Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - Кристи Агата

‘That’s just the transfer,’ said Pennington. ‘You needn’t read it.’

But Linnet took a brief glance through it. Pennington laid down a third paper. Again Linnet perused it carefully.

‘They’re all quite straightforward,’ said Andrew. ‘Nothing of interest. Only legal phraseology.’

Simon yawned again.

‘My dear girl, you’re not going to read the whole lot through, are you? You’ll be at it till lunch time and longer.’

‘I always read everything through,’ said Linnet. ‘Father taught me to do that. He said there might be some clerical error.’

Pennington laughed rather harshly.

‘You’re a grand woman of business, Linnet.’

‘She’s much more conscientious than I’d be,’ said Simon, laughing. ‘I’ve never read a legal document in my life. I sign where they tell me to sign on the dotted line – and that’s that.’

‘That’s frightfully slipshod,’ said Linnet disapprovingly.

‘I’ve no business head,’ said Simon cheerfully. ‘Never had. A fellow tells me to sign – I sign. It’s much the simplest way.’

Andrew Pennington was looking at him thoughtfully. He said dryly, stroking his upper lip,

‘A little risky sometimes, Doyle?’

‘Nonsense,’ replied Simon. ‘I’m not one of those people who believe the whole world is out to do one down. I’m a trusting kind of fellow – and it pays, you know. I’ve hardly ever been let down.’

Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, the silent Mr Fanthorp swung around and addressed Linnet.

‘I hope I’m not butting in, but you must let me say how much I admire your businesslike capacity. In my profession – er – I am a lawyer – I find ladies sadly unbusinesslike. Never to sign a document unless you read it through is admirable – altogether admirable.’

He gave a little bow. Then, rather red in the face, he turned once more to contemplate the banks of the Nile.

Linnet said rather uncertainly, ‘Er – thank you…’ She bit her lip to repress a giggle. The young man had looked so preternaturally solemn. Andrew Pennington looked seriously annoyed. Simon Doyle looked uncertain whether to be annoyed or amused.

The backs of Mr Fanthorp’s ears were bright crimson.

‘Next, please,’ said Linnet, smiling up at Pennington.

But Pennington looked decidedly ruffled.

‘I think perhaps some other time would be better,’ he said stiffly. ‘As – er – Doyle says, if you have to read through all these we shall be here till lunch time. We mustn’t miss enjoying the scenery. Anyway those first two papers were the only urgent ones. We’ll settle down to business later.’

Linnet said: ‘It’s frightfully hot in here. Let’s go outside.’

The three of them passed through the swing door. Hercule Poirot turned his head. His gaze rested thoughtfully on Mr Fanthorp’s back; then it shifted to the lounging figure of Mr Ferguson, who had his head thrown back and was still whistling softly to himself.

Finally Poirot looked over at the upright figure of Miss Van Schuyler in her corner. Miss Van Schuyler was glaring at Mr Ferguson.

The swing door on the port side opened and Cornelia Robson hurried in.

‘You’ve been a long time,’ snapped the old lady. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. The wool wasn’t where you said it was. It was in another case altogther-’

‘My dear child, you are perfectly hopeless at finding anything! You are willing, I know, my dear, but you must try to be a little cleverer and quicker. It only needs concentration.’

‘I’m so sorry, Cousin Marie. I’m afraid I am very stupid.’

‘Nobody need be stupid if they try, my dear. I have brought you on this trip, and I expect a little attention in return.’

Cornelia flushed.

‘I’m very sorry, Cousin Marie.’

‘And where is Miss Bowers? It was time for my drops ten minutes ago. Please go and find her at once. The doctor said it was most important-’

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But at this stage Miss Bowers entered, carrying a small medicine glass.

‘Your drops, Miss Van Schuyler.’

‘I should have had them at eleven,’ snapped the old lady. ‘If there’s one thing I detest it’s unpunctuality.’

‘Quite,’ said Miss Bowers. She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘It’s exactly half a minute to eleven.’

‘By my watch it’s ten past.’

‘I think you’ll find my watch is right. It’s a perfect timekeeper. It never loses or gains.’ Miss Bowers was quite imperturbable.

Miss Van Schuyler swallowed the contents of the medicine glass.

‘I feel definitely worse,’ she snapped.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Van Schuyler.’

Miss Bowers did not sound sorry. She sounded completely uninterested. She was obviously making the correct reply mechanically.

‘It’s too hot in here,’ snapped Miss Van Schuyler. ‘Find me a chair on the deck, Miss Bowers. Cornelia, bring my knitting. Don’t be clumsy or drop it. And then I shall want you to wind some wool.’

The procession passed out.

Mr Ferguson sighed, stirred his legs and remarked to the world at large:

‘Gosh, I’d like to scrag that dame.’

Poirot asked interestedly:

‘She is a type you dislike, eh?’

‘Dislike? I should say so. What good has that woman ever been to anyone or anything? She’s never worked or lifted a finger. She’s just battened on other people. She’s a parasite – and a damned unpleasant parasite. There are a lot of people on this boat I’d say the world could do without.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. That girl in here just now, signing share transfers and throwing her weight about. Hundreds and thousands of wretched workers slaving for a mere pittance to keep her in silk stockings and useless luxuries. One of the richest women in England, so someone told me – and never done a hand’s turn in her life.’

‘Who told you she was one of the richest women in England?’

Mr Ferguson cast a belligerent eye at him.

‘A man you wouldn’t be seen speaking to! A man who works with his hands and isn’t ashamed of it! Not one of your dressed-up, foppish good-for-nothings.’

His eye rested unfavourably on the bow tie and pink shirt.

‘Me, I work with my brains and am not ashamed of it,’ said Poirot, answering the glance.

Mr Ferguson merely snorted.

‘Ought to be shot – the lot of them!’ he asserted.

‘My dear young man,’ said Poirot, ‘what a passion you have for violence!’

‘Can you tell me of any good that can be done without it? You’ve got to break down and destroy before you can build up.’

‘It is certainly much easier and much noisier and much more spectacular.’

‘What do you do for a living? Nothing at all, I bet. Probably call yourself a middle man.’

‘I am not a middle man. I am a top man,’ said Hercule Poirot with a slight arrogance.

‘What are you?’

‘I am a detective,’ said Hercule Poirot with the modest air of one who says ‘I am a king.’

‘Good God!’ The young man seemed seriously taken aback. ‘Do you mean that girl actually totes about a dumb dick? Is she as careful of her precious skin as that?’

‘I have no connection whatever with Monsieur and Madame Doyle,’ said Poirot stiffly. ‘I am on a holiday.’

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‘Enjoying a vacation – eh?’

‘And you? Is it not that you are on holiday also?’

‘Holiday!’ Mr Ferguson snorted. Then he added cryptically: ‘I’m studying conditions.’

‘Very interesting,’ murmured Poirot and moved gently out on to the deck.