chapter 10

"will you explain to me, madame, the meaning of the word 'fey'?"

mrs allerton looked slightly surprised. she and poirot were toiling slowly up to the rock

overlooking the second cataract. most of the others had gone up on camels, but poirot had felt

that the motion of the camel was slightly reminiscent of that of a ship. mrs allerton had put it on

the grounds of personal dignity.

they had arrived at wвdi halfa the night before. this morning two launches had conveyed all the

party to the second cataract, with the exception of signor richetti, who had insisted on making an

excursion of his own to a remote spot called semna, which, he explained, was of paramount

interest as being the gateway of nubia in the time of amenemhet iii, and where there was a stele

recording the fact that on entering egypt negroes must pay custom duties. everything had been

done to discourage this example of individuality, but with no avail. signor richetti was determined

and had waved aside each objection: (1) that the expedition was not worth making, (2) that the

expedition could not be made, owing to the impossibility of getting a car there, (3) that no car

could be obtained to do the trip, (4) that a car would be a prohibitive price. having scoffed at 1,

expressed incredulity at 2, offered to find a car himself to 3, and bargained fluently in arabic for 4,

signor richetti had at last departed - his departure being arranged in a secret and furtive manner,

in case some of the other tourists should take it into their heads to stray from the appointed paths of

sight-seeing.

"'fey'?" mrs allerton put her head on one side as she considered her reply. "well, it's a scotch

word, really. it means the kind of exalted happiness that comes before disaster. you know - it's too

good to be true."

she enlarged on the theme. poirot listened attentively.

"i thank you, madame. i understand now. it is odd that you should have said that yesterday - when

madame doyle was to escape death so shortly afterward." mrs allerton gave a little shiver.

"it must have been a very near escape. do you think some of those little black wretches rolled it

over for fun? it's the sort of thing boys might do all over the world - not perhaps really meaning

any harm."

poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"it may be, madame."

he changed the subject, talking of majorca and asking various practical questions from the point

of view of a possible visit.

mrs allerton had grown to like the little man very much - partly perhaps out of a contradictory

spirit. tim, she felt, was always trying to make her less friendly to hercule poirot, whom he

summarized firmly as "the worst kind of bounder." but she herself did not call him a bounder; she

supposed it was his somewhat foreign exotic clothing which roused her son's prejudices. she

herself found him an intelligent and stimulating companion. he was also extremely sympathetic.

she found herself suddenly confiding in him her dislike of joanna southwood. it eased her to talk

of the matter. and after all, why not? he did not know joanna - would probably never meet her.

why should she not ease herself of that constantly borne burden of jealous thought?

at that same moment tim and rosalie otterbourne were talking of her. tim had just been half

jestingly abusing his luck. his rotten health, never bad enough to be really interesting, yet not good

enough for him to have led the life he would have chosen. very little money, no congenial

occupation.

"a thoroughly lukewarm, tame existence," he finished discontentedly.

rosalie said abruptly, "you've got something heaps of people would envy you."

"what's that?"

"your mother."

tim was surprised and pleased.

"mother? yes, of course she is quite unique. it's nice of you to see it."

"i think she's marvellous. she looks so lovely - so composed and calm - as though nothing could

ever touch her, and yet - and yet somehow she's always ready to be funny about things too."

rosalie was stammering slightly in her earnestness.

tim felt a rising warmth toward the girl. he wished he could return the compliment, but,

lamentably, mrs otterbourne was his idea of the world's greatest menace. the inability to respond

in kind made him embarrassed.

miss van schuyler had stayed in the launch. she could not risk the ascent either on a camel or on

her legs. she had said snappily:

"i'm sorry to have to ask you to stay with me, miss bowers. i intended you to go and cornelia to

stay, but girls are so selfish. she rushed off without a word to me. and i actually saw her talking to

that very unpleasant and ill-bred young man, ferguson. cornelia has disappointed me sadly. she

has absolutely no social sense."

miss bowers replied in her usual matter-of-fact fashion.

"that's quite all right, miss van schuyler. it would have been a hot walk up there, and i don't

fancy the look of those saddles on the camels. fleas, as likely as not."

she adjusted her glasses, screwed up her eyes to look at the party descending the hill and

remarked: "miss robson isn't with that young man any more. she's with dr bessner."

miss van schuyler granted.

since she had discovered that dr bessner had a large clinic in czecho-slovakia and a european

reputation as a fashionable physician, she was disposed to be gracious to him. besides, she might

need his professional services before the journey was over.

when the party returned to the karnak linnet gave a cry of surprise. "a telegram for me."

she snatched it off the board and tore it open.

"why - i don't understand-potatoes, beetroots - what does it mean, simon?"

simon was just coming to look over her shoulder when a furious voice said,

"excuse me, that telegram is for me," and signor richetti snatched it rudely from her hand, fixing

her with a furious glare as he did so.

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 got married, and i just

haven't grown used to -"

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 toward 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."

her hands on the rail trembled.

"mademoiselle -"

she broke in: "oh, it's too late now - too late for warning... 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 wвdi halfa," he remarked thoughtfully.

"i am here on this boat."

"you mean?"

"that i am making the return journey with you to shellвl."

hercule poirot's eyebrows rose.

"that is very interesting. shall we, perhaps, have a little drink?" they went into the observation

saloon, now quite empty. poirot ordered a whisky for the colonel and a double orangeade full of

sugar for himself.

"so you make the return journey with us," said poirot as he sipped. "you would go faster, would

you not, on the government steamer, which travels by night as well as day?"

colonel race's face creased appreciatively.

"you're right on the spot as usual, monsieur poirot," he said pleasantly.

"it is, then, the passengers?"

"one of the passengers."

"now which one, i wonder?" hercule poirot asked of the ornate ceiling.

"unfortunately i don't know myself," said race ruefully.

poirot looked interested.

race said: "there's no need to be mysterious to you. we've had a good deal of trouble out here -

one way and another. it isn't the people who ostensibly lead the rioters that we're after. it's the men

who very cleverly put the match to the gunpowder. there were three of them. one's dead. one's in

prison. i want the third man - a man with five or six cold-blooded murders to his credit. he's one of

the cleverest paid agitators that ever existed... he's on this boat. i know that from a passage in a

letter that passed through our hands. decoded it said: 'x will be on the karnak trip february

seventh to thirteenth.' it didn't say under what name x would be passing."

"have you any description of him?"

"no. american, irish and french descent. bit of a mongrel. that doesn't help us much. have you

got any ideas?"

"an idea - it is all very well," said poirot meditatively.

such was the understanding between them that race pressed him no further.

he knew that hercule poirot did not ever speak unless he was sure.

poirot rubbed his nose and said unhappily, "there passes itself something on this boat that causes

me much inquietude."

race looked at him inquiringly.

"picture to yourself," said poirot, "a person a who has grievously wronged a person b. the person

b desires the revenge. the person b makes the threats."

"a and b being both on this boat?"

poirot nodded. "precisely."

"and b, i gather, being a woman?"

"exactly."

race lit a cigarette.

"i shouldn't worry. people who go about talking of what they are going to do don't usually do it."

"and particularly is that the case with les femmes, you would say! yes, that is true."

but he still did not look happy.

"anything else?" asked race.

"yes, there is something. yesterday the person a had a very near escape from death, the kind of

death that might very conveniently be called an accident."

"engineered by b?"

"no, that is just the point. b could have had nothing to do with it."

"then it was an accident."

"i suppose so - but i do not like such accidents."

"you're quite sure b could have had no hand in it?"

"absolutely."

"oh, well, coincidences do happen. who is a, by the way? a particularly disagreeable person?"

"on the contrary. a is a charming, rich and beautiful young lady."

race grinned. "sounds quite like a novelette."

"peut-ktre. but i tell you, i am not happy, my friend. if i am right, and after all i am constantly in

the habit of being right -" race smiled into his moustache at this typical utterance - "then there is

matter for grave inquietude. and now, you come to add yet another complication. you tell me that

there is a man on the karnak who kills.

"he doesn't usually kill charming young ladies."

poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

"i am afraid, my friend," he said. "i am afraid... today, i advised this lady, madame doyle, to go

with her husband to khartoun, not to return on this boat. but they would not agree. i pray to

heaven that we may arrive at shellвl without catastrophe."

"aren't you taking, rather a cynical view?"

poirot shook his head.

"i am afraid," he said simply. "yes, i, hercule poirot, am afraid."