Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile - Кристи Агата. Страница 27

‘So? What is it?’

By this time Fanthorp had switched the light on. The doctor blinked up at him, looking rather like a large owl.

‘It’s Doyle. He’s been shot. Miss de Bellefort shot him. He’s in the saloon. Can you come?’

The stout doctor reacted promptly. He asked a few curt questions, pulled on his bedroom slippers and a dressinggown, picked up a little case of necessaries and accompanied Fanthorp to the lounge.

Simon had managed to get the window beside him open. He was leaning his head against it, inhaling the air. His face was a ghastly colour.

Dr Bessner came over to him.

‘Ha? So? What have we here?’

A handkerchief sodden with blood lay on the carpet, and on the carpet itself was a dark stain.

The doctor’s examination was punctuated with grunts and exclamations.

‘Yes, it is bad this… The bone is fractured. And a big loss of blood. Herr Fanthorp, you and I must get him to my cabin. So – like this. He cannot walk. We must carry him, thus.’

As they lifted him Cornelia appeared in the doorway. Catching sight of her, the doctor uttered a grunt of satisfaction.

‘Ach, it is you? Goot. Come with us. I have need of assistance. You will be better than my friend here. He looks a little pale already.’

Fanthorp emitted a rather sickly smile.

‘Shall I get Miss Bowers?’ he asked.

Dr Bessner threw a considering glance over Cornelia.

‘You will do very well, young lady,’ he announced. ‘You will not faint or be foolish, hein?’

‘I can do what you tell me,’ said Cornelia eagerly.

Bessner nodded in a satisfied fashion.

The procession passed along the deck.

The next ten minutes were purely surgical and Mr Jim Fanthorp did not enjoy it at all. He felt secretly ashamed of the superior fortitude exhibited by Cornelia.

‘So, that is the best I can do,’ announced Dr Bessner at last. ‘You have been a hero, my friend.’ He patted Simon approvingly on the shoulder. Then he rolled up his sleeve and produced a hypodermic needle. ‘And now I will give you something to make you sleep. Your wife, what about her?’

Simon said weakly:

‘She needn’t know till the morning…’ He went on: ‘I – you mustn’t blame Jackie… It’s been all my fault. I treated her disgracefully… poor kid – she didn’t know what she was doing…’

Dr Bessner nodded comprehendingly.

‘Yes, yes – I understand…’

‘My fault-’ Simon urged. His eyes went to Cornelia. ‘Someone – ought to stay with her. She might – hurt herself-’

Dr Bessner injected the needle. Cornelia said, with quiet competence:

‘It’s all right, Mr Doyle. Miss Bowers is going to stay with her all night…’

A grateful look flashed over Simon’s face. His body relaxed. His eyes closed. Suddenly he jerked them open.

‘Fanthorp?’

‘Yes, Doyle.’

‘The pistol… Ought not to leave it… lying about… The servents will find it in the morning…’

Fanthorp nodded.

‘Quite right. I’ll go and get hold of it now.’

He went out of the cabin and along the deck. Miss Bowers appeared at the door of Jacqueline’s cabin.

‘She’ll be all right now,’ she announced. ‘I’ve given her a morphine injection.’

‘But you’ll stay with her?’

‘Oh, yes. Morphia excites some people. I shall stay all night.’

Fanthorp went on to the lounge.

Some three minutes later there was a tap on Bessner’s cabin door.

‘Dr Bessner?’

‘Yes?’ The stout man appeared.

Fanthorp beckoned him out on the deck.

‘Look here – I can’t find that pistol…’

‘What is that?’

‘The pistol. It dropped out of the girl’s hand. She kicked it away and it went under a settee. It isn’t under that settee now.’

They stared at each other.

‘But who can have taken it?’

Fanthorp shrugged his shoulders.

Bessner said:

‘It is curious, that. But I do not see what we can do about it.’

Puzzled and vaguely alarmed, the two men separated.

Chapter 12

Hercule Poirot was just wiping the lather from his freshly shaved face when there was a quick tap on the door and hard on top of it Colonel Race entered unceremoniously. He closed the door behind him. He said:

‘Your instinct was quite correct. It’s happened.’

Poirot straightened up and asked sharply:

‘What has happened?’

‘Linnet Doyle’s dead – shot through the head last night.’

Poirot was silent for a minute, two memories vividly before him – a girl in a garden at Aswan saying in a hard breathless voice, ‘I’d like to put my dear little pistol against her head and just press the trigger,’ and another more recent memory, the same voice saying: ‘One feels one can’t go on – the kind of day when something breaks’-and that strange momentary flash of appeal in her eyes. What had been the matter with him not to respond to that appeal? He had been blind, deaf, stupid with his need for sleep…

Race went on:

‘I’ve got some slight official standing – they sent for me, put it in my hands. The boat’s due to start in half an hour, but it will be delayed till I give the word. There’s a possibility, of course, that the murderer came from the shore.’

Poirot shook his head.

Race acquiesced in the gesture.

‘I agree. One can pretty well rule that out. Well, man, it’s up to you. This is your show.’

Poirot had been attiring himself with a neat-fingered celerity. He said now:

‘I am at your disposal.’

‘Bessner should be there by now. I sent the steward for him.’

There were four cabins de luxe, with bathrooms, on the boat. Of the two on the port side one was occupied by Dr Bessner, the other by Andrew Pennington. On the starboard side the first was occupied by Miss Van Schuyler, and the one next to it by Linnet Doyle. Her husband’s dressing cabin was next door.

A steward was standing outside the door of Linnet Doyle’s cabin. He opened the door for them and they passed inside. Dr Bessner was bending over the bed. He looked up and grunted as the other two entered.

‘What can you tell us, Doctor, about this business?’ asked Race.

Bessner rubbed his unshaven jaw meditatively.

‘Ach! She was shot – shot at close quarters. See – here just above the ear – that is where the bullet entered. A very little bullet – I should say a.22. The pistol, it was held close against her head – see, there is blackening here, the skin is scorched.’

Again in a sick wave of memory Poirot thought of those words uttered in Aswan.

Bessner went on.

‘She was asleep – there was no struggle – the murderer crept up in the dark and shot her as she lay there.’

‘Ah! non!’ Poirot cried out. His sense of psychology was outraged. Jacqueline de Bellefort creeping into a darkened cabin, pistol in hand – no, it did not ‘fit’, that picture.

Bessner stared at him with his thick lenses.

‘But that is what happened, I tell you.’

‘Yes, yes. I did not mean what you thought. I was not contradicting you.’

Bessner gave a satisfied grunt.

Poirot came up and stood beside him. Linnet Doyle was lying on her side. Her attitude was natural and peaceful. But above the ear was a tiny hole with an incrustation of dried blood round it.

Poirot shook his head sadly. Then his gaze fell on the white painted wall just in front of him and he drew in his breath sharply. Its white neatness was marred by a big wavering letter J scrawled in some brownish-red medium.