Death on the Nile / Смерть на Ниле. Агата КристиЧитать онлайн книгу.

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the detective,” said Mrs Allerton.

      She and her son were sitting outside the Cataract[54] Hotel at Assuan. They were watching the figures of two people – a short man dressed in a white silk suit and a tall slim girl. Tim Allerton sat up.

      “That funny little man?” he asked incredulously.

      “ That funny little man!”

      “What on earth's he doing out here?” Tim asked.

      His mother laughed. “Darling, you sound quite excited. Why do men enjoy crime so much? I hate detective stories and never read them. But I don't think Monsieur Poirot is here with any motive. He's made a good deal of money and he's seeing life, I fancy[55].”

      “Seems to have an eye for the best-looking girl in the place.”

      Mrs Allerton tilted her head a little on one side as she considered the backs of M. Poirot and his companion.

      “I suppose she is quite good-looking,” said Mrs Allerton.

      She shot a little glance at Tim. To her amusement, he got interested in the girl.

      “She's more than 'quite'. Pity she looks so bad-tempered and sulky.”

      “Perhaps that's just expression, dear.”

      The subject of these remarks was walking slowly by Poirot's side. Rosalie Otterbourne was holding an unopened parasol, and she really looked both sulky and bad-tempered. Her eyebrows were drawn together in a frown and the scarlet line of her mouth was drawn downward.

      They turned to the left out of the hotel gate and entered the cool shade of the public gardens.

      Hercule Poirot was talking gently, his expression that of good humour. He wore a white silk suit, carefully pressed, and a panama hat.

      “– it excites me,” he was saying. “The black rocks of Elephantine[56], and the sun, and the little boats on the river. Yes, it is good to be alive.” He paused and then added, “You do not find it so, Mademoiselle?”

      Rosalie Otterbourne said shortly: “It's all right, I suppose. I think Assuan's a gloomy sort of place. The hotel's half empty, and everyone's about a hundred – ”

      She stopped – biting her lip.

      Hercule Poirot's eyes twinkled.

      “It is true, yes, I have one leg in the grave.”

      “I–I wasn't thinking of you,” said the girl. “I'm sorry. That sounded rude.”

      “Not at all. It is natural you should wish for companions of your own age. Ah, well, there is one young man, at least.”

      “ The one who sits with his mother all the time? I like her – but I think he looks dreadful – so conceited!”

      Poirot sniffed.

      “And I – am I conceited?”

      “Oh, I don't think so.”

      She was obviously uninterested – but the fact did not seem to annoy Poirot.

      “Oh, well,” said Rosalie, “I suppose you have something to be conceited about. Unfortunately crime doesn't interest me in the least.”

      Poirot said solemnly, “I am delighted to learn that you have no guilty secret to hide.”

      She shot him a questioning glance. Poirot did not seem to notice it as he went on: “Madame, your mother, was not at lunch today. She is not unwell, I hope?”

      “This place doesn't suit her,” said Rosalie briefly. “I shall be glad when we leave.”

      “We are fellow passengers, are we not?[57] We both make the excursion up to Wadi Halfa[58] and the Second Cataract?”

      “Yes.”

      They came out from the shade of the gardens onto a dusty road by the river. Five bead sellers, two vendors of postcards, a couple of donkey boys and some riff-raff closed in upon them. “You want beads, sir? Very good, sir. Very cheap.”

      “ You want ride donkey, sir? This very good donkey, sir.”

      “You want postcard – very cheap – very nice.”

      “Look, lady. Only ten piastres[59] – very ivory.”

      “You ride back to hotel, lady? This first class donkey.”

      Hercule Poirot made gestures to rid himself of the vendors. Rosalie didn't pay attention to them.

      “It's best to pretend to be deaf and blind,” she remarked.

      But they were the most persistent. The others fell back and launched a fresh attack on the next comer.

      “You visit my shop today, sir?”

      “You want that ivory crocodile, sir?”

      They turned into the fifth shop and Rosalie bought several rolls of films – the object of the walk.

      Then they came out again and walked toward the river.

      One of the Nile steamers was just mooring. Poirot and Rosalie looked interestedly at the passengers.

      “Quite a lot, aren't there?” commented Rosalie.

      She turned her head as Tim Allerton came up and joined them. He was a little out of breath[60] as though he had been walking fast.

      They stood there for a moment or two and then Tim spoke.

      “An awful crowd as usual, I suppose,” he remarked, indicating the disembarking passengers.

      “They're usually quite terrible,” agreed Rosalie.

      “Hullo!” exclaimed Tim, his voice suddenly excited. “I'm damned if that isn't Linnet Ridgeway.”

      If the information left Poirot unmoved, it stirred Rosalie's interest[61]. She leaned forward and her sulkiness quite dropped from her as she asked:

      “Where? That one in white?”

      “Yes, there with the tall man. They're coming ashore now. He's the new husband, I suppose. Can't remember her name now.”

      “Doyle,” said Rosalie. “Simon Doyle. It was in all the newspapers. She's very rich, isn't she?”

      “About the richest girl in England,” replied Tim cheerfully.

      The three lookers-on were silent watching the passengers come ashore.

      Poirot gazed with interest at the subject of the remarks of his companions. He murmured, “She is beautiful.”

      “Some people have got everything,” said Rosalie bitterly.

      There was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the gangplank.

      Linnet Doyle was looking perfect. She had the assurance of a famous actress. She was used to being looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.

      She came ashore playing a role, even though she played it unconsciously. The rich beautiful bride on her honeymoon. She turned, with a little smile and a light remark, to the tall man by her side. He answered, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest Hercule Poirot. His eyes lit up and he drew his brows together.

      The couple passed close to him. He heard Simon Doyle say:

      “We'll try and make time for it, darling.[62] We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here.”

      His face was turned toward her, eager, adoring, a little humble.

      Poirot's eyes ran over him thoughtfully – the square shoulders,

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