Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot 17)

She shook her head.

“I suppose—it’s nerves…I just feel that—everything’s unsafe all round me.”

She cast a quick nervous glance over his shoulder Then she said abruptly: “How will all this end? We’re caught here. Trapped! There’s no way out. We’ve got to go on. I—I don’t know where I am.”

She slipped down on to a seat. Poirot looked down on her gravely; his glance was not untinged with compassion.

“How did she know we were coming on this boat?” she said. “How could she have known?”

Poirot shook his head as he answered: “She has brains, you know.”

“I feel as though I shall never escape from her.”

Poirot said: “There is one plan you might have adopted. In fact I am surprised that it did not occur to you. After all, with you, Madame, money is no object. Why did you not engage in your own private dahabiyeh?”

“If we’d known about all this—but you see we didn’t—then. And it was difficult…” She flashed out with sudden impatience: “Oh! you don’t understand half my difficulties. I’ve got to be careful with Simon…He’s—he’s absurdly sensitive—about money. About my having so much! He wanted me to go to some little place in Spain with him—he—he wanted to pay all our honeymoon expenses himself. As if it mattered! Men are stupid! He’s got to get used to—to—living comfortably. The mere idea of a dahabiyeh upset him—the—the needless expense. I’ve got to educate him—gradually.”

She looked up, bit her lip vexedly, as though feeling that she had been led into discussing her difficulties rather too unguardedly.

She got up.

“I must change. I’m sorry, Monsieur Poirot. I’m afraid I’ve been talking a lot of foolish nonsense.”

Eight

Mrs. Allerton, looking quiet and distinguished in her simple black lace evening gown, descended two decks to the dining room. At the door of it her son caught her up.

“Sorry, darling. I thought I was going to be late.”

“I wonder where we sit.” The saloon was dotted with little tables. Mrs. Allerton paused till the steward, who was busy seating a party of people, could attend to them.

“By the way,” she added, “I asked little Hercule Poirot to sit at our table.”

“Mother, you didn’t!” Tim sounded really taken aback and annoyed.

His mother stared at him in surprise. Tim was usually so easy-going.

“My dear, do you mind?”

“Yes, I do. He’s an unmitigated little bounder!”

“Oh, no, Tim! I don’t agree with you.”

“Anyway, what do we want to get mixed up with an outsider for? Cooped up like this on a small boat, that sort of thing is always a bore. He’ll be with us morning, noon, and night.”

“I’m sorry, dear.” Mrs. Allerton looked distressed. “I thought really it would amuse you. After all, he must have had a varied experience. And you love detective stories.”

Tim grunted.

“I wish you wouldn’t have these bright ideas, Mother. We can’t get out of it now, I suppose?”

“Really, Tim, I don’t see how we can.”

“Oh, well, we shall have to put up with it, I suppose.”

The steward came to them at this minute and led them to a table. Mrs. Allerton’s face wore rather a puzzled expression as she followed him. Tim was usually so easy-going and good-tempered. This outburst was quite unlike him. It wasn’t as though he had the ordinary Britisher’s dislike—and mistrust—of foreigners. Tim was very cosmopolitan. Oh, well—she sighed. Men were incomprehensible! Even one’s nearest and dearest had unsuspected reactions and feelings.

As they took their places, Hercule Poirot came quickly and silently into the dining saloon. He paused with his hand on the back of the third chair.