Βιβλία σαν το «Έγκλημα στον Νείλο»

ONEThe bodies were discovered at eight forty-five on the morning of Wednesday 18 September by Miss Emily Wharton, a sixty-five-year-old spinster of the parish of St. Matthew’s in Paddington, London, and Darren Wilkes, aged ten, of no particular parish as far as he knew or cared. This unlikely pair of companions had left Miss Wharton’s flat in Crowhurst Gardens just before half past eight to walk the half-mile stretch of the Grand Union Canal to St. Matthew’s Church.

I stepped outside. Father was standing in the corridor. He held up his right hand and spread his fingers out in a fan. I held up my left hand and spread my fingers out in a fan and we made our fingers and thumbs touch each other. We do this because sometimes Father wants to give me a hug, but I do not like hugging people, so we do this instead, and it means that he loves me.

Barrymore was crouching at the window with the candle held against the glass. His profile was half turned towards me, and his face seemed to be rigid with expectation as he stared out into the blackness of the moor. For some minutes he stood watching intently. Then he gave a deep groan and with an impatient gesture he put out the light. Instantly I made my way back to my room, and very shortly came the stealthy steps passing once more upon their return journey. Long afterwards when I had fallen into a light sleep I heard a key turn somewhere in a lock, but I could not tell whence the sound came. What it all means I cannot guess, but there is some secret business going on in this house of gloom which sooner or later we shall get to the bottom of.

Όμως, είμαι τυχερή που έχω ακόμη κι αυτή τη θέση. Σε κανέναν δεν αρέσουν οι εργαζόμενοι που έχουν περάσει από ανάκριση, έστω κι αν ο ανακριτής με απάλλαξε από κάθε κατηγορία! Μάλιστα, την είχε συγχαρεί για την ετοιμότητα πνεύματος και το κουράγιο που επέδειξε. Για ανάκριση, δε θα μπορούσε να πάει καλύτερα. Και η κυρία Χάμιλτον ήταν η προσωποποίηση της καλοσύνης απέναντί της. Μόνο ο Χιούγκο… όμως όχι… δε θα σκεφτόταν τον Χιούγκο! Ξαφνικά, παρά τη ζέστη μέσα στο βαγόνι, τη διαπέρασε ρίγος. Ευχήθηκε να μην πήγαινε στη θάλασσα. Μια εικόνα εμφανίστηκε καθαρά στον νου της: Το κεφάλι του Σίριλ να ανεβοκατεβαίνει, να κολυμπά προς τον βράχο… Πάνω κάτω, πάνω κάτω… Κι εκείνη να κολυμπά με άνετες απλωτές πίσω του… να σκίζει τη θάλασσα, ξέροντας όμως με απόλυτη βεβαιότητα ότι δε θα προλάβαινε…

Runyan picked his fingernails with the paper clip and smiled slightly to himself. Rosenberg’s death, by any means or method, would be a relief. No, it would be a glorious occasion. The Chief would have to wear black and give a eulogy, but behind locked doors he would chuckle with his law clerks. Runyan liked this thought.

The truth is, I often have trouble with social situations; it’s as though everyone is playing an elaborate game with complex rules they all know, but I’m always playing for the first time. I make etiquette mistakes with alarming regularity, offend when I mean to compliment, misread body language, say the wrong thing at the wrong time. It’s only because of my gran that I know a smile doesn’t necessarily mean someone is happy. Sometimes, people smile when they’re laughing at you. Or they’ll thank you when they really want to slap you across the face. Gran used to say my reading of behaviors was improving—every day in every way, my dear—but now, without her, I struggle. Before, when I rushed home after work, I’d throw open the door to our apartment and ask her questions I’d saved up over the day.