Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile

Linnet had an “atmosphere”, you see. She was the queen of a kingdom – the young princess – luxurious to her fingertips. It was like a stage setting. She had the world at her feet, one of the richest and most sought-after peers in England wanting to marry her. And she stoops instead to the obscure Simon Doyle… Do you wonder it went to his head?’ She made a sudden gesture. ‘Look at the moon up there. You see her very plainly, don’t you? She’s very real. But if the sun were to shine you wouldn’t be able to see her at all.

It was rather like that. I was the moon… When the sun came out, Simon couldn’t see me any more… He was dazzled. He couldn’t see anything but the sun – Linnet.’

She paused and then she went on:

‘So you see it was – glamour. She went to his head. And then there’s her complete assurance – her habit of command. She’s so sure of herself that she makes other people sure. Simon was – weak, perhaps, but then he’s a very simple person. He would have loved me and me only if Linnet hadn’t come along and snatched him up in her golden chariot.

And I know – I know perfectly – that he wouldn’t ever have fallen in love with her if she hadn’t made him.’

‘That is what you think – yes.’

‘I know it. He loved me – he will always love me.’

Poirot said:

‘Even now?’

A quick answer seemed to rise to her lips, then be stifled. She looked at Poirot and a deep burning colour spread over her face. She looked away, her head dropped down. She said in a low stifled voice:

‘Yes, I know.

He hates me now. Yes, hates me… He’d better be careful.’

With a quick gesture she fumbled in a little silk bag that lay on the seat. Then she held out her hand. On the palm of it was a small pearl-handled pistol – a dainty toy it looked.

‘Nice little thing, isn’t it? she said. ‘Looks too foolish to be real, but it is real! One of those bullets would kill a man or a woman. And I’m a good shot.’ She smiled a faraway, reminiscent smile. ‘When I went home as a child with my mother to South Carolina, my grandfather taught me to shoot.

He was the old-fashioned kind that believes in shooting – especially where honour is concerned. My father, too, he fought several duels as a young man. He was a good swordsman. He killed a man once. That was over a woman. So you see, Monsieur Poirot’-she met his eyes squarely-‘I’ve hot blood in me! I bought this when it first happened. I meant to kill one or other of them – the trouble was I couldn’t decide which.