4 Part 4
Race said: "Someone pinched the pistol. It wasn't Jacqueline de Bellefort. Someone knew enough to feel certain that his crime would be attributed to her. But that someone did not know that a hospital nurse was going to give her morphia and sit up with her all night. Add one thing more. Someone had already attempted to kill Linnet Doyle by rolling a boulder over the someone was not Jacqueline de Bellefort. Who was it!"
Poirot said: "It will be simpler to say who it could not have been. Neither Mr. Doyle,
Mrs. Allerton, Mr. Tim A]lerton, Miss Van Schuyler nor Miss Bowers could have had anything to do
with it. They were all within my sight."
"I'm," said Race, "that leaves rather a large field. What about motive?"
"That is where I hope Mr. Doyle may be able to help us. There have been several incidents."
The door opened and Jacqueline de Bellefort entered.
She was very pale and she stumbled a little as she walked.
"I didn't do it," she said. Her voice was that of a frightened child. "I didn't do it. Oh, please believe me.
Everyone will think I did it, but I didn't.
It's awful. I wish it hadn't happened. I might have killed Simon last night, I was mad, I think. But I
didn't do the other...'
She sat down and burst into tears.
Poirot patted her on the shoulder.
"There, there. We know that you did not kill Mrs. Doyle. It is proved, yes, proved, mon enfant. It was not you."
Jackie sat up suddenly, her wet handkerchief clasped in her hand.
"But who did?"
"That," said Poirot, "is just the question we are asking ourselves. You cannot help us there, my child?"
Jacqueline shook her head.
"I don't know... I can't imagine . . . no, I haven't the faintest idea." She frowned deeply.
"No," she said at last. "I can't think of anyone who wanted her dead" her voice faltered a little"except me." Race said: "Excuse me a minute-just thought of something." He hurried out of the room.
Jacqueline de Bellefort sat with her head downcast nervously twisting her fingers.
She broke out suddenly: "Death's horrible, horrible. I hate the thought of it." Poirot said: "Yes. It is not pleasant to think, is it, that now, at this very moment, someone is rejoicing at the successful carrying out of his or her plan." "Don't, don't!" cried Jackie. "It sounds horrible, the way you put it." Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"It is true."
Jackie said in a low voice:
"I wanted her dead and she is dead And what is worse she died just like I said." "Yes,
Mademoiselle. She was shot through the head." She cried out: "Then I was right, that night at the
Cataract Hotel. There was someone listening!"
"Ah!" Poirot nodded his head. "I wondered you would remember that. Yes, it is altogether too much of a coincidence that Madame Doyle should be killed in just the way you described." Jackie shuddered.
"That man that night who can he have been?" Poirot was silent a minute or two, then he said in quite a different tone of voice: "You are sure it was a man, Mademoiselle?" Jackie looked at him in surprise.
"Yes, of course. At least" "Well, Mademoiselle?" She frowned, half closing her eyes in an effort to
remember. She said slowly: "I thought it was a man..." "But now you are not so sure?" Jackie said slowly:
"No, I can't be certain. I just assumed it was a man but it was really just a figure..." She paused and then, as Poirot did not speak, she asked: "You think it must have been a woman? But surely none of the women on this boat can have wanted to kill Linnet?" Poirot merely moved his head from side to side.
The door opened and Bessner appeared.
"Will you come and speak with Mr. Doyle, please, M. Poirot. He would like to see yon." Jackie sprang up. She caught Bessner by the arm.
"How is he? Is he all right?" "Naturally he is not all right," said Dr. Bessner reproachfully.
"The bone is fractured, you understand." "But he's not going to die?" cried Jackie.
"Ach, who said anything about dying? We will get him to civilization and there we will have an X-ray and proper treatment.' "Oh." The girl's hands came together in a convulsive pressure.
She sank down again on a chair.
Poirot stepped out on to the deck with the doctor and at that moment Race joined them. They went up to the promenade deck and along to Bessner's cabin.
Simon Doyle was lying propped with cushions and pillows an improvised cage over his leg. His face was ghastly in color, the ravages of pain with shock on top of it. But the predominant expression on his face was bewilderment, the sick bewilderment of a child.
He muttered: "Please come in. The doctor's told me about Linnet I can't believe it. I simply can't believe it's true." "I know. It's a bad knock," said Race.
Simon stammered:
"You know Jackie didn't do it. I'm certain Jackie didn't do it! It looks black against her, I dare say, but she didn't do it. She was a bit tight last night and all worked up and that's why she went for me.
But she wouldn't do murder.., not cold-blooded murder "
Poirot said gently: "Do not distress yourself, Mr. Doyle. Whoever shot your wife, it was not Miss de
Bellefort." Simon looked at him doubtfully.
"Is that on the level?" "But since it was not Miss de Bellefort," continued Poirot, "can you give us an idea of who it might have been?" Simon shook his head. The look of bewilderment increased.
"It's crazy, impossible. Apart from Jackie nobody could have wanted to do her in." "Reflect, Mr. Doyle.
Has she no enemies? Is there no one who has a grudge against her?" Again Simon shook his head with the same hopeless gesture.
"It sounds absolutely fantastic. There's Windlesham, of course. She more or less chucked him to marry me but I can't see a polite stick like Windlesham committing murder and anyway he's miles away. The same thing with old Sir George Wode, he'd got a down on Linnet over the house disliked the way she was pulling it about but he's miles away in London and any way to think of murder in such a connection would be fantastic." "Listen, Mr. Doyle," Poirot spoke very earnestly. "On the first day we came on board the Karnak I was impressed by a little conversation which I had with Madame your wife. She was very upset, very distraught. She said, mark this well, that everybody hated her. She said she felt afraid unsafe as though every one around her were an enemy." "She was pretty upset at finding Jackie aboard. So was I," said Simon.
"That is true but it does not quite explain those words. When she said she was surrounded by enemies,
she was almost certainly exaggerating but all the same she did mean more than one person." "You may be right there," admitted Simon. "I think I can explain that. It was a name in the passenger list that upset her." "A name on the passenger list? What name?" "Well, you see, she didn't actually tell me.
As a matter of fact, I wasn't even listening very carefully. I was going over the Jacqueline business in my mind.
As far as I remember Linnet said something about doing people down in business and that it made her uncomfortable to meet anyone who had a grudge against her family. You see, although I don't really know the family history very well, I gather that Linnet's mother was a millionaire's daughter. Her father was only just ordinary plain wealthy but after his marriage, he naturally began playing the markets or whatever you call it. And as a result of that, of course, several people got it in the neck. You know, affluence one day, the gutter the next. Well, I gather there was someone on board who's father had got up against Linnet's father and taken a pretty hard knock. I remember Linnet saying: 'It's pretty awful when people hate you without even knowing you. '" "Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "That would explain what she said to me. For the first time, she was feeling the burden of her inheritance and not its advantages. You are quite sure, Mr. Doyle, that she did not mention this man's Simon shook his head ruefully."
"I didn't really pay much attention. Just said: 'Oh, nobody minds what happened to their fathers
nowadays. Life goes too fast for that.' Something of that kind."
Bessner said dryly:
"Ach, but I can have a guess. There is certainly a young man with a grievance on board."
"You mean Ferguson?' said Poirot.
"Yes. He spoke against Mrs. Doyle once or twice. I myself have heard him."
"What can we do to find out?" asked Simon.
Poirot replied:
"Colonel Race and I must interview all the passengers. Until we have got their stories it would be unwise to form theories. Then there is the maid. We ought to interview her first of all. It would, perhaps, be as well if we did that here. Mr. Doyle's presence might be helpful."
"Yes, that's a good idea," said Simon.
"Had she been with Mrs. Doyle long?"
"Just a couple of months, that's all."
"Only a couple of months," exclaimed Poirot.
"Why, you don't think"
"Had Madame any valuable jewelry?"
"There were her pearls," said Simon. "Once told me they were worth forty or fifty thousand."
He shivered.
"My God, do you think those damned pearls"
"Robbery is a possible motive," said Poirot. "All the same it seems hardly credible Well, we shall see. Let us have the maid here." Louise Bourget was that same vivacious Latin brunette whom Poirot had seen one day and noticed.
She was anything but vivacious now. She had been crying and looked frightened.
Yet there was a kind of sharp cunning apparent in her face which did not prepossess the two men
favorably towards her. "You are Louise Bourget?" "Yes, Monsieur." "When did you last see Madame Doyle alive?" "Last night, Monsieur. I waited in her cabin to undress her." "What time was that?" "It was some time after eleven, Monsieur. I cannot say exactly when. I undress Madame and put her to bed and then I leave." "How long did all that take?" "Ten minutes, Monsieur. Madame was tired. She told me to put the lights out when I went." "And when you had left her, what did you do?" "I went to my own cabin, Monsieur, on the deck below." "And you heard or saw nothing more than can help us?" "How could I, Monsieur?" "That, Mademoiselle, is for you to say, not for us," FIercule Poirot retorted. She stole a sideways glance at him.
"But, Monsieur, I was nowhere near .... What could I have seen or heard? I was on the deck below. My cabin it was on the other side of the boat even. It is impossible that I should have heard anything.
Naturally, if I had been unable to sleep, if I had mounted the stairs, then perhaps I might have seen this assassin, this monster enter or leave Madame's cabin, but as it is" She threw out her hands appealingly to Simon.
"Monsieur, I implore you, you see how it is? What can I say?" "My good girl," said Simon harshly.
"Don't be a fool. Nobody thinks you saw or heard anything. You'll be quite all right. I'll look after you.
Nobody's accusing you of anything." Louise murmured: "Monsieur is very good," and dropped her eyelids modestly.
"We take it, then, that you saw and heard nothing?" said Race impatiently.
"That is what I said, Monsieur." "And you know of no one who had a grudge against your mistress?" To the surprise of her listeners, Louise nodded her head vigorously.
"Oh, yes. That I do know. To that question, I can answer 'Yes' most emphatically." Poirot said: "You
mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort?" "She, certainly. But it is not of her I speak. There was someone else on this boat who disliked Madame, who was very angry because of the way Madame had injured him."
"Good Lord," said Simon. "What's all this?" Louise went on, still emphatically nodding her head with the utmost vigor.
"Yes, yes, yes, it is as I say! It concerns the former maid of Madame my predecessor. There was a
man, one of the engineers on this boat who wanted her to marry him. And my predecessor, Marie her name was, she would have done so.
But Madame Doyle, she made inquiries and she discovered that this Fleetwood already he had a wife of color, you understand, a wife of this country. She had gone back to her own people but he was still married to her, you understand.
And so Madame she told all this to Marie and Marie she was very unhappy and she would not see
Fleetwood any more. And this Fleetwood, he was infuriated, and when he found out that this Madame Doyle had formerly been Miss Linnet Ridgeway he tells me that he would like to kill her! Her interference ruined his life, he said." Louise paused triumphantly.
"This is interesting," said Bate.
Poirot turned to Simon.
"Had you any idea of this?" "None whatever," said Simon with patent sincerity. "I doubt if Linnet even knew the man was on the boat. She had probably forgotten all about the incident." He turned sharply to the maid.
"Did you say anything to Mrs. Doyle about this?" "No, Monsieur, of course not." Poirot said: "Do you know anything about your mistress's pearls?" "Her pearls?" Louise's eyes opened very wide. "She was wearing them last night." "You saw them when she came to bed?" "Yes, Monsieur." "Where did she put them?"
"On the table by the side as always." "That is where you last saw them?" "Yes, sir."
"Did you see them there this morning?"
A startled look came into the girl's face.
"Mon Dieu, I did not even look. I come up to the bed, I see Madame, and then I cry out and rush out of the door and faint."
Hercule Poirot nodded his head.
"You did not look. But I, I have the eyes which notice, and there were no pearls on the table beside the bed this morning."
Hercule Poirot's observation had not been at fault. There were no pearls on the table by Linnet Doyle's bed.
Louise Bourget was bidden to make a search among Linnet's belongings.
According to her all was in order. Only the pearls had disappeared.
As they emerged from the cabin a steward was waiting to tell them that breakfast had been served in the smoking-room.
As they passed along the deck, Poirot paused to look over the rail.
"Aha! I see you have had an idea, my friend."
"Yes. It suddenly came to men when Fanthorp mentioned thinking he had heard a splash, that I too had been awakened sometime last night by a splash. It's perfectly possible that, after the murder, the murderer threw the pistol overboard."
Poirot said slowly:
"You think that is possible, my friend?"
Race shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a suggestion. After all, the pistol wasn't anywhere in the cabin. First thing I looked for."
"All the same," said Poirot, "it is incredible that it should have been thrown overboard."
Race said:
"Where is it then?"
Poirot said thoughtfully:
"If it is not in Mrs. Doyle's cabin, there is, logically, only one other place where it could be."
"Where's that?"
"In Mademoiselle de Bellefort's cabin."
"Yes. I see."
He stopped suddenly.
"She's out of her cabin. Shall we go and hame a look now?"
Poirot shook his head.
"No, my friend, that would be precipitate. It may not yet have been put there ."
"What about an immediate search of the whole boat?"
"That way we should show our hand. We must work with great care. It is very delicate, our position at the moment. Let us discuss the situation as we eat." Race agreed. They went into the smoking-room.
"Well?" said Race as he poured himself out a cup of coffee. "We've got two definite leads. There's the disappearance of the pearls. And there's the man Fleetwood. As regards the pearls, robbery seems indicated, but I don't know whether you'll agree with me"
Poirot said quickly:
"It was an odd moment to choose?"
"Exactly. To steal the pearls on a voyage such as this invites a close search of evertjbody on board.
How, then, could the thief hope to get away with his booty?" "He might have gone ashore and dumped it?"
"The company always has a watchman on the bank."
"Then that is not feasible. Was the murder committed to diverting attention from the robbery? No, that does not make sense, it is profoundly unsatisfactory. But supposing that Mrs. Doyle woke up and caught the thief in the act?"
"And therefore the thief shot her? But she was shot whilst she slept."
"So that to does not make sense .... You know, I have a little idea about those pearls and yet no it
is impossible. Because if my idea was right the pearls would not have disappeared. Tell me, what did you think of the maid?" "I wondered," said Race slowly, "if she knew more than she said." "Ah, you too had that impression?" "Definitely not a nice girl," said Race.
Hercule Poirot nodded.
"Yes, I would not trust her, that one."
"You think she had something to do with the murder?"
"No, I would not say that."
"With the theft of the pearls, then?"
"That is more probable. She had only been with Mrs. Doyle a very short time.
She may be a member of a gang that specializes in jewel robberies. In such a case there is often a maid with excellent references. Unfortunately, we are not in a position to seek information on these points. And yet that explanation does not quite satisfy me .... Those pearlsah sacra, my little idea ought to be right.
And yet nobody would be so imbecile!" he broke off.
"What about the man Fleetwood?"
"We must question him. It may be that we have there a solution. If Louise Bourges story is true, he had a definite motive for revenge. He could have overheard the scene between Jacqueline and Mr. Doyle, and when they have left the saloon he could have darted in and secured the gun. Yes, it is all quite possible.
And that letter J scrawled in blood. That, too, would accord with a simple rather crude nature."
"In fact, he's just the person we are looking for?"
"Yes, only!"
Poirot rubbed his nose. He said with a slight grimace:
"See you, I recognize my own weaknesses. It has been said of me that I like to make a case difficult. This solution that you put to me it is too simple, too easy. I cannot feel that it really happened. And yet, that may be sheer prejudice on my part."
"Well, we'd better have the fellow here."
Race rang the bell and gave the order. Then he said:
"Any other possibilities?"
"Plenty, my friend. There is, for example, the American trustee."
"Pennington?"
"Yes, Pennington. There was a curious little scene in here the other day."
He narrated the happenings to Race.
"You see it is significant. Madame, she wanted to read all the papers before signing. So he makes the excuse of another day. And then, the husband, he makes a very significant remark."
"What was that?"
"He says: 'I never read anything. I sign where I am told to sign.' Do you perceive the significance of that?
Pennington did. I saw it in his eye. He looked at Doyle as though an entirely new idea had come into his head. Just imagine, my friend, that you have been left trustee to the daughter of an intensely wealthy man.
You use, perhaps, that money to speculate with. I know it is so in all detective novels but you read-of it too in the newspapers. It happens, my friend, it happens."
"I don't dispute it," said Race.
"There is, perhaps, still time to make good by speculating wildly. Your ward is not yet of age. And
then she marries! The control passes from your hands into hers at a moment's notice! A disaster! But there is still a chance. She is on a honeymoon. She will perhaps be careless about business. A casual paper slipped in among others, signed without reading. But Linnet Doyle was not like that.
Honeymoon or no honeymoon, she was a businesswoman. And then her husband makes a remark and a new idea comes to that desperate man who is seeking a way out from ruin. If Linnet Doyle were to die,
her fortune would pass to her husband and he would be easy to deal with, he would be a child in the hands of an astute man like Andrew Pennington. Mon cher Colonel, I tell you I saw the thought pass through Andrew Pennington's head. 'If only it were Doyle I had got to deal with .... ' That is what he was thinking."
"Quite possibly, I dare say," said Race dryly, "But you've no evidence." "Then there's young Ferguson," said Race. "He talks bitterly enough. Not that I go by talk. Still, he might be the fellow whose father was ruined by old Ridgeway. It's a little far-fetched but it's possible. People do brood over bygone wrongs sometimes."
He paused a minute and then said:
"And there's my fellow."
"Yes, there is 'your fellow' as you call him."
'"He's a killer," said Race. "We know that. On the other hand, I can't see any way in which he could have come up against Linnet Doyle. Their orbits don't touch."
Poirot said slowly:
"Unless, accidentally, she had become possessed of evidence showing his identity."
"That's possible, but it seems highly unlikely." There was a knock at the door. "Ah, there's our would-be bigamist."
Fleetwood was a big truculent looking man. He looked suspiciously from one to the other of them as he entered the room. Poirot recognized him as the man he had seen talking to Louise Bourget.
Fleetwood said suspiciously: "You wanted to see me?"
"We did," said Race. "You probably know that a murder was committed on this boat last night?"
Fleetwood nodded.
"And I believe it is true that you had reason to feel anger against the woman who was killed." A look of alarm sprang up in Fleetwood's eyes.
"Who told you that?" "You considered that Mrs. Doyle had interfered between you and a young
woman." "I know who told you that lying French hussy. She's a liar through and through, that girl."
"But this particular story happens to be true." "It's a dirty lie!" "You say that although you don't know what it is yet." The shot told. The man flushed and gulped.
"It is true, is it not, that you were going to marry the girl Marie, and that she broke it off when she
discovered that you were a married man already." "What business was it of hers?" "You mean, what business was it of Mrs. Doyle's? Well, you know, bigamy is bigamy." "It wasn't like that. I married one of the locals out here. It didn't answer. She went back to her people. I've not seen her for half a dozen years." "Still you were married to her." The man was silent. Race went on.
"Mrs. Doyle, or Miss Ridgeway as she then was, found out all this?" "Yes, she did, curse her. Nosing about where no one ever asked her to. I'd have treated Marie right. I'd have done anything for her. And she'd never have known about the other, if it hadn't been for that meddlesome young lady, and I felt bitter about it when I saw her on this boat, all dressed up in pearls and diamonds and lording it all over the place with never a thought that she'd broken up a man's life for him! I felt bitter all right. But if you think I'm a dirty murderer if you think I went and shot her with a gun, well, that's a damned lie! I never touched
her. And that's God's truth." He stopped. The sweat was rolling down his face.
"Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and two?" "In my bunk asleep and my mate will tell you so." "We shall see," said Race. He dismissed him with a curt nod. "That'll do." "Eh bien?" said
Poirot as the door closed behind Fleetwood.
Race shrugged his shoulders.
"He tells quite a straight story. He's nervous, of course, but not unduly so.
We'll have to investigate his alibi, though I don't suppose it will be decisive. His mate was probably asleep and this fellow could have slipped in and out he wanted to. It depends whether anyone else saw him." "Yes, one must inquire as to that." "The next thing, I think," said Race, "is whether anyone heard anything which might give us a clue to the time of the crime. Bessner places it as having occurred between
twelve and two. It seems reasonable to hope that someone among the passengers may have heard the shot even if they did not recognize it for what it was. I didn't hear anything of the kind myself. What about you?" Poirot shook his head.
"Me, I slept absolutely like the log. I heard nothing but nothing at all. I might have been drugged I slept so soundly." "A pity," said Race. "Well, let's hope we have a bit of luck with the people who have cabins on the starboard side. Fanthorp we've done. The Allertons come next. I'll send the steward to fetch them." Mrs. Allerton came in briskly. She was wearing a soft grey striped silk dress. Her face looked distressed.
"It's too horrible," she said as she accepted the chair that Poirot placed for her. "I can hardly believe it.
That lovely creature with everything to live for the dead.
I almost feel I can't believe it." "I know how you feel, Madame," said Poirot sympathetically.
"I'm glad you are on board," said Mrs. Allerton simply. "You'll be able to find out who did it. I'm so glad it isn't that poor tragic girl." "You mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who told you she did not do it?"
"Cornelia Robson," said Mrs. Allerton with a faint smile. "You know, She's simply thrilled by it all. It's probably the only exciting thing that has ever happened to her and probably the only exciting thing that ever will happen to her.
But she's so nice that she's terribly ashamed of enjoying it. She thinks it's awful of Mrs. Allerton gave a look at Poirot and then added.
"But I mustn't chatter. You want to ask me questions." "If you please. You went to bed at what time,
Madame?" "Just after half-past ten." "And you went to sleep at once?" "Yes. I was sleepy." "And did you hear anything at alluring the night?" Mrs. Allerton wrinkled her brows.
"Yes, I think I heard a splash and someone running or was it the other way about? I'm rather hazy. I just had a vague idea that someone had fallen overboard at sea a dream, you know, and then I woke up and listened but it was all quite quiet." "Do you know what time that was?" "No, I'm afraid I don't. But
I don't think it was very long after I went to sleep.
I mean it was within the first hour or so." "Alas, Madame, that is not very definite." "No, I know it isn't.
But it's no good my trying to guess, is it, when I haven't really the vaguest idea?" "And that is all you can tell us, Madame?" "I'm afraid so." "Had you ever actually met Mrs. Doyle before?" "No, Tim had met her. And I'd heard a good deal about her through a cousin of ours, Joanna Southwood, but I'd never spoken to her till we met at Assuan." "I have one other question, Madame, if you will pardon me for asking." Mrs. Allerton murmured with a faint smile: "I should love to be asked an indiscreet question." "It is this. Did you, or your family, ever suffer an financial loss through the operations of Mrs. Doyle's father, Melhuish Ridgeway!" Mrs. Allerton looked thoroughly astonished.
"Oh, no! The family finances have never suffered except by dwindling You know, everything paying less interest than it used to. There's never been anything melodramatic about our poverty. My husband left very little money but what he left I still have, though it doesn't yield as much as it used to yield." "I thank you, Madame. Perhaps you will ask your son to come to us." Tim said lightly when his mother came to him: "Ordeal over? My turn now! What sort of things did they ask you?"
"Only whether I heard anything last night," said Mrs. Allerton. "And unluckily I didn't hear anything at all. I can't think why not. After all, Linnet's cabin is only one away from mine. I should think I'd have been bound to hear the shot. Go along, Tim, they're waiting for you."
To Tim Allerton Poirot repeated his previous question.
Tim answered: "I went to bed early, half-past ten or so, I read for a bit. Put out my light just after eleven."
"Did you hear anything after that?"
"Heard a man's voice saying good-night, I think, not far away."
"That was I saying good-night to Mrs. Doyle," said Race.
"Yes. After that , I went to sleep. Then, later, I heard a kind of hullabaloo going on, somebody calling Fanthorp, I remember."
"Miss Robson when she ran out from the observation saloon."
"Yes, I suppose that was it. And then a lot of different voices. And then somebody running along the deck. And then a splash. And then I heard old Bessner booming out something about, 'Careful now,' and 'Not too quick.'" "You heard a splash?"
"Well, something of that kind."
"You are sure it was not a shot you heard?"
"Yes, I suppose it might have been I did hear a cork pop. Perhaps that was the shot. I may have
imagined the splash from connecting the idea of the cork with liquid pouring into a glass... I know my foggy idea was that there was some kind of party on. And I wished they'd all go to bed and shut up."
"Anything more after that?" Tim thought.
"Only Fanthorp barging round in his cabin next door. I thought he'd never get to bed." "And after that?"
Tim shrugged his shoulders.
"After that oblivion." "You heard nothing more?" "Nothing whatever." "Thank you, Mr. Allerton." Tim got up and left the cabin.
Race pored thoughtfully over a plan of the promenade deck of the Karnak.
"Fanthorp, young Allerton, Mrs. Allerton. Then an empty cabin Simon Doyle's. Now, who's on the other side of Mrs. Doyle's? The old American dame.
If anyone heard anything she should have done. If she's up we'd better have her along." Miss Van
Schuyler entered the room. She looked even older and yellower than usual this morning. Her small dark eyes had an air of venomous displeasure in them.
Race rose and bowed.
"We're very sorry to trouble you, Miss Van Schuyler. It's very good of you. Please sit down."
Miss Van Schuyler said sharply:
"I dislike being mixed up in this. I resent it very much. I do not wish to be associated in any way with this is a very unpleasant affair."
"Quite quite. I was just saying to M. Poirot that the sooner we took your statement the better, as then you need have no further trouble."
Miss Van Schuyler looked at Poirot with something approaching favor.
"I'm glad you both realize my feelings. I am not accustomed to anything of this kind."
Poirot said soothingly.
"Precisely, Mademoiselle. That is why we wish to free you from the unpleasantness as quickly as
possible. Now you went to bed last night at what time?"
"Ten o'clock is my usual time. Last night I was rather later as Cornelia Robson, very inconsiderately, kept me waiting."
"Trs bien, Mademoiselle. Now, what did you hear after you had retired?" Miss Van Schuyler said: "I sleep very lightly."
"A merveille! That is very fortunate for us."
"I was awoken by that rather flashy young woman Mrs. Doyle's maid who said 'Bonne nuit, Madame,' in what I cannot but thinks an unnecessarily loud voice."
"And after that?"
"I went to sleep again. I woke up thinking someone was in my cabin but I realized that it was someone in the cabin next door."
"In Mrs. Doyle's cabin?"
"Yes. Then I heard someone outside on the deck and then a splash." "You have no idea what time this was?"
"I can tell you the time exactly. It was ten minutes past one."
"You are sure of that?"
"Yes. I looked at my little clock that stands by my bed." "You did not hear a shot?" "No, nothing of the kind."
"But it might possibly have been a shot that awakened you?"
Miss Van Schuyler considered the question, her toad-like head on one side. "It might," she admitted rather grudgingly.
"And you have no idea what caused the splash you heard?" "Not at all, I know perfectly." Colonel Race sat up alertly.
"You know?"
"Certainly. I did not like this sound of prowling around. I got up and went to the door of my cabin. Miss Otterbourne was leaning over the side. She had just dropped something into the water."
"Miss Otterbourne?"
Race sounded really surprised.
"Yes."
"You are quite sure it was Miss Otterbourne?" "I saw her face distinctly." "She did not see you?" "I do not think so." Poirot leaned forward.
"And what did her face look like, Mademoiselle?" "She was in a condition of considerable emotion."
Race and Poirot exchanged a quick glance.
"And then?" Race prompted.
"Miss Otterbourne went away around the stern of the boat and I returned to bed." There was a knock at the door and the manager entered.
He carried in his hand a dripping bundle.
"We've got it, colonel." Race took the package. He unwrapped fold after fold of sodden velvet. Out of it fell a coarse handkerchief faintly stained with pink, wrapped around a small pearl-handled pistol. Race gave Poirot a glance of slightly malicious triumph.
"You see," he said. "My idea was right. It was thrown overboard." He held the pistol out on the palm of his hand.
"What do you say, M. Poirot? Is this the pistol you saw at the Cataract Hotel that night?" Poirot
examined it carefully, then he said quietly.
"Yes, that is it. There is the ornamental work on it and the initials J.B. It is an article deluxe, a very
feminine production but it is none the less a lethal weapon." ".22" murmured Race. He took out the dip.
"Two bullets fired. Yes, there doesn't seem much doubt about it." Miss Van Schuyler coughed significantly.
"And what about my stole?" she demanded.
"Your stole, Mademoiselle?" "Yes, that is my velvet stole you have here." Race picked up the dripping folds of material.
"This is yours, Miss Van Schuyler?" "Certainly it's mine!" the old lady snapped. "I missed it last night. I was asking everyone if they'd seen it." Poirot questioned Baee with a glance and the latter gave a slight nod of assent.
"Where did you see it last, Miss Van Schuyler?" "I had it in the saloon yesterday evening. When I came to go to bed I could not find it anywhere." Race said quietly: "You realize what it's been used for?" He spread it out, indicating with a finger the scorching and several small holes.
"The murderer wrapped it round the pistol to deaden the noise of the shot." "Impertinence!" snapped Miss Van Schuyler.
The color rose in her wizened cheeks.
Race said: "I shall be glad, Miss Van Schuyler, if you will tell me the extent of your previous acquaintance with Mrs. Doyle." "There was no previous acquaintance." "But you knew of her?" "i knew who she was, of course."
"But your families were not acquainted?" "As a family, we have always prided ourselves on being
exclusive, Colonel Race. My dear mother would never have dreamed of calling upon any of the Hartz family who, outside their wealth, we're nobodies." "That is all you have to say, Miss Van Schuyler?" "I have nothing to add to what I have told you. Linnet Ridgeway was brought up in England and I never saw her till I came aboard this boat." She rose.
Poirot opened the door for her and she marched out.
The eyes of the two men met.
"That's her story," said Race, "and she's going to stick to it! It may be true. I don't know. But Rosalie Otterbourne? I hadn't expected that." Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner. Then he brought down his hand on the table with a sudden bang.
"But it does not make sense," he cried. "Nora d'un nora d'un nom! It does not make sense." Race looked at him.
"What do you mean exactly?" "I mean that up to a point it is all the clear sailing. Someone wished to kill Linnet Doyle. Someone overheard the scene in the saloon last night. Someone sneaked in there and retrieved the pistol, Jacqueline de Bellefort's pistol, remember. Somebody shot Linnet Doyle with that pistol and wrote the letter J on the wall .... All so clear, is it not? All pointing to Jacqueline de Bellefort as the murderers. And then what does the murderer do? Leave the pistol-the damning pistol, Jacqueline de Bellefort's pistol for everyone to find? No, he or she throws the pistol, that particular damning bit of evidence, overboard. Why, my friend, why?" Race shook his head.
"It's odd." "It is more than odd, it is impossible!" "Not impossible since it happened!" "I do not mean
that. I mean that the sequence of events is impossible. Something is wrong."
Colonel Race glanced curiously at his colleague. He respected, he had reason to respect the brain of Hercule Poirot. Yet for the moment he did not follow the other's process of thought. He asked no question, however. He seldom did ask questions, He proceeded straightforwardly with the matter in hand.
"What's the next thing to be done? Question the Otterbourne girl?" "Yes, that may advance us a little."
Rosalie Otterbourne entered ungraciously. She did not look nervous or frightened in any way, merle was unwilling and sulky.
"Well?" she said. "What is it?" Race was the spokesman.
"We're investigating Mrs. Doyle's death," he explained.
Rosalie nodded.
"Will you tell me what you did last night?" Rosalie reflected a minute.
"Mother and I went to bed early before eleven. We didn't hear anything in particular, except a bit of fuss outside Dr. Bessner's cabin. I heard the old man's German voice booming away. Of course, I didn't know what it was all about till this morning." "You didn't hear a shot?" "No." "Did you leave your cabin at all last night?" "No." "You are quite sure of that?" Rosalie stared at him.
"What do you mean? Of course, I'm sure of it." "You did not, for instance, go round to the starboard side of the boat and throw something overboard?" The color rose in her face.
"Is there any rule against throwing things overboard?" "No, of course not. Then you did?" "No, I didn't. I never left my cabin, I tell you." "Then if anyone says that they saw you" She interrupted him.
"Who says they saw me?" "Miss Van Schuyler." "Miss Van Schiyler?" She sounded genuinely astonished.
"Yes. Miss Van Schuyler says she looked out of her cabin and saw you throw something over the side."
Rosalie said clearly: "That's a damned lie." Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, she asked: "What time was this?" It was Poirot who answered.
"It was ten minutes past one, Mademoiselle." She nodded her head thoughtfully.
"Did she see anything else?" Poirot looked at her curiously. He stroked his chin.
"See no. But she heard something." "What did she hear?" "Someone moving about in Mrs. Doyle's cabin." "I see," muttered Rosalie.
"And you persist in saying that you threw nothing overboard, Mademoiselle?" "Why on earth should I run about throwing things overboard in the middle of the night?" "There might be a reason an innocent reason." "Innocent?" said the girl sharply.
"That is what I said. You see, Mademoiselle, something was thrown overboard last night, something that was not innocent." Race silently held out the bundle of stained velvet opening it to display its contents.
Rosalie Otterbourne shrank back.
"Was that what she was killed with?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"And you think that I did it? What utter nonsense! Why on earth should I want to kill Linnet Doyle? I don't even know her!" She laughed and stood up scornfully. "The whole thing is too ridiculous."
"Remember, Miss Otterbourne," said Race, "that Miss Van Schuyler is prepared to swear she saw your face quite clearly in the moonlight."
Rosalie laughed again.
"That old cat. She's probably half-blind anyway. It wasn't me she saw."
She paused.
"Can I go now?"
Race nodded and Rosalie Otterbourne left the room.
The eyes of the two men met. Race lighted a cigarette.
"Well, that's that. Flat contradiction. Which of 'em do we believe?"
Poirot shook his head.
"I have a little idea that neither of them was being quite frank."
"That's the worst of our job," said Race despondently. "So many People keep back the truth for
positively futile reasons. What's our next move? Get on with the questioning of the passengers?"
"I think so. It is always well to proceed with order/md method."
Race nodded.
Mrs. Otterbourne, dressed in floating batik material, succeeded her daughter.
She corroborated Rosalie's statement that they had both gone to bed before eleven o'clock. She herself had heard nothing of interest during the night. She could not say whether Rosalie had left their cabin or not. On the subject of the crime, she was inclined to hold forth.
"The crime passionel!" she exclaimed. "The primitive instinct to kill! So closely allied to the sex instinct.
That girl, Jacqueline, half Latin, hot-blooded obeying the deepest instincts of her being, stealing forth, revolver in hand"
"But Jacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Mrs. Doyle. That we know for certain. It is proved," explained Poirot.
"Her husband, then," said Mrs. Otterbourne rallying from the blow. "The blood lust and the sex
Instinct a sexual crime. There are many well-known instances."
"Mr. Doyle was shot through the leg and he was quite unable to move the bone was fractured," explained Colonel Race. "He spent the night with Dr. Bessner."
Mrs. Otterbourne was even more disappointed. She searched her mind hopefully.
"Of course," she said. "How foolish of me. Miss Bowers!"
"Miss Bowers?"
"Yes. Naturally. It's so clear psychologically. Repression! The repressed virgin! Maddened by the sight of these two, a young husband and wife passionately in love with each other-of course it was her! She's just the type, sexually not attractive respectable. In my book, The Barren Vine." Colonel Race interposed tactfully:
"Your suggestions have been most helpful, Mrs. Otterbourne. We must get on with our job now. Thank you so much."
He escorted her gallantly to the door and came back wiping his brow.
"What a poisonous woman! Whew! Why didn't somebody murder her!" "It may yet happen," Poirot consoled him.
"There might be some sense in that. Whom have we got left? Pennington we'll keep him for the end I think-Richetti- Ferguson." Signor Richetti was very soluble very agitated.
"But what a horror, what an infamy a woman so young and so beautiful indeed an inhuman crime!"
Signor Richetti hands flew expressively up in the air.
His answers were prompt. He had gone to bed early, very early. In fact immediately after dinner. He had read for a while a very interesting pamphlet lately published Preihistorische Forschung in
Kleinasien throwing entirely new light on the painted pottery of the Anatolian foothills.
He had put out his light sometime before eleven. No, he had not heard any shot. Not any sound like the pop of a cork. The only thing he had heard but that was later, in the middle of the night, was a Splash, a big splash, just near his porthole.
"Your cabin is on the lower deck on the starboard side, is it not?" "Yes, yes, that is so. And I hear the big splash." His arms flew up once more to describe the bigness of the splash.
"Can you tell me at all what time that was?" Signor Richetti reflected.
"It was one, two, three hours after I go to sleep. Perhaps two hours." "About ten minutes past one, for instance?" "It might very well be, yes. Ah! but what a terrible crime how inhuman So charming a woman..." Exit Signor Richetti still gesticulating freely.
Race looked at Poirot. Poirot raised his eyebrows expressively. Then shrugged his shoulders. They
passed on to Mr. Ferguson.
Ferguson was difficult. He sprawled insolently in a chair.
"Grand to-do about this business!" he sneered. "What's it really matter? A lot of superfluous women in the world!" Race said coldly: "Can we have an account of your movements last night, Mr. Ferguson?" "Don't see why you should. But I don't mind. I mooched around a good bit.
Went ashore with Miss Robson. When she went back to the boat I mooched around by myself for a while. Came back and turned in a round about midnight." "Your cabin is on the lower deck-starboard side?" "Yes. I'm not up among the nobs." "Did you hear a shot? It might only have sounded like the popping of a cork." Ferguson considered.
"Yes, I think I did hear something like a cork .... I can't remember whee before I went to sleep. But
there were still a lot of people about then commotion, running about on the deck above." "That was probably the shot fired by Miss de Bellefort. You didn't hear another?" Ferguson shook his head.
"Nor a splash?" "A splash? Yes, I believe I did hear a splash. But there was so much row going on I
can't be sure about it." "Did you leave your cabin during the night?" Ferguson grinned.
"No, I didn't. And I didn't participate in the good work, worse luck."
"Come, come, Mr. Ferguson, don't behave childishly." The young man reacted angrily.
"Why shouldn't I say what I think? I believe in violence." "But you don't practice what you preach?"
murmured Poirot. "I wonder." He leaned forward.
"It was the man, Fleetwood, was it not, who told you that Linnet Doyle was one of the richest women in England?" "What's Fleetwood got to do with this?" "Fleetwood, my friend, had an excellent motive for killing Linnet Doyle. He had a special grudge against her." Mr. Ferguson came up out of his seat like a Jack-in the-Box.
"So that's your dirty game, is it?" he demanded wrathfully. "Put it on to a poor devil like Fleetwood who can't defend himself who's got no money to hire lawyers. But I tell you this, you try and saddle Fleetwood with this business you'll have me to deal with." "And who exactly are you?" asked Poirot sweetly.
Mr. Ferguson got rather red.
"I can stick by my friends anyway," he said gruffly.
"Well, Mr. Ferguson, I think that's all we need for the present," said Race.
As the door closed behind Ferguson he remarked unexpectedly: "Rather a likable young cub, really."
"You don't think he is the man you are after?" asked Poirot.
"I hardly think so. I suppose he is on board. The information was very precise.
Oh, well, one job at a time. Let's have a go at Pennington."
Andrew Pennington displayed all the conventional reactions of grief and shock. He was, as usual,
carefully dressed. He had changed into a black tie. His long clean-shaven face bore a bewildered
expression.
"Gentlemen," he said sadly. "This business has got me right down! Little Linnet--why, I remember her as the cutest little thing you can imagine. How proud of her Melhuish Ridgeway used to be too! Well, there's no point in going into that. Just tell me what I can do that's all I ask." Race said: "To begin with, Mr. Pennington, did you hear anything last night?" "No, sir, I can't say I did. I have the cabin right next to Dr. Bessner's, No. 38-39, and I heard a certain commotion going on in there round about midnight or so. Of course, I didn't know what it was at the time." "You heard nothing else? No shots?" Andrew Pennington shook his head.
"Nothing whatever of the kind." "And you went to bed?" "Must have been some time after eleven." He leaned forward.
"I don't suppose it's news to you to know that there's plenty of rumors going about the boat. That half-French girl Jacqueline de Bellefort. There was something fishy there, you know. Linnet didn't tell me anything but naturally, I wasn't born blind and deaf. There'd been some affair between her and Simon some time, hadn't there? Cherchez la femme that's a pretty good sound rule and I should say you wouldn't have to cherchez far."
Poirot said:
"You mean that in your belief Jacqueline de Bellefort shot Mrs. Doyle?" "That's what it looks like to me. Of course, I don't know anything..." "Unfortunately we do know something" "Eh?" Mr. Pennington looked startled.
"We know that is quite impossible for Miss de Bellefort to have shot Mrs. Doyle."
He explained carefully the circumstances. Pennington seemed reluctant to accept them.
"I agree it looks all right on the fact of it but this hospital nurse woman I'll bet she didn't stay awake all night. She dozed off and the girl slipped out and in again."
"Hardly likely, M. Pennington. She had administered a strong opiate, remember. And anyway a nurse is in the habit of sleeping lightly and waking when her patient wakes." "It all sounds rather fishy to me," said Pennington.
Race said in a gently authoritative manner:
"I think you must take it from me, Mr. Pennington, that we have examined all the possibilities very
carefully. The result is quite definiteJacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Mrs. Doyle. So we are forced to look elsewhere. That is where we hope you may be able to help us." "I?" Pennington gave a nervous start.
"Yes. You were an intimate friend of the dead woman's. You know the circumstances of her life, in all probability, much better than her husband does, since he only made her acquaintance a few months ago.
You would know, for instance, of anyone who had a grudge against her, you would know, perhaps, whether there was anyone who had a motive for desiring her death."
Andrew Pennington passed his tongue over rather dry-looking lips.
"I assure you, I have no idea .... You see Linnet was brought up in England.
I know very little of her surroundings and associations."
"And yet," mused Poirot, "there was someone on board who was interested in Mrs. Doyle's removal.
She had a near escape before, you remember, at this very place, when that boulder crashed ! own, ah! but you were not there, perhaps?"
"No. I was inside the temple at the time. I heard about it afterward, of course. A very near escape. But possibly an accident, don't you think?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"One thought so at the time. Now one wonders."
"Yes, yes, of course." Pennington wiped his face with a fine silk handkerchief.
Colonel Race went on:
"Mrs. Doyle happened to mention someone being on board who bore grunge, not against her
personally, but against her family. Do you know who that could be?"
Pennington looked genuinely astonished.
"No, I've no idea."
"She didn't mention the matter to you?"
"No."
"You were an intimate friend of her father's you cannot remember any business operation of his that might have resulted in ruin for some business opponent?"
Pennington shook his head helplessly.
"No outstanding case. Such operations were frequent, of course, but I can't recall anyone who uttered threats nothing of that kind.' "In short, Mr. Pennington, you cannot help us?" "It seems so. I deplore my inadequacy, gentlemen." Race interchanged a glance with Poirot, then he said: "I'm sorry too. We'd had hopes."
He got up as a sign the interview was at an end.
Andrew Pennignton said:
"As Doyle's laid up, I expect he'd like me to see to things. Pardon me, Colonel, but what exactly are the arrangements?"
"When we leave here we shall make a non-stop run to Shellal, arriving there to-morrow morning."
"And the body?"
"Will be removed to one of the cold storage chambers." Andrew Pennington bowed his head. Then he left the room.
Poirot and Race again interchanged a glance.
"Mr. Pennington," said Race, lighting a cigarette, "was not at all comfortable."
Poirot nodded.
"And," he said, "Mr. Pennington was sufficiently perturbed to tell a rather stupid lie. He was not in the temple of Abu Simbel when that boulder fell. Ii qui vous parle, can swear to that. I had just come from there." "A very stupid lie," said Race, "and a very revealing one." Again Poirot nodded.
"But for the moment," he said, and smiled, "we handle him with the gloves of a kid, is it not so?"
"That was the idea," said Race.
"My friend, you and I understand each other to a marvel."
There was a faint grinding noise, a stir beneath their feet. The Karnak had started on her homeward journey to Shellal.
"The pearls," said Race, "that is the next thing to be cleared up."
"You have a plan?"
"Yes." He glanced at his watch. "It will be lunchtime in half an hour. At the end of the meal, I propose to make an announcement, just state the fact that the pearls have been stolen, and that I must request everyone to stay in the dining saloon while a search is conducted."
Poirot nodded approvingly.
"It is well imagined. Whoever took the pearls still has them. By giving no warning beforehand, there will be no chance of their being thrown overboard in a panic."
Race drew some sheets of paper towards him. He murmured apologetically:
"I like to make a brief precis of the facts as I go along. It keeps one's mind free of confusion."
"You do well. Method and order, they are everything," replied Poirot.
Race wrote for some minutes in his small neat script. Finally he pushed the result of his labours towards Poirot.
"Anything you don't agree with there?"
Poirot took up the sheets. They were headed: MURDER OF MRS. LINNET DOYLE Mrs. Doyle was
last seen alive by her maid Louise Bourget. Time: 11.30 (approx).
From 11.3012.20 following have alibis Cornelia Robson, James Fanthorp, Simon Doyle, Jacqueline de Bellefort nobody else, but crime almost certainly committed after that time, since it is practically certain that pistol used was Jacqueline de Bellefort's which was then in her handbag. That her pistol was used is not absolutely certain until after post mortem and expert evidence re bullet but it may be taken as overwhelmingly probable.
The probable course of events: X (murderer) was the witness of the scene between Jacqueline and Simon Doyle in observation saloon and noted where pistol went under the settee. After the saloon was vacant, X procured pistol his or her idea being that Jacqueline de Bellefort would be thought guilty of the crime. In this theory, certain people are automatically cleared of suspicion.
Cornelia Robson since she had no opportunity to take pistol before James Fanthorp returned to search for it.
Miss Bowers same.
Dr. Bessner same.
N.B. Fanthorp is not definitely excluded from suspicion since he could actually have pocketed pistol while declaring himself unable to find it.
Any other person could have taken the pistol during that ten minutes' interval.
Possible motives for the murder:
Andrew Pennington. This is on the assumption that he has been guilty of fraudulent practices. There is a certain amount of evidence in favor of that assumption, but not enough to justify making out a case against him. If it was he who rolled down the boulder he is a man who can seize a chance when it presents itself. The crime, clearly, was not premeditated except in a general way. Last night's shooting scene was an ideal opportunity.
Objections to the theory of Pennington's guilt. Why did he throw the pistol overboard since it constituted a valuable clue against B. Fleetwood. Motive, revenge. Fleetwood considered himself injured by Linnet Doyle'.
Might have overheard scene and noted the position of the pistol. He may have taken pistol because it was a handy weapon rather than with the idea of throwing the guilt on Jacqueline. This would fit in with throwing it overboard. But if that were the case, why did he write in blood on the wall!
N.B. Cheap handkerchief found with pistol more likely to have belonged to a man like Fleetwood than to one of the well-to-do passengers.
Rosalie Otterbourne. Are we to accept Miss Van Schuyler's evidence or Rosalie's denial? Something was thrown overboard at that time and that something was presumably the pistol wrapped up in the velvet stole.
Points to be noted. Had Rosalie any motive? She may have disliked Linnet Doyle and even been envious of her but as a motive for murder that seems grossly inadequate. The evidence against her can only be convincing if we discover an adequate motive. As far as we know there is no previous knowledge or link between Rosalie Otterbourne and Linnet Doyle.
Miss Van Schuyler. The velvet stole in which pistol was wrapped belongs to Miss Van Schuyler.
According to her own statement, she last saw it in the observation saloon. She drew attention to its loss during the evening and a search was made for it without success.
How did the stole come into the possession of X? Did X purloin it sometime early in the evening? But if so, why? Nobody could tell in advance that there was going to be a scene between Jacqueline and Simon. Did X find the stole in the saloon when he went to get the pistol from under the settee? But if so, why was it not found when they search for it was made? Did it ever leave Miss Van Schuyler's possession?
That is to say: Did Miss Van Schuyler murder Linnet Doyle? Is her accusation of Rosalie Otterbourne a deliberate lie? If she did murder her, what was her motive? Other possibilities.
Robbery as a motive. Possible since the pearls have disappeared and Linnet Doyle was certainly wearing them last night.
Someone with a grudge against the Ridgeway family. Possible again no evidence.
We know that there is a dangerous man on board a killer. Here we have a killer and a death. May not the two be connected? But we should have to show that Linnet Doyle possessed dangerous knowledge concerning this man.
Conclusions. We can group the persons onboard into two classes, those who had a possible motive or against whom there is no definite evidence, and those who, as far as we know, are free of suspicion.
Group I.
Andrew Pennington Fleetwood.
Rosalie Otterbourne.
Miss Van Schuyler.
Louise Bourget (Robbery?) Ferguson (Political?)
Group II.
Mrs. Allerton.
Tim Allerton.
Cornelia Robson.
Miss Bowers.
Dr. Bessner.
Signor Richetti.
Mrs. Otterbourne.
James Fanthorp.
Poirot pushed the paperback.
"It is very just, very exact, what you have written there." "You agree with it?" "Yes." "And now what is your contribution?" Poirot drew himself up in an important manner. "Me, I pose to myself one question!
"Why was the pistol thrown overboard?" "That's all?" "At the moment, yes. Until I can arrive at a
satisfactory answer to that question, there is no sense anywhere. That is, that must be the starting point. You will notice, my friend, that in your summary of where we stand, you have not attempted to answer that point."
Race shrugged his shoulders.
"Panic."
Poirot shook his head perplexedly.
He picked up the sodden velvet wrap from the table and smoothed it out, wet and limp, on the table. His finger traced the scorched marks and the burnt holes.
"Tell me, my friend," he said suddenly. "You are more conversant with firearms than I am. Would such a thing as this, wrapped around a pistol, make much difference in muffling the sound?"
"No, it wouldn't. Not like a silencer, for instance."
Poirot nodded. He went on.
"A man-certainly a man who had had much handling of firearms would know that. But a woman, a
woman would not know." Race looked at him curiously.
"Probably not."
"No. She would have read the detective stories where they are not always very exact as to details."
Race flicked the little pearl-handled pistol with his finger.
"This little, fellow wouldn't make much noise anyway," he said. "Just a pop, that's all. With any other noise around, ten to one you wouldn't notice it."
"Yes, I have reflected as to that."
He picked up the handkerchief and examined it.
"A man's handkerchief but not a gentleman's handkerchief. Ce cher Woolworth, I imagine. Threepence at most."
"The sort of handkerchief a man like Fleetwood would own."
"Yes. Andrew Pennington, I notice, carries a very fine silk handkerchief."
"Ferguson?" suggested Race.
"Possibly. As a gesture. But then it ought to be a bandana."
"Used it instead of a glove, I suppose, to hold the pistol and obviate fingerprints," Race added with slight facetiousness: "The Clue of the Blushing Handkerchief."
"Ah, yes. Quite Jeune fille color, is it not?" He laid it down and returned to the stole, once more
examining the powder marks.
"All the same," he murmured, "it is odd "
"What's that?"
Poirot said gently:
"Cette pauvre Madame Doyle. Lying there so peacefully With the little hole in her head. You remember how she looked?" Race looked at him curiously.
"You know," he said, "I've got an idea you're trying to tell me something but I haven't the faintest idea what it is."
There was a tap on the door.
"Come in," Race called.
A steward entered.
"Excuse me, sir," he said to Poirot. "But Mr. Doyle is asking for you."
"I will come."
Poirot rose. He went out of the room and up the companionway to the promenade deck and along with it to Dr. Bessner's cabin.
Simon, his face flushed and feverish, was propped up with pillows.
He looked embarrassed.
"Awfully good of you to come along, M. Poirot. Look here, there's something I want to ask you."
"Yes?"
Simon got still redder in the face.
"It's, it's about Jackie. I want to see her. Do you think would you mind would she mind, d'you think if you asked her to come along here. You know I've been lying here thinking That wretched kid, she is only a kid after all and I treated her " He stammered to silence.
Poirot looked at him with interest.
"You desire to see Mademoiselle Jacqueline? I will fetch her." "Thanks. Awfully good of you." Poirot went on his quest. He found Jacqueline de Bellefort sitting huddled up in a corner of the observation saloon. There was an open book on her lap but she was not reading.
Poirot said gently.
"Will you come with me, Mademoiselle? M. Doyle wants to see you." She started up. Her face flushed then paled. She looked bewildered.
"Simon? He wants to see me, to see me?" He found her incredulity moving.
"Will you come, Mademoiselle?" "I, yes, of course, I will." She went with him in a docile fashion like a child but like a puzzled child.
Poirot passed into the cabin.
"Here is Mademoiselle." She stepped in after him, wavered, stood still . . . standing there mute and dumb, her eyes fixed on Simon's face.
"Hallo, Jackie " He, too, was embarrassed. He went on: "Awfully good of you to come. I wanted to
say, I mean what, I mean is..." She interrupted him then. Her words came out in a rush breathless
desperate.
"Simon, I didn't kill Linnet. You know I didn't do that I was mad last night.
Oh, can you ever forgive me ?" Words came more easily to him now.
"Of course. That's all right! Absolutely all right! That's what I wanted to say.
Thought you might be worrying a bit, you know "
"Worrying?
A bit? Oh! Simon!"
"That's what I wanted to see you about. It's quite all right, sees, old girl? You just got a bit rattled last night a shade tight. All perfectly natural."
"Oh, Simon! I might have killed you .... "
"Not you. Not with a rotten little peashooter like that..."
"And your leg! Perhaps you'll never walk again .... "
"Now, look here, Jackie, don't be maudlin. As soon as we get to Assuan they're going to put the X-rays to work, and dig out that tinpot bullet and everything will be as right as rain."
Jacqueline gulped twice, then she rushed forward and knelt down by Simon's bed, burying her face and sobbing. Simon patted her awkwardly on the head. His eyes met Poirot's and with a reluctant sigh, the latter left the cabin.
He heard broken murmurs as he went ....
"How could I be such a devil.... Oh, Simon!... I'm so dreadfully sorry .…"
Outside Cornelia Robson was leaning over the rail.
She turned her head.
"Oh, it's you, M. Poirot. It seems so awful somehow that it should be such a lovely day."
Poirot looked up at the sky.
"When the sun shines you cannot see the moon," he said. "But when the sun is gone, ah when the sun is gone." Cornelia's mouth fell open. "I beg your pardon?"
"I was saying, Mademoiselle, that when the sun has gone down, we shall see the moon. That is so, is it not?"
"Why, why, yes, certainly.' She looked at him doubtfully.
Poirot laughed gently.
"I utter the imbecilities," he said. "Take no notice."
He strolled gently towards the stern of the boat. As he passed the next cabin he paused for a minute.
He caught fragments of speech from within.
"Utterly ungrateful, after all, I've done for you, no consideration for your wretched mother.., no idea of what I suffer..."
Poirot's lips stiffened as he pressed them together. He raised a hand and knocked.
There was a startled silence and Mrs. Otterbourne's voice called out:
"Who's that?"
"Is Mademoiselle Rosalie there?"
Rosalie appeared in the doorway. Poirot was shocked at her appearance. There were dark circles under her eyes and drawn lines around her mouth.
"What's the matter?" she said ungraciously. "What do you want?"
"The pleasure of a few minutes' conversations with you, Mademoiselle. Will you come?"
Her mouth went sulky at once. She shot him a suspicious look.
"Why should I?"
"I entreat you, Mademoiselle."
"Oh, I suppose!"
She stepped out on the deck, closing the door behind her.
"Well?"
Poirot took her gently by the arm and drew her along the deck, still in the direction of the stern. They passed the bathrooms and round the corner. They had the stern part of the deck to themselves. The Nile flowed away behind them.
Poirot rested his elbows on the rail. Rosalie stood up straight and stiff.
"Well?" she said again, and her voice held the same ungracious tone.
Poirot spoke slowly, choosing his words.
"I could ask you certain questions, Mademoiselle, but I do not think for one moment that you would consent to answer them."
"Seems rather a waste to bring me along here then."
Poirot drew a finger slowly along the wooden rail.
"You are accustomed, Mademoiselle, to carrying your own burdens .... But you can do that too long.
The strain becomes too great. For you, Mademoiselle, the strain is becoming too great."
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Rosalie.
"I am talking about facts, Mademoiselle plain ugly facts. Let us call the spade the spade and say it in one little short sentence. Your mother drinks, Mademoiselle."
Rosalie did not answer. Her mouth opened, then she closed it again. For once she seemed at a loss.
"There is no need for you to talk, Mademoiselle. I will do all the talking. I was interested at Assuan in the relations existing between you. I saw at once that, in spite of your carefully studied unfilial remarks, you were in reality passionately protecting her from something. I very soon knew what that something was. I knew it long before I encountered your mother one morning in an unmistakable state of intoxication.
Moreover, her case, I could see, was one of the secret bouts of drinking, by far the most difficult kind of case with which to deal. You were coping with it manfully. Nevertheless, she had all the secret drunkard's cunning. She managed to get hold of a secret supply of spirits and to keep it successfully hidden from you. I should not be surprised if you discovered its hiding-place only yesterday.
Accordingly, last night, as soon as your mother was really soundly asleep, you stole out with the contents of the cache, went round to the other side of the boat (since your own side was up against the bank) and cast it overboard into the Nile."
He paused.
"I am right, am I not?"
"Yes, you're quite right," Rosalie spoke with sudden passion. "I was a fool not to say so, I suppose! But I didn't want everyone to know. It would go all over the boat. And it seemed so, so silly, I mean that I"
Poirot finished the sentence for her.
"So silly that you should be suspected of committing a murder?"
Rosalie nodded.
Then she burst out again.
"I've tried so hard to keep everyone from knowing .... It isn't really her fault. She got discouraged. Her books didn't sell anymore. People are tired of all that cheap sex stuff.... It hurt her it hurt her dreadfully.
And so she began to drink. For a long time, I didn't know why she was so queer. Then, when I found out, I tried to stop it. She'd be all right for a bit and then suddenly, she'd start and there would be dreadful quarrels and rows with people. It was awful."
She shuddered. "I had always to be on the watch to get her away ....
"And then she began to dislike me for it. Sheshe's turned right against me.
I think she almost hates me sometimes "
"Pauvre petite," said Poirot.
She turned on him vehemently.
"Don't be sorry for me. Don't be kind. It's easier if you're not." She sighed a long heartrending sigh. "I'm so tired... I'm so deadly, deadly tired."
"I know," said Poirot.
"People think I'm awful. Stuck up and cross and bad-tempered. I can't help it. I've forgotten how to be nice."
"That is what I said to you have carried your burden by yourself too long."
Rosalie said slowly:
"It is a relief to talk about it. You, you've always been kind to me, M. Poirot. I'm afraid I've been rude to you often."
"La politesse, it is not necessary for friends."
The suspicion came back to her face suddenly.
"Are you, are you going to tell everyone? I suppose you must because of those damned bottles I threw overboard."
"No, no, it is not necessary. Just tell me what I want to know. At what time was this? Ten minutes past one?"
"About that, I should think. I don't remember exactly."
"Now tell me, Mademoiselle. Miss Van Schuyler saw you, did you see her?" Rosalie shook her head.
"No, I didn't."
"She says that she looked out of the door of her cabin."
"I don't think I should have seen her. I just looked along the deck and then out to the river."
Poirot nodded.
"And did you see anyone at all when you looked down the deck?"
There was a pause, quite a long pause. Rosalie was frowning. She seemed to be thinking earnestly.
At last, she shook her head quite decisively.
"No," she said. "I saw nobody."
Hercule Poirot slowly nodded his head. But his eyes were grave.
