they lisped “Bakshish’ at intervals hopefully.

“I thought they’d get tired of me,” said Mrs. Allerton sadly. “They’ve been watching me for over two hours now–and they close in on me little by little, and then I yell ‘Imshf and brandish my sunshade at them and they scatter for a minute or two, and then they come back and stare and stare and their eyes are simply disgusting and so are their noses, and I don’t believe I really like children, not unless they’re more or less washed and have the rudiments of manners.”