‘Yes–though I must admit that the most brilliant crime I remember and one of the most difficult to solve was committed on the spur of the moment.’
Simon said boyishly: ‘You must tell us something about your cases on board the Karnak.’
‘No, no; that would be to talk–what do you call it?–the shop.’
‘Yes, but your kind of shop is rather thrilling. Mrs Allerton thinks so. She’s longing to get a chance to cross-question you.’
‘Mrs Allerton? That is the charming grey-haired woman who has such a devoted son?’
‘Yes. She’ll be on the Karnak too.’
‘Does she know that you–?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Simon with emphasis. ‘Nobody knows. I’ve gone on the principle that it’s better not to trust anybody.’
‘An admirable sentiment–and one which I always adopt. By the way, the third member of your party, the tall grey-haired man–’
‘Pennington?’
‘Yes. He is travelling with you?’
Simon said grimly: ‘Not very usual on a honeymoon, you were thinking? Pennington is Linnet’s American trustee. We ran across him by chance in Cairo.’
‘Ah, vraiment! You permit a question? She is of age, Madame your wife?’
Simon looked amused.
‘She isn’t actually twenty-one yet–but she hadn’t got to ask anyone’s consent before marrying me. It was the greatest surprise to Pennington. He left New York on the Carmanic two days before Linnet’s letter got there telling him of our marriage, so he knew nothing about it.’
‘The Carmanic–’ murmured Poirot.
‘It was the greatest surprise to him when we ran into him at Shepheard’s in Cairo.’
‘That was indeed the coincident!’
‘Yes, and we found that he was coming on this Nile trip–so naturally we foregathered; couldn’t have done anything else decently. Besides that, it’s been–well, a relief in some ways.’ He looked embarrassed again. ‘You see, Linnet’s been all strung up–expecting Jackie to turn up anywhere and everywhere. While we were alone together, the subject kept coming up. Andrew Pennington’s a help that way, we have to talk of outside matters.’
‘Your wife has not confided in Mr Pennington?’
‘No.’ Simon’s jaw looked aggressive. ‘It’s nothing to do with anyone else. Besides, when we started on this Nile trip we thought we’d seen the end of the business.’
Poirot shook his head.
‘You have not seen the end of it yet. No–the end is not yet at hand. I am very sure of that.’
‘I say, Monsieur Poirot, you’re not very encouraging.’
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 the 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 high-necked 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 Nubian 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: ‘Signor Guido Richetti, Archeologo.’
Not to be outdone, Poirot returned the bow and extracted his own card. These formalities completed, the two men stepped into the Museum together, the Italian pouring forth a stream of erudite information. They were by now conversing in French.
The young man in the flannel trousers strolled listlessly round the Museum, yawning from time to time, and then escaped to the outer air.
Poirot and Signor Richetti at last found him. The Italian was energetic in examining the ruins, but presently Poirot, espying a green-lined sunshade which he recognized on the rocks down by the river, escaped in that direction.
Mrs Allerton was sitting on a large rock, a sketchbook by her side and a book on her lap.
Poirot removed his hat politely and Mrs Allerton at once entered into conversation.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I suppose it would be quite impossible to get rid of some of these awful children.’
A group of small black figures surrounded her, all grinning and posturing and holding out imploring hands as they lisped ‘Bakshish’ at intervals, hopefully.
‘I thought they’d get tired of me,’ said Mrs Allerton sadly. ‘They’ve been watching me for over two hours now–and they close in on me little by little; and then I yell “Imshi” and brandish my sunshade at them and they scatter for a minute or two. And then they come back and stare and stare, and their eyes are simply disgusting, and so are their noses, and I don’t believe I really like children–not unless they’re more or less washed and have the rudiments of manners.’
She laughed ruefully.
Poirot gallantly attempted to disperse the mob for her, but without avail. They scattered and then reappeared, closing in once more.
‘If there were only any peace in Egypt, I should like it better,’ said Mrs Allerton. ‘But you can never be alone anywhere. Someone is always pestering you for money, or offering you donkeys, or beads, or expeditions to native villages, or duck shooting.’
‘It