Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - стр. 48

She looked up, bit her lip vexedly, as though feeling that she had been led into discussing her difficulties rather too unguardedly.

She got up.

‘I must change. I’m sorry, Monsieur Poirot. I’m afraid I’ve been talking a lot of foolish nonsense.’

Mrs Allerton, looking quiet and distinguished in her simple black lace evening gown, descended two decks to the dining room. At the door of it her son caught her up.

‘Sorry, darling. I thought I was going to be late.’

‘I wonder where we sit.’

The saloon was dotted with little tables. Mrs Allerton paused till the steward, who was busy seating a party of people, could attend to them.

‘By the way,’ she added, ‘I asked little Hercule Poirot to sit at our table.’

‘Mother, you didn’t!’ Tim sounded really taken aback and annoyed.

His mother stared at him in surprise. Tim was usually so easy going.

‘My dear, do you mind?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s an unmitigated little bounder!’

‘Oh, no, Tim! I don’t agree with you.’

‘Anyway, what do we want to get mixed up with an outsider for? Cooped up like this on a small boat, that sort of thing is always a bore. He’ll be with us morning, noon and night.’

‘I’m sorry, dear.’ Mrs Allerton looked distressed. ‘I thought really it would amuse you. After all, he must have had a varied experience. And you love detective stories.’

Tim grunted:

‘I wish you wouldn’t have these bright ideas, Mother. We can’t get out of it now, I suppose?’

‘Really, Tim, I don’t see how we can.’

‘Oh, well, we shall have to put up with it, I suppose.’

The steward came to them at this minute and led them to a table. Mrs Allerton’s face wore rather a puzzled expression as she followed him. Tim was usually so easy-going and good-tempered. This outburst was quite unlike him. It wasn’t as though he had the ordinary Britisher’s dislike – and mistrust – of foreigners. Tim was very cosmopolitan. Oh, well – she sighed. Men were incomprehensible! Even one’s nearest and dearest had unsuspected reactions and feelings.

As they took their places, Hercule Poirot came quickly and silently into the dining-saloon. He paused with his hand on the back of the third chair.

‘You really permit, Madame, that I avail myself of your kind suggestion?’

‘Of course. Sit down, Monsieur Poirot.’

‘You are most amiable.’

She was uneasily conscious that as he seated himself he shot a swift glance at Tim, and that Tim had not quite succeeded in masking a somewhat sullen expression.