Agatha Christie – Death On The Nile

“In fact the marriage has been arranged by heaven and Hercule Poirot. All I have to do is to compound a felony.”

“But, mon ami, I told you, it was all conjecture on my part.”

Race grinned suddenly.

“It’s all right by me,” he said. “I’m not a damned policeman, thank God! I dare say the young fool will go straight enough now. The girl’s straight all right.

No, what I’m complaining of is your treatment of me! I’m a patient man–but there are limits to my patience! Do you know who committed the three murders on this boat or don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then why all this beating about the bush?”

“You think that I am just amusing myself with side issues? And it annoys you?

But is is not that. Once I went professionally to an archaeological expedition–and I learnt something there. In the course of an excavation, when something comes up out of the ground, everything is cleared away very carefully all around it. You take away the loose earth, and you scrape here and there with a knife until finally your object is there, all alone, ready to be drawn and photographed with no extraneous matter confusing it. That is what I have been seeking to do–clear away the extraneous matter so that we can see the truth—the naked shining truth.”

“Good,” said Race. “Let’s have this naked shining truth. It wasn’t Pennington.

It wasn’t young Allerton. I presume it wasn’t Fleetwood. Let’s hear who it was for a change.”

“My friend, I am just about to tell you.”

There was a knock on the door. Race uttered a muffled curse.

It was Dr. Bessner and Cornelia. The latter was looking upset.

“Oh, Colonel Race,” she exclaimed. “Miss Bowers has just told me about Cousin Marie. It’s been the most dreadful shock. She said she couldn’t bear the responsibility all by herself any longer, and that I’d better know as I was one of the family. I just couldn’t believe it at first, but Dr. Bessner here has been just wonderful.”

“No, no,” protested the doctor modestly.

“He’s been so kind, explaining it all, and how people really can’t help it. He’s had kleptomaniacs in his clinic. And he’s explained to me how it’s very often due to a deep seated neurosis.”

Cornelia repeated the words with awe.

“It’s planted very deeply in the subconscious–sometimes it’s just some little thing that happened when you were a child. And he’s cured people by getting them to think back and remember what that little thing was.”

Cornelia paused, drew a deep breath, and started off again.

“But it’s worrying me dreadfully in case it all gets out. It would be too terrible in New York. Why, all the tabloids would have it. Cousin Marie and mother and everybody–they’d never hold up their heads again.”

Race sighed.

“That’s all right,” he said. “This is Hush Hush House.”

“I beg your pardon, Colonel Race.”

“What I was endeavouring to say was that anything short of murder is being hushed up.”

“Oh!” Cornelia clasped her hands. “I’m so relieved. I’ve just been worrying and worrying.”

“You have the heart too tender,” said Dr. Bessner and patted her benevolently on the shoulder. He said to the others, “She has a very sensitive and beautiful nature.”

“Oh, I haven’t really. You’re too kind.”

Poirot murmured:

“Have you seen any more of Mr. Ferguson?”

Cornelia blushed.

“No–but Cousin Marie’s been talking about him.”

“It seems the young man is highly born,” said Dr. Bessner. “I must confess he does not look it. His clothes are terrible. Not for a moment does he appear a well-bred man.”

“And what do you think, Mademoiselle?”

“I think he must be just plain crazy,” said Cornelia.

Poirot turned to the doctor.

“How is your patient?”

“Ach, he is going on splendidly. I have just reassured the little Fr/iulein de Bellefort. Would you believe it, I found her in despair. Just because the fellow had a bit of a temperature this afternoon! But what could be more natural? It is amazing that he is not in a high fever now. But now, he is like some of our peasants, he has a magnificent constitution the constitution of an ox. I have seen them with deep wounds that they hardly notice. It is the same with Mr. Doyle. His pulse is steady, his temperature only slightly above normal. I was able to pooh-pooh the little lady’s fears. All the same, it is ridiculous, Night wahr? One minute you shoot a man, the next you are in hysterics in case he may not be doing well.” Cornelia said: “She loves him terribly, you see.” “Ach! but it is not sensible, that. If you loved a man, would you try and shoot him? No, you are sensible.” “I don’t like things that go off with bangs anyway,” said Cornelia.