Death on the Nile - Agatha Christie [10]
Mrs. Robson rose and kissed her rich relative’s wrinkled and slightly yellow face.
“I’m just ever so grateful,” she declared.
On the stairs she met a tall capable-looking woman who was carrying a glass containing a yellow foamy liquid.
“Well, Miss Bowers, so you’re off to Europe?”
“Why, yes, Mrs. Robson.”
“What a lovely trip!”
“Why, yes, I should think it would be very enjoyable.”
“But you’ve been abroad before?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Robson. I went over to Paris with Miss Van Schuyler last fall. But I’ve never been to Egypt before.”
Mrs. Robson hesitated.
“I do hope—there won’t be any—trouble.”
She had lowered her voice. Miss Bowers, however, replied in her usual tone:
“Oh, no, Mrs. Robson; I shall take good care of that. I keep a very sharp look out always.”
But there was still a faint shadow on Mrs. Robson’s face as she slowly continued down the stairs.
X
In his office downtown Mr. Andrew Pennington was opening his personal mail. Suddenly his fist clenched itself and came down on his desk with a bang; his face crimsoned and two big veins stood out on his forehead. He pressed a buzzer on his desk and a smart-looking stenographer appeared with commendable promptitude.
“Tell Mr. Rockford to step in here.”
“Yes, Mr. Pennington.”
A few minutes later, Sterndale Rockford, Pennington’s partner, entered the office. The two men were not unlike—both tall, spare, with greying hair and clean-shaven, clever faces.
“What’s up, Pennington?”
Pennington looked up from the letter he was rereading. He said. “Linnet’s married….”
“What?”
“You heard what I said! Linnet Ridgeway’s married!”
“How? When? Why didn’t we hear about it?”
Pennington glanced at the calendar on his desk.
“She wasn’t married when she wrote this letter, but she’s married now. Morning of the fourth. That’s today.”
Rockford dropped into a chair.
“Whew! No warning! Nothing? Who’s the man?”
Pennington referred again to the letter.
“Doyle. Simon Doyle.”
“What sort of a fellow is he? Ever heard of him?”
“No. She doesn’t say much…” He scanned the lines of clear, upright handwriting. “Got an idea there’s something hole-and-corner about this business…That doesn’t matter. The whole point is, she’s married.”
The eyes of the two men met. Rockford nodded.
“This needs a bit of thinking out,” he said quietly.
“What are we going to do about it?”
“I’m asking you.”
The two men sat silent. Then Rockford asked, “Got any plan?”
Pennington said slowly: “The Normandie sails today. One of us could just make it.”
“You’re crazy! What’s the big idea?”
Pennington began: “Those British lawyers—” and stopped.
“What about ’em. Surely you’re not going over to tackle ’em? You’re mad!”
“I’m not suggesting that you—or I—should go to England.”
“What’s the big idea, then?”
Pennington smoothed out the letter on the table.
“Linnet’s going to Egypt for her honeymoon. Expects to be there a month or more….”
“Egypt—eh?”
Rockford considered. Then he looked up and met the other’s glance.
“Egypt,” he said. “That’s your idea!”
“Yes—a chance meeting. Over on a trip. Linnet and her husband—honeymoon atmosphere. It might be done.”
Rockford said doubtfully: “She’s sharp, Linnet is…but—”
Pennington went on softly: “I think there might be ways of—managing it.”
Again their eyes met. Rockford nodded.
“All right, big boy.”
Pennington looked at the clock.
“We’ll have to hustle—whichever of us is going.”
“You go,” said Rockford promptly. “You always made a hit with Linnet. ‘Uncle Andrew.’ That’s the ticket!”
Pennington’s face had hardened. He said: “I hope I can pull it off.”
“You’ve got to pull it off,” his partner said.
“The situation’s critical….”
XI
William Carmichael said to the thin, weedy youth who opened the door inquiringly: “Send Mr. Jim to me, please.”
Jim Fanthorp entered the room and looked inquiringly at his uncle. The older man looked up with a nod and a grunt.
“Humph, there you are.”
“You asked for me?”
“Just cast an eye over this.”
The young man sat down and drew the sheaf of papers towards him. The elder man watched him.
“Well?