Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot 17)

“What damned business is it of yours?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “None.”

She watched him for a minute or two. Then she said: “What’s the matter, Simon? Are you afraid?”

Simon did not answer. Rather elaborately he picked up his magazine again.

Cornelia murmured: “Oh, dear—as late as that—I—must—”

She began to fumble, dropped a thimble….

Jacqueline said: “Don’t go to bed. I’d like another woman here—to support me.” She began to laugh again. “Do you know what Simon over there is afraid of? He’s afraid I’m going to tell you the story of my life.”

“Oh, really?”

Cornelia was the prey of conflicting emotions. She was deeply embarrassed but at the same time pleasurably thrilled. How—how black Simon Doyle was looking.

“Yes, it’s a very sad story,” said Jacqueline; her soft voice was low and mocking. “He treated me rather badly, didn’t you, Simon?”

Simon Doyle said brutally: “Go to bed, Jackie. You’re drunk.”

“If you’re embarrassed, Simon dear, you’d better leave the room.”

Simon Doyle looked at her. The hand that held the magazine shook a little, but he spoke bluntly.

“I’m staying,” he said.

Cornelia murmured for the third time, “I really must—it’s so late—”

“You’re not to go,” said Jacqueline. Her hand shot out and held the other girl in her chair. “You’re to stay and hear what I’ve go to say.”

“Jackie,” said Simon sharply, “you’re making a fool of yourself! For God’s sake, go to bed.”

Jacqueline sat up suddenly in her chair. Words poured from her rapidly in a soft hissing stream.

“You’re afraid of a scene, aren’t you? That’s because you’re so English—so reticent! You want me to behave ‘decently,’ don’t you? But I don’t care whether I behave decently or not! You’d better get out of here quickly—because I’m going to talk—a lot.”

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 swung round in her chair and glared at Simon.

“You damned fool,” she said thickly, “do you think you can treat me as you have done and get away with it?”

Simon Doyle opened his lips, then shut them again. He sat quite still as though he were hoping that her outburst would exhaust itself if he said nothing to provoke her further.

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

“I told you,” said Jacqueline, “that I’d kill you sooner than see you go to another woman…You don’t think I meant that? You’re wrong. I’ve only been—waiting! You’re my man! Do you hear? You belong to me….”

Still Simon did not speak. Jacqueline’s hand fumbled a moment or two on her lap. She leant forward.

“I told you I’d kill you and I meant it…” Her hand came up suddenly with something in it that flashed and gleamed. “I’ll shoot you like a dog—like the dirty dog you are….”

Now at last Simon acted. He sprang to his feet, but at the same moment she pulled the trigger….

Simon fell twisted—fell across a chair…Cornelia screamed and rushed to the door. Jim Fanthorp was on the deck leaning over the rail. She called to him.

“Mr. Fanthorp…Mr. Fanthorp….”