Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot 17)

“Yes. She’ll be on the Karnak too.”

“Does she know that you—?”

“Certainly not,” said Simon with emphasis. “Nobody knows. I’ve gone on the principle that it’s better not to trust anybody.”

“An admirable sentiment—and one which I always adopt. By the way, the third member of your party, the tall grey-haired man—”

“Pennington?”

“Yes. He is travelling with you?”

Simon said grimly: “Not very usual on a honeymoon, you were thinking? Pennington is Linnet’s American trustee. We ran across him by chance in Cairo.”

“Ah, vraiment! You permit a question? She is of age, Madame your wife?”

Simon looked amused.

“She isn’t actually twenty-one yet—but she hadn’t got to ask anyone’s consent before marrying me. It was the greatest surprise to Pennington. He left New York on the Carmanic two days before Linnet’s letter got there telling him of our marriage, so he knew nothing about it.”

“The Carmanic—” murmured Poirot.

“It was the greatest surprise to him when we ran into him at Shepheard’s in Cairo.”

“That was indeed the coincident!”

“Yes, and we found that he was coming on this Nile trip—so naturally we foregathered; couldn’t have done anything else decently. Besides that, it’s been—well, a relief in some ways.” He looked embarrassed again. “You see, Linnet’s been all strung up—expecting Jackie to turn up anywhere and everywhere. While we were alone together, the subject kept coming up. Andrew Pennington’s a help that way, we have to talk of outside matters.”

“Your wife has not confided in Mr. Pennington?”

“No.” Simon’s jaw looked aggressive. “It’s nothing to do with anyone else. Besides, when we started on this Nile trip we thought we’d seen the end of the business.”

Poirot shook his head.

“You have not seen the end of it yet. No—the end is not yet at hand. I am very sure of that.”

“I say, Monsieur Poirot, you’re not very encouraging.”

Poirot looked at him with a slight feeling of irritation. He thought to himself: “The Anglo-Saxon, he takes nothing seriously but playing games! He does not grow up.”

Linnet Doyle—Jacqueline de Bellefort—both of them took the business seriously enough. But in Simon’s attitude he could find nothing but male impatience and annoyance. He said: “You will permit me an impertinent question? Was it your idea to come to Egypt for your honeymoon?”

Simon flushed.

“No, of course not. As a matter of fact I’d rather have gone anywhere else, but Linnet was absolutely set upon it. And so—and so—”

He stopped rather lamely.

“Naturally,” said Poirot gravely.

He appreciated the fact that, if Linnet Doyle was set upon anything, that thing had to happen.

He thought to himself: “I have now heard three separate accounts of the affair—Linnet Doyle’s, Jacqueline de Bellefort’s, Simon Doyle’s. Which of them is nearest to the truth?”

Seven

Simon and Linnet Doyle set off on their expedition to Philae about eleven o’clock the following morning. Jacqueline de Bellefort, sitting on the hotel balcony, watched them set off in the picturesque sailing-boat. What she did not see was the departure of the car—laden with luggage, and in which sat a demure-looking maid—from the front door of the hotel. It turned to the right in the direction of Shellal.

Hercule Poirot decided to pass the remaining two hours before lunch on the island of Elephantine, immediately opposite the hotel.