On the Nile River a few days ago our felucca sailboat passed beneath the tea terrace of the elegant Old Cataract Hotel in Egypt’s Aswan. To the west the amber dunes of the Sahara spread into the desert infinity. But here on the Nile, egrets and herons flitted through the palm trees of Elephantine Island.

Although the Old Cataract was temporarily closed for renovation, I told myself “it’s Agatha, again.” Like a few million others, I have read Agatha Christie’s detective novels off and on for 50 years. They were literate, edgy and well-argued with enough room for fun and the indomitable Belgian bloodhound, Hercule Poirot.

Agatha Christie wrote some of her best stuff, including the sketches for “Death on the Nile” while she was a lodger at the Old Cataract. After retiring from daily journalism I satisfied some of my roaming yens by organizing an adventure travel club and often have included a 10 or 12 day tour of Egypt. It wasn’t long before I had adopted the Old Cataract as personal retreat, until one night when it delivered one of Agatha’s classic stroke-of-midnight ambushes and nearly had me walking out in a barrel.

When we’re in Aswan the others usually follow the tour Egyptologist to explore the 2,000-year-old Philae Temple. I’ve been there a half dozen times. So in later years I have excused myself and strolled to the Old Cataract for a cup of tea. The gatekeeper was a walrus-mustached Britisher in full uniform who was charged with turning back all non-guests and related imposters. But he had once admitted me in an act of chivalry and always greeted me thereafter with “hi Yank,” and escorting me through the entryway’s corridor of orange trees and tropical ferns.

So I sipped tea and luxuriated on the terrace overlooking the great cataracts of the Nile as it hurled itself at the ancient lava outcrops in fountains white water. And from there I would wander through the Victorian dining room where Churchill once drank brandy.

So one year I reserved 10 rooms in the Old Cataract and brought my travelers, who agreed the price was worth it. The orchestra played. The menu was laced with exotic fare and the waiters came in relays, dutifully taking the room numbers. When three hours later I signaled the headwaiter, he arrived with flourishes and smiles and handed me the bill. I had advised him, of course, to bill the diners separately. Somehow, he said, he didn’t have that impression. An animated discussion followed. It soon became clear that I was overmatched. My guests began leaving the room, assuming all would be handled appropriately and they would cover as necessary. At about this time I checked the bottom line. It read somewhere around $1,900.

In a trance I gave the guy my credit card. The next day my friends helpfully asked for their bill totals. I said I didn’t have the heart or calculator to tell them, counting the taxes, service charges, bar, entertainment and more. I did give them estimates. They paid but somehow I had talked myself into a $500 deficit, and they never could figure out what I meant when I laughed wildly and blurted “Poirot, where were you when I needed you?”

                                         – Jim Klobuchar