Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot 17)

Cornelia sat down again.

“We girls must stick together,” said Jacqueline.

She threw back her head and laughed—a shrill laugh without merriment.

The second drink came.

“Have something,” said Jacqueline.

“No, thank you very much,” replied Cornelia.

Jacqueline tilted back her chair. She hummed now loudly: “He was her man and he did her wrong….”

Mr. Fanthorp turned a page of Europe from Within.

Simon Doyle picked up a magazine.

“Really, I think I’ll go to bed,” said Cornelia. “It’s getting very late.”

“You can’t go to bed yet,” Jacqueline declared. “I forbid you to. Tell me about yourself.”

“Well—I don’t know. There isn’t much to tell,” Cornelia faltered. “I’ve just lived at home, and I haven’t been around much. This is my first trip to Europe. I’m just loving every minute of it.”

Jacqueline laughed.

“You’re a happy sort of person, aren’t you? God, I’d like to be you.”

“Oh, would you? But I mean—I’m sure—”

Cornelia felt flustered. Undoubtedly Miss de Bellefort was drinking too much. That wasn’t exactly a novelty to Cornelia. She had seen plenty of drunkenness during Prohibition years. But there was something else…Jacqueline de Bellefort was talking to her—was looking at her—and yet, Cornelia felt, it was as though, somehow, she was talking to someone else….

But there were only two other people in the room, Mr. Fanthorp and Mr. Doyle. Mr. Fanthorp seemed quite absorbed in his book. Mr. Doyle was looking rather odd—a queer sort of watchful look on his face.

Jacqueline said again: “Tell me all about yourself.”

Always obedient, Cornelia tried to comply. She talked, rather heavily, going into unnecessary small details about her daily life. She was so unused to being the talker. Her role was so constantly that of the listener. And yet Miss de Bellefort seemed to want to know. When Cornelia faltered to a standstill, the other girl was quick to prompt her.

“Go on—tell me more.”

And so Cornelia went on (“Of course, Mother’s very delicate—some days she touches nothing but cereals—”) unhappily conscious that all she said was supremely uninteresting, yet flattered by the other girl’s seeming interest. But was she interested? Wasn’t she, somehow, listening to something else—or, perhaps, for something else? She was looking at Cornelia, yes, but wasn’t there someone else, sitting in the room?

“And of course we get very good art classes, and last winter I had a course of—”

(How late was it? Surely very late. She had been talking and talking. If only something definite would happen—)

And immediately, as though in answer to her wish, something did happen. Only, at that moment, it seemed very natural.

Jacqueline turned her head and spoke to Simon Doyle.

“Ring the bell, Simon. I want another drink.”

Simon Doyle looked up from his magazine and said quietly: “The stewards have gone to bed. It’s after midnight.”

“I tell you I want another drink.”

Simon said: “You’ve had quite enough to drink, Jackie.”

She swung round at him.