Since she had discovered that Dr. Bessner had a large clinic in CzechoSlovakia and a European reputation as a fashionable physician she was disposed to be gracious to him. Besides, she might need his professional services before the journey was over.
When the party returned to the Karnak, Linnet gave a cry of surprise.
“A telegram for me.” She snatched it off the board and tore it open.
“Why–I don’t understand–potatoes–beetroots–what does it mean, Simon?” Simon was just coming to look over her shoulder when a furious voice said: “Excuse me, that telegram is for me.” And Signor Richetti snatched it rudely from her hand, fixing her with a furious glare as he did so.
Linnet stared in surprise for a moment, then turned over the envelope.
“Oh, Simon, what a fool I am. It’s Richetti–not Ridgeway–and anyway, of course, my name isn’t Ridgeway now. I must apologise.” She followed the little archaeologist up to the stern of the boat.
“I am so sorry, Signor Richetti. You see my name was Ridgeway before I married and I haven’t been married very long and so–” She paused, her face dimpled with smiles, inviting him to smile upon a young bride’s faux pas.
But Richetti was obviously “not amused.” Queen Victoria at her most disapproving could not have looked more grim.
“Names should be read carefully. It is inexcusable to be careless in these matters.” Linnet bit her lip and her colour rose. She was not accustomed to have her apologies received in this fashion. She turned away and, rejoining Simon, she said angrily, “These Italians are really insupportable.” “Never mind, darling, let’s go and look at that big ivory crocodile you liked.” They went ashore together.
Poirot, ‘watching them walk up the landing-stage, heard a sharp indrawn breath. He turned to see Jacqueline de Bellefort at his side. Her hands were clenched on the rail. The expression on her face as she turned it towards him quite startled him. It was no longer gay or malicious. She looked devoured by some inner consuming fire.
“They don’t care any more.” The words came low and fast. “They’ve got beyond me. I can’t reach them They don’t mind if I’m here or not . . . I can’t–I can’t hurt them any more ” Her hands on the rail trembled.
“Mademoiselle” She broke in.
“Oh, it’s too late now–too late for warning …. You were right. I ought not to have come. Not on this journey. What did you call it? A journey of the soul? I can’t go back—I’ve got to go on. And I’m going on. They shan’t be happy together–they shan’t. I’d kill him sooner …. ”
She turned abruptly away. Poirot staring after her, felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Your girl friend seems a trifle upset, M. Poirot.”
Poirot turned. He stared in surprise, seeing an old acquaintance.
“Colonel Race.”
The tall bronzed man smiled.
“Bit of a surprise ch?”
Hercule Poirot had come across Colonel Race a year previously in London.
They had been fellow-guests at a very strange dinner party–a dinner party that had ended in death for that strange man, their host.
Poirot knew that Race was a man of unadvertised goings and comings. He was usually to be found in one of the outposts of Empire where trouble was brewing. “So you are here at Wadi Halfa,” Poirot remarked thoughtfully. “I am here on this boat.” “You mean?”
“That I am making the return journey with you to Shellal.”
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose.
“That is very interesting. Shall we, perhaps, have a little drink.”
They went into the observation saloon, now quite empty. Poirot ordered a whisky for the colonel and a double orangeade full of sugar for himself.
“So you make the return journey with us,” said Poirot as he sipped. “You would go faster, would you not, on the Government steamer which travels by night as well as day?”
Colonel Race’s face creased appreciatively.
“You’re right on the spot as usual, M, Poirot,’ he said pleasantly. “It is, then, the passengers?” “One of the passengers.”
“Now which one, I wonder?” Hercule Poirot asked of the ornate ceiling.
“Unfortunately I don’t know myself,” said Race ruefully.