Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot 17)

“After a bit I saw that he’d made up his mind. And I was terrified—simply terrified. Because, you see, I realized that he’d never pull it off. He’s so childishly simple. He’d have no kind of subtlety about it—and he’s got no imagination. He would probably have just bunged arsenic into her and assumed the doctor would say she’d died of gastritis. He always thought things would go right.

“So I had to come into it, too, to look after him….”

She said it very simply but in complete good faith. Poirot had no doubt whatever that her motive had been exactly what she said it was. She herself had not coveted Linnet Ridgeway’s money, but she had loved Simon Doyle, had loved him beyond reason and beyond rectitude and beyond pity.

“I thought and I thought—trying to work out a plan. It seemed to me that the basis of the idea ought to be a kind of two-handed alibi. You know—if Simon and I could somehow or other give evidence against each other, but actually that evidence would clear us of every thing. It would be easy enough for me to pretend to hate Simon. It was quite a likely thing to happen under the circumstances. Then, if Linnet was killed, I should probably be suspected, so it would be better if I was suspected right away. We worked out details little by little. I wanted it to be so that, if anything went wrong, they’d get me and not Simon. But Simon was worried about me.

“The only thing I was glad about was that I hadn’t got to do it. I simply couldn’t have! Not go along in cold blood and kill her when she was asleep! You see, I hadn’t forgiven her—I think I could have killed her face to face, but not the other way….

“We worked everything out carefully. Even then, Simon went and wrote a J in blood which was a silly melodramatic thing to do. It’s just the sort of thing he would think of! But it went off all right.”

Poirot nodded.

“Yes. It was not your fault that Louise Bourget could not sleep that night…And afterwards, Mademoiselle?”

She met his eyes squarely.

“Yes,” she said “it’s rather horrible isn’t it? I can’t believe that I—did that! I know now what you meant by opening your heart to evil…You know pretty well how it happened. Louise made it clear to Simon that she knew. Simon got you to bring me to him. As soon as we were alone together he told me what had happened. He told me what I’d got to do. I wasn’t even horrified. I was so afraid—so deadly afraid…That’s what murder does to you. Simon and I were safe—quite safe—except for this miserable blackmailing French girl. I took her all the money we could get hold of. I pretended to grovel. And then, when she was counting the money, I—did it! It was quite easy. That’s what’s so horribly, horribly frightening about it…It’s so terribly easy….

“And even then we weren’t safe. Mrs. Otterbourne had seen me. She came triumphantly along the deck looking for you and Colonel Race. I’d no time to think. I just acted like a flash. It was almost exciting. I knew it was touch or go that time. That seemed to make it better….”

She stopped again.

“Do you remember when you came into my cabin afterwards? You said you were not sure why you had come. I was so miserable—so terrified. I thought Simon was going to die….”

“And I—was hoping it,” said Poirot.

Jacqueline nodded.

“Yes, it would have been better for him that way.”

“That was not my thought.”

Jacqueline looked at the sternness of his face.

She said gently: “Don’t mind so much for me, Monsieur Poirot. After all, I’ve lived hard always, you know. If we’d won out, I’d have been very happy and enjoyed things and probably should never have regretted anything. As it is—well, one goes through with it.”

She added: “I suppose the stewardess is in attendance to see I don’t hang myself or swallow a miraculous capsule of prussic acid as people always do in books. You needn’t be afraid! I shan’t do that. It will be easier for Simon if I’m standing by.”

Poirot got up. Jacqueline rose also. She said with a sudden smile: “Do you remember when I said I must follow my star? You said it might be a false star. And I said: ‘That very bad star, that star fell down.’”

He went out to the deck with her laughter ringing in his ears.

Thirty-One

It was early dawn when they came into Shellal. The rocks came down grimly to the water’s edge.

Poirot murmured: “Quel pays sauvage!”

Race stood beside him. “Well,” he said, “we’ve done our job. I’ve arranged for Richetti to be taken ashore first. Glad we’ve got him. He’s been a slippery customer, I can tell you. Given us the slip dozens of times.”

He went on: “We must get hold of a stretcher for Doyle. Remarkable how he went to pieces.”

“Not really,” said Poirot. “That boyish type of criminal is usually intensely vain. Once prick the bubble of their self-esteem and it is finished! They go to pieces like children.”

“Deserves to be hanged,” said Race. “He’s a cold-blooded scoundrel. I’m sorry for the girl—but there’s nothing to be done about it.”

Poirot shook his head.