Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot 17)

“But—but it is maddening! It is intolerable that I should have to put up with this!”

Poirot said dryly: “I must sympathize with you, Madame—especially as I imagine that you have not often had to put up with things.”

Linnet was frowning.

“There must be some way of stopping it,” she murmured.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“You can always leave—move on somewhere else,” he suggested.

“Then she will follow!”

“Very possibly—yes.”

“It’s absurd!”

“Precisely.”

“Anyway, why should I—we—run away? As though—as though—”

She stopped.

“Exactly, Madame. As though—! It is all there, is it not?”

Linnet lifted her head and stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

Poirot altered his tone. He leant forward; his voice was confidential, appealing. He said very gently: “Why do you mind so much, Madame?”

“Why? But it’s maddening! Irritating to the last degree! I’ve told you why!”

Poirot shook his head.

“Not altogether.”

“What do you mean?” Linnet asked again.

Poirot leant back, folded his arms and spoke in a detached impersonal manner.

“Ecoutez, Madame. I will recount to you a little history. It is that one day, a month or two ago, I am dining in a restaurant in London. At the table next to me are two people, a man and a girl. They are very happy, so it seems, very much in love. They talk with confidence of the future. It is not that I listen to what is not meant for me; they are quite oblivious of who hears them and who does not. The man’s back is to me, but I can watch the girl’s face. It is very intense. She is in love—heart, soul, and body—and she is not of those who love lightly and often. With her it is clearly the life and the death. They are engaged to be married, these two; that is what I gather; and they talk of where they shall pass the days of their honeymoon. They plan to go to Egypt.”

He paused. Linnet said sharply: “Well?”

Poirot went on: “That is a month or two ago, but the girl’s face—I do not forget it. I know that I shall remember if I see it again. And I remember too the man’s voice. And I think you can guess, Madame, when it is I see the one and hear the other again. It is here in Egypt. The man is on his honeymoon, yes—but he is on his honeymoon with another woman.”

Linnet said sharply: “What of it? I had already mentioned the facts.”

“The facts—yes.”

“Well then?”

Poirot said slowly: “The girl in the restaurant mentioned a friend—a friend who, she was very positive, would not let her down. That friend, I think, was you, Madame.”

“Yes. I told you we had been friends.”

Linnet flushed.