Death on the Nile - Agatha Christie [17]
Jacqueline de Bellefort smiled and twisted her chair round. She lit a cigarette and stared out over the Nile. She went on smiling to herself.
Four
“Monsieur Poirot.”
Poirot got hastily to his feet. He had remained sitting out on the terrace alone after everyone else had left. Lost in meditation he had been staring at the smooth shiny black rocks when the sound of his name recalled him to himself.
It was a well-bred, assured voice, a charming voice, although perhaps a trifle arrogant.
Hercule Poirot, rising quickly, looked into the commanding eyes of Linnet Doyle. She wore a wrap of rich purple velvet over her white satin gown and she looked more lovely and more regal than Poirot had imagined possible.
“You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” said Linnet.
It was hardly a question.
“At your service, Madame.”
“You know who I am, perhaps?”
“Yes, Madame. I have heard your name. I know exactly who you are.”
Linnet nodded. That was only what she had expected. She went on, in her charming autocratic manner: “Will you come with me into the card room, Monsieur Poirot? I am very anxious to speak to you.”
“Certainly, Madame.”
She led the way into the hotel. He followed. She led him into the deserted card room and motioned him to close the door. Then she sank down on a chair at one of the tables and he sat down opposite her.
She plunged straightaway into what she wanted to say. There were no hesitations. Her speech came flowingly.
“I have heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Poirot, and I know that you are a very clever man. It happens that I am urgently in need of someone to help me—and I think very possibly that you are the man who would do it.”
Poirot inclined his head.
“You are very amiable, Madame, but you see, I am on holiday, and when I am on holiday I do not take cases.”
“That could be arranged.”
It was not offensively said—only with the quiet confidence of a young woman who had always been able to arrange matters to her satisfaction.
Linnet Doyle went on: “I am the subject, Monsieur Poirot, of an intolerable persecution. That persecution has got to stop! My own idea was to go to the police about it, but my—my husband seems to think that the police would be powerless to do anything.”
“Perhaps—if you would explain a little further?” murmured Poirot politely.
“Oh, yes, I will do so. The matter is perfectly simple.”
There was still no hesitation—no faltering. Linnet Doyle had a clear-cut businesslike mind. She only paused a minute so as to present the facts as concisely as possible.
“Before I met my husband, he was engaged to a Miss de Bellefort. She was also a friend of mine. My husband broke off his engagement to her—they were not suited in any way. She, I am sorry to say, took it rather hard…I—am very sorry about that—but these things cannot be helped. She made certain—well, threats—to which I paid very little attention, and which, I may say, she has not attempted to carry out. But instead she has adopted the extraordinary course of—of following us about wherever we go.”
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
“Ah—rather an unusual—er—revenge.”
“Very unusual—and very ridiculous! But also—annoying.”
She bit her lip.
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, I can imagine that. You are, I understand, on your honeymoon?”
“Yes. It happened—the first time—at Venice. She was there—at Danielli’s. I thought it was just coincidence. Rather embarrassing, but that was all. Then we found her on board the boat at Brindisi. We—we understood that she was going on to Palestine. We left her, as we thought, on the boat. But—but when we got to Mena House she was there—waiting for us.”
Poirot nodded.
“And now?”
“We came up the Nile by boat. I—I was half expecting to find her on board. When she wasn’t there I thought she had stopped being so—so childish. But when we got here—she—she was here—waiting.”
Poirot eyed her keenly for a moment. She was still perfectly composed, but the knuckles of the hand that was gripping the table were white with the force of her grip.
He said: “And you are afraid this