Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile

‘A big business man, Uncle Andrew.’

Andrew Pennington looked at her appreciatively.

‘You look fine this morning, Linnet. I’ve been a mite worried about you lately. You’ve looked kind of peaky.’

Chatting together, the party returned to the boat. Once more the Karnak glided up the river. The scenery was less stern now. There were palms, cultivation.

It was as though the change in the scenery had relieved some secret oppression that had brooded over the passengers. Tim Allerton had got over his fit of moodiness. Rosalie looked less sulky. Linnet seemed almost light hearted.

Pennington said to her: ‘It’s tactless to talk business to a bride on her honeymoon, but there are just one or two things-’

‘Why, of course, Uncle Andrew.’ Linnet at once became businesslike. ‘My marriage has made a difference, of course.’

‘That’s just it. Some time or other I want your signature to several documents.’

‘Why not now?’

Andrew Pennington glanced round. Their corner of the observation saloon was quite untenanted. Most of the people were outside on the deck space between the observation saloon and the cabin. The only occupants of the saloon were Mr Ferguson – who was drinking beer at a small table in the middle, his legs encased in their dirty flannel trousers stuck out in front of him, whilst he whistled to himself in the intervals of drinking – M. Hercule Poirot, who was sitting before him, and Miss Van Schuyler, who was sitting in a corner reading a book on Egypt.

‘That’s fine,’ said Andrew Pennington. He left the saloon.

Linnet and Simon smiled at each other – a slow smile that took a few minutes to come to full fruition.

He said: ‘All right, sweet?’

‘Yes, still all right… Funny how I’m not rattled any more.’

Simon said with deep conviction in his tone: ‘You’re marvellous.’

Pennington came back. He brought with him a sheaf of closely written documents.

‘Mercy!’ cried Linnet. ‘Have I got to sign all these?’

Andrew Pennington was apologetic.

‘It’s tough on you, I know. But I’d just like to get your affairs put in proper shape. First of all there’s the lease of the Fifth Avenue property… then there are the Western Land Concessions…’

He talked on, rustling and sorting the papers. Simon yawned.

The door to the deck swung open and Mr Fanthorp came in. He gazed aimlessly round, then strolled forward and stood by Poirot looking out at the pale blue water and the yellow enveloping sands…

‘-you sign just there,’ concluded Pennington, spreading a paper before Linnet and indicating a space.

Linnet picked up the document and glanced through it. She turned back once to the first page, then, taking up the fountain pen Pennington had laid beside her, she signed her name Linnet Doyle…

Pennington took away the paper and spread out another. Fanthorp wandered over in their direction. He peered out through the side window at something that seemed to interest him on the bank they were passing.

‘That’s just the transfer,’ said Pennington. ‘You needn’t read it.’

But Linnet took a brief glance through it. Pennington laid down a third paper. Again Linnet perused it carefully.

‘They’re all quite straightforward,’ said Andrew. ‘Nothing of interest. Only legal phraseology.’

Simon yawned again.

‘My dear girl, you’re not going to read the whole lot through, are you? You’ll be at it till lunch time and longer.’

‘I always read everything through,’ said Linnet. ‘Father taught me to do that. He said there might be some clerical error.’

Pennington laughed rather harshly.

‘You’re a grand woman of business, Linnet.’

‘She’s much more conscientious than I’d be,’ said Simon, laughing. ‘I’ve never read a legal document in my life. I sign where they tell me to sign on the dotted line – and that’s that.’

‘That’s frightfully slipshod,’ said Linnet disapprovingly.

‘I’ve no business head,’ said Simon cheerfully. ‘Never had. A fellow tells me to sign – I sign. It’s much the simplest way.’

Andrew Pennington was looking at him thoughtfully. He said dryly, stroking his upper lip,

‘A little risky sometimes, Doyle?’

‘Nonsense,’ replied Simon. ‘I’m not one of those people who believe the whole world is out to do one down. I’m a trusting kind of fellow – and it pays, you know. I’ve hardly ever been let down.’

Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, the silent Mr Fanthorp swung around and addressed Linnet.

‘I hope I’m not butting in, but you must let me say how much I admire your businesslike capacity. In my profession – er – I am a lawyer – I find ladies sadly unbusinesslike. Never to sign a document unless you read it through is admirable – altogether admirable.’

He gave a little bow. Then, rather red in the face, he turned once more to contemplate the banks of the Nile.

Linnet said rather uncertainly, ‘Er – thank you…’ She bit her lip to repress a giggle. The young man had looked so preternaturally solemn. Andrew Pennington looked seriously annoyed. Simon Doyle looked uncertain whether to be annoyed or amused.

The backs of Mr Fanthorp’s ears were bright crimson.

‘Next, please,’ said Linnet, smiling up at Pennington.

But Pennington looked decidedly ruffled.

‘I think perhaps some other time would be better,’ he said stiffly. ‘As – er – Doyle says, if you have to read through all these we shall be here till lunch time. We mustn’t miss enjoying the scenery. Anyway those first two papers were the only urgent ones. We’ll settle down to business later.’

Linnet said: ‘It’s frightfully hot in here. Let’s go outside.’

The three of them passed through the swing door. Hercule Poirot turned his head. His gaze rested thoughtfully on Mr Fanthorp’s back; then it shifted to the lounging figure of Mr Ferguson, who had his head thrown back and was still whistling softly to himself.

Finally Poirot looked over at the upright figure of Miss Van Schuyler in her corner. Miss Van Schuyler was glaring at Mr Ferguson.

The swing door on the port side opened and Cornelia Robson hurried in.