Death on the Nile - Agatha Christie [99]
Cornelia paused, drew a deep breath, and started off again.
“But it’s worrying me dreadfully in case it all gets out. It would be too, too terrible in New York. Why, all the tabloids would have it. Cousin Marie and Mother and everybody—they’d never hold up their heads again.”
Race sighed. “That’s all right,” he said.
“This is Hush Hush House.”
“I beg your pardon, Colonel Race?”
“What I was endeavouring to say was that anything short of murder is being hushed up.”
“Oh!” Cornelia clasped her hands. “I’m so relieved. I’ve just been worrying and worrying.”
“You have the heart too tender,” said Dr. Bessner, and patted her benevolently on the shoulder. He said to the others: “She has a very sensitive and beautiful nature.”
“Oh, I haven’t really. You’re too kind.”
Poirot murmured, “Have you seen anymore of Mr. Ferguson?”
Cornelia blushed.
“No—but Cousin Marie’s been talking about him.”
“It seems the young man is highly born,” said Dr. Bessner. “I must confess he does not look it. His clothes are terrible. Not for a moment does he appear a well-bred man.”
“And what do you think, Mademoiselle?”
“I think he must be just plain crazy,” said Cornelia.
Poirot turned to the doctor. “How is your patient?”
“Ach, he is going on splendidly. I have just reassured the Fräulein de Bellefort. Would you believe it, I found her in despair. Just because the fellow had a bit of a temperature this afternoon! But what could be more natural? It is amazing that he is not in a high fever now. But no, he is like some of our peasants; he has a magnificent constitution, the constitution of an ox. I have seen them with deep wounds that they hardly notice. It is the same with Mr. Doyle. His pulse is steady, his temperature only slightly above normal. I was able to pooh-pooh the little lady’s fears. All the same, it is ridiculous, nicht wahr? One minute you shoot a man; the next you are in hysterics in case he may not be doing well.”
Cornelia said: “She loves him terribly, you see.”
“Ach! but it is not sensible, that. If you loved a man, would you try and shoot him? No, you are sensible.”
“I don’t like things that go off with bangs anyway,” said Cornelia.
“Naturally you do not. You are very feminine.”
Race interrupted this scene of heavy approval. “Since Doyle is all right there’s no reason I shouldn’t come along and resume our talk of this afternoon. He was just telling me about a telegram.”
Dr. Bessner’s bulk moved up and down appreciatively.
“Ho, ho, ho, it was very funny that! Doyle, he tells me about it. It was a telegram all about vegetables—potatoes, artichokes, leeks—Ach! pardon?”
With a stifled exclamation, Race had sat up in his chair.
“My God,” he said. “So that’s it! Richetti!”
He looked round on three uncomprehending faces.
“A new code—it was used in the South African rebellion. Potatoes mean machine guns, artichokes are high explosives—and so on. Richetti is no more an archæologist than I am! He’s a very dangerous agitator, a man who’s killed more than once, and I’ll swear that he’s killed once again. Mrs. Doyle opened that telegram by mistake, you see. If she were ever to repeat what was in it before me, he knew his goose would be cooked!”
He turned to Poirot. “Am I right?” he asked. “Is Richetti the man?”
“He is your man,” said Poirot. “I always thought there was something wrong about him. He was almost too word-perfect in his rôle; he was all archæologist, not enough human being.”
He paused and then said: “But it was not Richetti who killed Linnet Doyle. For some time now I have known what I may express as the ‘first half ’ of the murderer. Now I know the ‘second half ’ also. The picture is complete. But you understand that, although I know what must have happened, I have no proof that it happened. Intellectually the case is satisfying. Actually it is profoundly unsatisfactory. There is only one hope—a confession from the murderer.”
Dr. Bessner raised his shoulders sceptically. “Ah! but that—it would be a miracle.”
“I think not. Not under the circumstances.”
Cornelia