Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile

I wonder what he is doing here.’

‘Mr Ferguson,’ read Mrs Allerton. ‘I feel that Ferguson must be our anti-capitalist friend. Mrs Otterbourne, Miss Otterbourne. We know all about them. Mr Pennington? Alias Uncle Andrew. He’s a good-looking man, I think-’

‘Now, Mother,’ said Tim.

‘I think he’s very good-looking in a dry sort of way,’ said Mrs Allerton. ‘Rather a ruthless jaw. Probably the kind of man one reads about in the paper, who operates on Wall Street – or is it in Wall Street? I’m sure he must be extremely rich.

Next – Monsieur Hercule Poirot – whose talents are really being wasted. Can’t you get up a crime for Monsieur Poirot, Tim?’

But her well-meant banter only seemed to annoy her son anew. He scowled and Mrs Allerton hurried on.

‘Mr Richetti. Our Italian archaeological friend. Then Miss Robson and last of all Miss Van Schuyler. The last’s easy. The very ugly old American lady who obviously feels herself the queen of the boat and who is clearly going to be very exclusive and speak to nobody who doesn’t come up to the most exacting standards! She’s rather marvellous, isn’t she, really? A kind of period piece.

The two women with her must be Miss Bowers and Miss Robson – perhaps a secretary, the thin one with pince-nez, and a poor relation, the rather pathetic young woman who is obviously enjoying herself in spite of being treated like a slave. I think Robson’s the secretary woman and Bowers is the poor relation.’

‘Wrong, Mother,’ said Tim, grinning. He had suddenly recovered his good humour.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I was in the lounge before dinner and the old bean said to the companion woman: “Where’s Miss Bowers? Fetch her at once, Cornelia.” And away trotted Cornelia like an obedient dog.’

‘I shall have to talk to Miss Van Schuyler,’ mused Mrs Allerton.

Tim grinned again.

‘She’ll snub you, Mother.’

‘Not at all. I shall pave the way by sitting near her and conversing in low (but penetrating) well-bred tones about any titled relations and friends I can remember.

I think a casual mention of your second cousin once removed, the Duke of Glasgow, would probably do the trick.’

‘How unscrupulous you are, Mother!’

Events after dinner were not without their amusing side to a student of human nature.

The socialistic young man (who turned out to be Mr Ferguson as deduced) retired to the smoking room, scorning the assemblage of passengers in the observation saloon on the top deck.