Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - стр. 64
Linnet stared in surprise for a moment, then turned over the envelope.
‘Oh, Simon, what a fool I am! It’s Richetti – not Ridgeway – and anyway of course my name isn’t Ridgeway now. I must apologize.’
She followed the little archaeologist up to the stern of the boat.
‘I am so sorry, Signor Richetti. You see my name was Ridgeway before I married, and I haven’t been married very long, and so…’
She paused, her face dimpled with smiles, inviting him to smile upon a young bride’s faux pas.
But Richetti was obviously ‘not amused’. Queen Victoria at her most disapproving could not have looked more grim.
‘Names should be read carefully. It is inexcusable to be careless in these matters.’
Linnet bit her lip and her colour rose. She was not accustomed to have her apologies received in this fashion. She turned away and, rejoining Simon, said angrily,
‘These Italians are really insupportable.’
‘Never mind, darling; let’s go and look at that big ivory crocodile you liked.’
They went ashore together.
Poirot, watching them walk up the landing stage, heard a sharp indrawn breath. He turned to see Jacqueline de Bellefort at his side. Her hands were clenched on the rail. The expression on her face as she turned it towards him quite startled him. It was no longer gay or malicious. She looked devoured by some inner consuming fire.
‘They don’t care any more.’ The words came low and fast. ‘They’ve got beyond me. I can’t reach them… They don’t mind if I’m here or not… I can’t – I can’t hurt them any more…’
er hands on the rail trembled.
‘Mademoiselle-’
She broke in: ‘Oh, it’s too late now – too late for warnings… You were right. I ought not to have come. Not on this journey. What did you call it? A journey of the soul? I can’t go back – I’ve got to go on. And I’m going on. They shan’t be happy together – they shan’t. I’d kill him sooner…’
She turned abruptly away. Poirot, staring after her, felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Your girl friend seems a trifle upset, Monsieur Poirot.’
Poirot turned. He stared in surprise, seeing an old acquaintance.
‘Colonel Race.’
The tall bronzed man smiled.
‘Bit of a surprise, eh?’
Hercule Poirot had come across Colonel Race a year previously in London. They had been fellow guests at a very strange dinner party – a dinner party that had ended in death for that strange man, their host.
Poirot knew that Race was a man of unadvertised goings and comings. He was usually to be found in one of the outposts of Empire where trouble was brewing.
‘So you are here at Wadi Halfa,’ Poirot marked thoughtfully.