Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot, #18)

by Agatha Christie

Jacqueline hummed a little tune to herself. When the drink came, she picked it up, said: “Well, here’s to crime,” drank it off and ordered another.

Jim Fanthorp carefully shut his book, yawned, glanced at his watch, got up and strolled out. It was a very British and utterly unconvincing performance.

Jacqueline’s voice came thick and blurred. It fascinated Cornelia, totally unused to naked emotions of any kind.

The next ten minutes were purely surgical and Mr. Jim Fanthorp did not enjoy it at all. He felt secretly ashamed of the superior fortitude exhibited by Cornelia.

He said: “Your instinct was quite correct. It’s happened.” Poirot straightened up and asked sharply: “What has happened?” “Linnet Doyle’s dead—shot through the head last night.”

here just above the ear—that is where the bullet entered. A very little bullet—I should say a .22. The pistol, it was held close against her head, see, there is blackening here, the skin is scorched.”

Then his gaze fell on the white painted wall just in front of him and he drew in his breath sharply. Its white neatness was marred by a big wavering letter J scrawled in some brownish-red medium.

“Yes, yes. It is, as I say, of an astonishing simplicity! It is so familiar, is it not? It has been done so often, in the pages of the romance of crime! It is now, indeed, a little vieux jeu! It leads one to suspect that our murderer is—old-fashioned!”

“Because,” said Hercule Poirot, “you have just told us that the pistol was out of sight under the settee. Therefore it is hardly credible that it was discovered by accident. It was taken by someone who knew it was there. Therefore that someone must have assisted at the scene.”

Jacqueline de Bellefort was definitely cleared of the crime. Who then had shot Linnet Doyle?

Poirot said: “It will be simpler to say who it could not have been. Neither Monsieur Doyle, Madame Allerton, Monsieur Allerton, Mademoiselle Van Schuyler, nor Mademoiselle Bowers could have had anything to do with it.

Louise Bourget was that same vivacious Latin brunette who Poirot had seen one day and noticed.

“You did not look. But I, I have the eyes which notice, and there were no pearls on the table beside the bed this morning.”

“See you, I recognize my own weaknesses. It has been said of me that I like to make a case difficult. This solution that you put to me—it is too simple, too easy. I cannot feel that it really happened. And yet, that may be the sheer prejudice on my part.”

“I know who told you that—that lying French hussy. She’s a liar through and through, that girl.”

“Certainly. I did not like this sound of prowling around. I got up and went to the door of my cabin. Miss Otterbourne was leaning over the side. She had just dropped something into the water.”

“Yes, that is my velvet stole you have there.” Race picked up the dripping folds of material. “This is yours, Miss Van Schuyler?” “Certainly it’s mine!” the old lady snapped. “I missed it last night. I was asking everyone if they’d seen it.”

“The crime passionel!” she exclaimed. “The primitive instinct—to kill! So closely allied to the sex instinct. That girl, Jacqueline, hot-blooded, obeying the deepest instincts of her being, stealing forth, revolver in hand—”

“Yes. Naturally. It’s so clear psychologically. Repression! The repressed virgin! Maddened by the sight of these two—a young husband and wife passionately in love with each other. Of course it was her! She’s just the type—sexually unattractive, innately respectable. In my book, The Barren Vine—”

“Grand to-do about this business!” he sneered. “What’s it really matter? Lots of superfluous women in the world!”

“Did you leave your cabin during the night?” Ferguson grinned. “No, I didn’t. And I didn’t participate in the good work, worse luck.” “Come, come, Mr. Ferguson, don’t behave childishly.” The young man reacted angrily. “Why shouldn’t I say what I think? I believe in violence.”

Group I Group II Andrew Pennington Mrs. Allerton Fleetwood Tim Allerton Rosalie Otterbourne Cornelia Robson Miss Van Schuyler Miss Bowers Louise Bourget (Robbery?) Dr. Bessner Ferguson (Political?) Signor Richetti Mrs. Otterbourne James Fanthorp

“La vie est vaine. Un peu d’amour, Un peu de haine, Et puis bonjour. La vie est brève. Un peu d’espoir, Un peu de rêve, Et puis bonsoir.”

See you, around a person like Linnet Doyle there is so much—so many conflicting hates and jealousies and envies and meannesses. It is like a cloud of flies, buzzing, buzzing. . . .”

But think, think for a moment along the lines that I shall indicate. There are certain points . . . There is the statement of Mademoiselle de Bellefort that someone overheard our conversation that night in the garden at Aswan. There is the statement of Monsieur Tim Allerton as to what he heard and did on the night of the crime. There are Louise Bourget’s significant answers to our questions this morning. There is the fact that Madame Allerton drinks water, that her son drinks whisky and soda and that I drink wine. Add to that the fact of two bottles of nail polish and the proverb I quoted. And finally we come to the crux of the whole business, the fact that the pistol was wrapped up in a cheap handkerchief and a velvet stole and thrown overboard. . . .”

“Yes, it is very true, that. And it is just what some people will not do. They conceive a certain theory, and everything has to fit into that theory. If one little fact will not fit it, they throw it aside. But it is always the facts that will not fit in that are significant. All along I have realized the significance of that pistol being removed from the scene of the crime. I knew that it meant something, but what that something was I only realized one little half hour ago.”

Three deaths . . . It’s just like living in a nightmare.” Ferguson overheard her. He said aggressively: “That’s because you’re over-civilized. You should look on death as the Oriental do. It’s a mere incident—hardly noticeable.” “That’s all very well,” Cornelia said. “They’re not educated, poor creatures.” “No, and a good thing too. Education has devitalized the white races. Look at America—goes in for an orgy of culture. Simply disgusting.”

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 beautiful—just as a woman—as anything in Greek

“It’s a genuine proposal—even if it is made in the presence of Old Man Sleuth. Anyway, you’re a witness, Monsieur 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.”

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.” “Monsieur 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?”

“Rather eccentric, I’m afraid,” said Poirot. “Most of that family are. Spoilt, of course. Always inclined to tilt at windmills.” He added carelessly, “You recognized him, I suppose?” “Recognized him?” “Calls himself Ferguson and won’t use his title because of his advanced ideas.” “His title?” Miss Van Schuyler’s tone was sharp. “Yes, that’s young Lord Dawlish. Rolling in money, of course, but he became a communist when he was at Oxford.”

“So it was she who told you.” Poirot said gently, “Excuse me; she did not tell me.” “But then, how do you know?” “Because I am Hercule Poirot I do not need to be told. When I taxed her with it, do you know what she said? She said: ‘I saw nobody.’ And she lied.”

“This—Joanna?” Tim gave a sudden shout. “Joanna? You’re as bad as Mother. I don’t care a damn about Joanna. She’s got a face like a horse and a predatory eye. A most unattractive female.”

“Mais oui,” he said. “I like an audience, I must confess. I am vain, you see. I am puffed up with conceit. I like to say: ‘See how clever is Hercule Poirot!’”

Ferguson said to Poirot: “Do you think she really means that?” “Certainly.” “She prefers that pompous old bore to me?” “Undoubtedly.” “The girl’s mad,” declared Ferguson. Poirot’s eyes twinkled. “She is a woman of an original mind,” he said. “It is probably the first time you have met one.”

Jacqueline bent down and tied the lace of her shoe. Then her hand went to her stocking top and she straightened up with something in her hand. There was a sharp explosive “pop.” Simon Doyle gave one convulsed shudder and then lay still. Jacqueline de Bellefort nodded. She stood for a minute, pistol in hand. She gave a fleeting smile at Poirot. Then, as Race jumped forward, she turned the little glittering toy against her heart and pressed the trigger. She sank down in a soft huddled heap.

Mrs. Allerton said softly, “You—knew?” He nodded. “She had a pair of these pistols. I realized that when I heard that one had been found in Rosalie Otterbourne’s handbag the day of the search. Jacqueline sat at the same table as they did. When she realized that there was going to be a search, she slipped it into the other girl’s handbag. Later she went to Rosalie’s cabin and got it back, after having distracted her attention with a comparison of lipsticks. As both she and her cabin had been searched yesterday, it wasn’t thought necessary to do it again.” Mrs. Allerton said: “You wanted her to take that way out?” “Yes. But she would not take it alone. That is why Simon Doyle has died an easier death than he deserved.”