Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile

Please go and find her at once. The doctor said it was most important-’

But at this stage Miss Bowers entered, carrying a small medicine glass.

‘Your drops, Miss Van Schuyler.’

‘I should have had them at eleven,’ snapped the old lady. ‘If there’s one thing I detest it’s unpunctuality.’

‘Quite,’ said Miss Bowers. She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘It’s exactly half a minute to eleven.’

‘By my watch it’s ten past.’

‘I think you’ll find my watch is right. It’s a perfect timekeeper.

Miss Van Schuyler swallowed the contents of the medicine glass.

‘I feel definitely worse,’ she snapped.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Van Schuyler.’

Miss Bowers did not sound sorry. She sounded completely uninterested. She was obviously making the correct reply mechanically.

‘It’s too hot in here,’ snapped Miss Van Schuyler. ‘Find me a chair on the deck, Miss Bowers. Cornelia, bring my knitting.

The procession passed out.

Mr Ferguson sighed, stirred his legs and remarked to the world at large:

‘Gosh, I’d like to scrag that dame.’

Poirot asked interestedly:

‘She is a type you dislike, eh?’

‘Dislike? I should say so. What good has that woman ever been to anyone or anything? She’s never worked or lifted a finger. She’s just battened on other people. She’s a parasite – and a damned unpleasant parasite.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. That girl in here just now, signing share transfers and throwing her weight about. Hundreds and thousands of wretched workers slaving for a mere pittance to keep her in silk stockings and useless luxuries. One of the richest women in England, so someone told me – and never done a hand’s turn in her life.’

‘Who told you she was one of the richest women in England?’

Mr Ferguson cast a belligerent eye at him.

‘A man you wouldn’t be seen speaking to! A man who works with his hands and isn’t ashamed of it! Not one of your dressed-up, foppish good-for-nothings.’

His eye rested unfavourably on the bow tie and pink shirt.

‘Me, I work with my brains and am not ashamed of it,’ said Poirot, answering the glance.

Mr Ferguson merely snorted.

‘Ought to be shot – the lot of them!’ he asserted.