Агата Кристи – Death on the Nile / Смерть на Ниле (страница 7)
“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, the bronzed face, the dark blue eyes, the rather childlike simplicity of the smile.
“Lucky devil,” said Tim after they had passed.
“They look frightfully happy,” said Rosalie with a note of envy in her voice. She added suddenly, but so low that Tim did not catch the words, “It isn't fair.” Poirot heard, however, and he flashed a quick glance toward her[63].
Tim said, “I must collect some stuff for my mother now.”
He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie went slowly in the direction of the hotel, waving aside new offers of donkeys[64]. “So it is not fair, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot gently.
Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged her shoulders[65].
“It really seems a little too much for one person. Money, good looks, marvellous figure and – ”
She paused and Poirot said:
“And love? Eh? And love? But you do not know – she may have been married for her money!”
“Didn't you see the way he looked at her?”
“Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. I saw all there was to see – indeed I saw something that you did not.”
“What was that?”
Poirot said slowly: “I saw, Mademoiselle, dark lines below a woman's eyes. I saw a hand that clutched a sunshade so tight that the knuckles were white.”
Rosalie was staring at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that all is not the gold that glitters[66]. I mean that, though this lady is rich and beautiful and beloved, there is all the same something that is not right. And I know something else.”
“Yes?”
“I know,” said Poirot, frowning, “that somewhere, at some time, I have heard that voice before – the voice of Monsieur Doyle – and I wish I could remember where.”
But Rosalie was not listening. She had stopped dead.[67] Suddenly she broke out fiercely:
“I'm awful. I'm just a beast through and through.[68] I'd like to tear the clothes off her back and stamp on her lovely, arrogant, self-confident face. I'm just a jealous cat – but that's what I feel like. She's so horribly successful and assured.”
Hercule Poirot looked a little astonished by the outburst. He took her by the arm and gave her a friendly little shake.
“You will feel better for having said that!”[69]
“I just hate her! I've never hated anyone so much at first sight.”
“Magnificent!”
Rosalie looked at him doubtfully. Then her mouth twitched and she laughed.
Poirot laughed too. They went amicably back to the hotel.
“I must find Mother,” said Rosalie, as they came into the cool, dim hall.
Some people were playing tennis in the hot sun. Poirot paused to watch them for a while, then went on down the steep path. It was there, sitting on a bench overlooking the Nile, that he came upon the girl of
A face – and a voice. He remembered them both. This girl's face and the voice he had heard just now, the voice of a newly made bridegroom…