Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - стр. 40

Poirot looked at him with a slight feeling of irritation. He thought to himself: ‘The Anglo-Saxon, he takes nothing seriously but playing games! He does not grow up.’

Linnet Doyle – Jacqueline de Bellefort – both of them took the business seriously enough. But in Simon’s attitude he could find nothing but male impatience and annoyance.

He said:

‘You will permit me an impertinent question? Was it your idea to come to Egypt for your honeymoon?’

Simon flushed.

‘No, of course not. As a matter of fact I’d rather have gone anywhere else. But Linnet was absolutely set upon it. And so – and so-’

He stopped rather lamely.

‘Naturally,’ said Poirot gravely.

He appreciated the fact that if Linnet Doyle was set upon anything, that thing had to happen.

He thought to himself: ‘I have now heard three separate accounts of the affair – Linnet Doyle’s, Jacqueline de Bellefort’s, Simon Doyle’s. Which of them is nearest to the truth?’

Simon and Linnet Doyle set off on their expedition to Philae about eleven o’clock the following morning. Jacqueline de Bellefort, sitting on the hotel balcony, watched them set off in the picturesque sailing boat. What she did not see was the departure of a car – laden with luggage, and in which sat a demure-looking maid – from the front door of the hotel. It turned to the right in the direction of Shellal.

Hercule Poirot decided to pass the remaining two hours before lunch on the island of Elephantine, immediately opposite the hotel.

He went down to the landing-stage. There were two men just stepping into one of the hotel boats, and Poirot joined them. The men were obviously strangers to each other. The younger of them had arrived by train the day before. He was a tall, dark-haired young man, with a thin face and a pugnacious chin. He was wearing an extremely dirty pair of grey flannel trousers and a highnecked polo jumper singularly unsuited to the climate. The other was a slightly podgy middle-aged man who lost no time in entering into conversation with Poirot in idiomatic but slightly broken English. Far from taking part in the conversation, the younger man merely scowled at them both and then deliberately turned his back on them and proceeded to admire the agility with which the boatman steered the boat with his toes as he manipulated the sail with his hands.

It was very peaceful on the water, the great smooth slippery black rocks gliding by and the soft breeze fanning their faces. Elephantine was reached very quickly and on going ashore Poirot and his loquacious acquaintance made straight for the museum. By this time the latter had produced a card which he handed to Poirot with a little bow. It bore the inscription: