Death On The Nile - Christie Agatha (книги регистрация онлайн .TXT) 📗

"Yes, he is not happy, our Mr. Pennington."

As they reached the promenade deck again, Mrs. Allerton came out of her cabin, and seeing Poirot beckoned him imperiously.

"Madame?"

"That poor child! Tell me, M, Poirot, is there a double cabin somewhere that I could share with her? She oughtn't to go back to the one she shared with her mother, and mine is only a single one."

"That can be arranged, Madame. It is very good of you."

"It's mere decency. Besides, I'm very fond of the girl. I've always liked her." "Is she very-upset?"

"Terribly. She seems to have been absolutely devoted to that odious woman.

That is what is so pathetic about it all. Tim says he believes she drank. Is that true?"

Poirot nodded.

"Oh, well, poor woman-one mustn't judge her, I suppose, but the girl must have had a terrible life."

"She did, Madame. She is very proud and she was very loyal."

"Yes, I like that-loyalty, I mean. It's out of fashion nowadays. She's an odd character, that girl-proud, reserved, stubborn, and terribly warm-hearted underneath, I fancy."

"I see that I have given her into good hands, Madame."

"Yes, don't worry. I'll look after her. She's inclined to cling to me in the most pathetic fashion."

Mrs. Allerton went back into the cabin. Poirot returned to the scene of the tragedy.

Cornelia was still standing on the deck, her eyes wide.

She said, "I don't understand, M. Poirot. How did the person who shot her get away without our seeing him?"

"Yes, how?" echoed Jacqueline.

"Ah," said Poirot. "It was not quite such a disappearing trick as you think, Mademoiselle. There were three distinct ways the murderer might have gone.

Jacqueline looked puzzled. She said, "Three?"

"He might have gone to the right, or he might have gone to the left, but I don't see any other way," puzzled Cornelia.

Jacqueline too frowned. Then her brow cleared.

She said:

"Of course. He could move in two directions on one plane-but he could go at right angles to that plane too. That is, he couldn't go up very well-but he could go Poirot smiled.

"You have brains., Mademoiselle."

Cornelia said:

"I know I'm just a plain mutt, but I still don't see."

Jacqueline said:

"M. Poirot means, darling, that he could swing himself over the rail and down on to the deck below."

"My!" gasped Cornelia. "I never thought of that. He'd have to be mighty quick about it, though. I suppose he could just do it?"

"He could do it easily enough," said Tim Allerton. "Remember there's always a minute of shock after a thing like this-one hears a shot and one's too paralysed to move for a second or two."

"That was your experience, Mr. Mlerton?"

"Yes, it was. I just stood like a dummy for quite five seconds. Then I fairly sprinted round the deck."

Race came out of Bessner's cabin, and said authoritatively:

"Would you mind all clearing off. We want to bring out the body."

Every one moved away obediently. Poirot went with them. Cornelia said to him with sad earnestness.

"I'll never forget this trip as long as I live Three deaths It's just like living in a nightmare." Ferguson overheard her. He said aggressively: "That's because you're overcivilised. You should look on death as the Oriental does. It's a mere incident hardly noticeable." Cornelia said:

"That's all very well-they're not educated, poor creatures"

"No, and a good thing too. Education has devitalised the white races. Look at America-goes in for an orgy of culture. Simply disgusting."

"I think you're talking nonsense," said Cornelia, flushing. "I attend lectures every winter on Greek Art and the Renaissance-and I went to some on Famous Women of History."

Mr. Ferguson groaned in agony.

"Greek Art! Renaissance! Famous Women of History! It makes me quite sick to hear you. It's the future that matters, woman, not the past. Three women are dead on this boat-well, what of it? They're no loss! Linnet Doyle and her money!

The French maid a domestic parasite-Mrs. Otterbournea useless fool of a woman. Do you think any one really cares whether they're dead or not? I don't. I think it's a damned good thing!"

"Then you're wrong!" Cornelia blazed out at him. "And it makes me sick to hear you talk and talk as though nobody mattered but you. I didn't like Mrs.

Otterbourne much, but her daughter was ever so fond of her and she's all broken up over her mother's death. I don't know much about the French maid, but I expect somebody was fond of her somewhere, and as for Linnet Doyle-well, apart from everything else, she was just lovely! She was so beautiful when she came into a room that it made a lump come in your throat. I'm homely myself, and that makes me appreciate beauty a lot more. She was as beautifuljust as a woman-as anything in Greek Art. And when anything beautiful's dead, it's a loss to the world. So there!"

Mr. Ferguson stepped back a pace. He caught hold of his hair with both hands and tugged at it vehemently.

"I give it up," he said. "You're unbelievable. Just haven't got a bit of natural female spite in you anywhere." He turned to Poirot. "Do you know, sir, that Cornelia's father was practically ruined by Linnet Ridgeway's old man? But does the girl gnash her teeth when she sees the heiress sailing about in pearls and Paris models? No, she just bleats out, 'Isn't she beautiful?' like a blessed baa lamb. I don't believe she even felt sore at her."

Cornelia flushed.

"I did-just for a minute. Poppa kind of died of discouragement, you know, because he hadn't made good."

"Felt sore for a minute! I ask you."

Cornelia flashed round on him.

"Well, didn't you say just now it was the future that mattered, not the past?

All that was in the past, wasn't it? It's over."

"Got me there," said Ferguson. "Cornelia Robson, you're the only nice woman I've ever come across. Will you marry me?"

"Don't be absurd."

"It's a genuine proposal--even if it is made in the presence of Old Man Sleuth. Anyway, you're a witness, M. Poirot. I've deliberately offered marriage to this female-against all my principles because I don't believe in legal contracts. between the sexes, but I don't think she'd stand for anything else, so marriage it shall be. Come on, Cornelia, say yes." "I think you're utterly ridiculous," said Cornelia, flushing. "Why won't you marry me?" "You're not serious," said Cornelia.

"Do you mean not serious in proposing or do you mean not serious in character?" "Both, but I really meant character. You laugh at all sorts of serious things.

Education and Culturand and Death. You wouldn't'be reliable." She broke off, flushed again, and hurried along into her cabin.

Ferguson stared after her.

"Damn the girl! I believe she really means it. She wants a man to be reliable. Reliable-ye gods!" He paused and then said curiously, "What's the matter with you, M. Poirot? You seem very deep in thought." Poirot roused himself with a start.

"I reflect, that is all. I reflect." "Meditation on Death. Death, the Recurring Decimal, by Hercule Poirot, One of his well-known monographs." "Mr. Ferguson," said Poirot. "You are a very impertinent young man." "You must excuse me. I like attacking established institutions." "And I-am an established institution?" "Precisely. What do you think of that girl?" "Of Miss Robson?" "Yes." "I think that she has a great deal of character." "You're right. She's got spirit. She looks meek, but she isn't. She's got guts.

She's-oh, damn it, I want that girl. It mightn't be a bad move if I tackled the old lady. If I could once get her thoroughly against me, it might cut some ice with Cornelia." He wheeled and went into the observation saloon.

Miss Van Schuyler was seated in her usual corner. She looked even more arrogant than usual. She was knitting.