Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - стр. 35

‘Even if I were to – kill her, you couldn’t stop me.’

‘No – not if you were willing – to pay the price.’

Jacqueline de Bellefort laughed.

‘Oh, I’m not afraid of death! What have I got to live for, after all? I suppose you believe it’s very wrong to kill a person who has injured you – even if they’ve taken away everything you had in the world?’

Poirot said steadily:

‘Yes, Mademoiselle. I believe it is the unforgivable offence – to kill.’

Jacqueline laughed again.

‘Then you ought to approve of my present scheme of revenge. Because, you see, as long as it works, I shan’t use that pistol… But I’m afraid – yes, afraid sometimes – it all goes red – I want to hurt her – to stick a knife into her, to put my dear little pistol close against her head and then – just press with my finger – Oh!’

The exclamation startled him.

‘What is it, Mademoiselle!’

She turned her head and was staring into the shadows.

‘Someone – standing over there. He’s gone now.’

Hercule Poirot looked round sharply. The place seemed quite deserted.

‘There seems no one here but ourselves, Mademoiselle.’ He got up. ‘In any case I have said all I came to say. I wish you good night.’

Jacqueline got up too. She said almost pleadingly:

‘You do understand – that I can’t do what you ask me to do?’

Poirot shook his head.

‘No – for you could do it! There is always a moment! Your friend Linnet – there was a moment, too, in which she could have held her hand… She let it pass by. And if one does that, then one is committed to the enterprise and there comes no second chance.’

‘No second chance…’ said Jacqueline de Bellefort.

She stood brooding for a moment, then she lifted her head defiantly.

‘Good night, Monsieur Poirot.’

He shook his head sadly and followed her up the path to the hotel.

On the following morning Simon Doyle joined Hercule Poirot as the latter was leaving the hotel to walk down to the town.

‘Good morning, Monsieur Poirot.’

‘Good morning, Monsieur Doyle.’

‘You going to the town? Mind if I stroll along with you?’

‘But certainly. I shall be delighted.’

The two men walked side by side, passed out through the gateway and turned into the cool shade of the gardens. Then Simon removed his pipe from his mouth and said,

‘I understand, Monsieur Poirot, that my wife had a talk with you last night?’

‘That is so.’

Simon Doyle was frowning a little. He belonged to that type of men of action who find it difficult to put thoughts into words and who have trouble in expressing themselves clearly.

‘I’m glad of one thing,’ he said. ‘You’ve made her realize that we’re more or less powerless in the matter.’