5 Part 5

People crept into the dining-salon by ones and twos in a very subdued manner.

There seemed a general feeling that to sit down eagerly to food displayed an unfortunate heartlessness. It was with an almost apologetic air that one passenger after another came and sat down at their table.

Tim Allerton arrived some few minutes after his mother had taken her seat.

He was looking in a thoroughly bad temper.

"I wish we'd never come on this blasted trip," he growled.

Mrs. Allerton shook her head sadly.

"Oh, my dear, so do I. That beautiful girl! It all seems such a waste. To think that any one could shoot her in cold blood. It seems awful to me that any one could do such a thing. And that other poor child."

"Jacqueline?"

"Yes, my heart aches for her. She looks so dreadfully unhappy."

"Teach her not to go round loosing off toy firearms," said Tim unfeelingly as he helped himself to butter.

"I expect she was badly brought up."

"Oh, for God's sake, Mother, don't go all maternal about it." "You're in a shocking bad temper, Tim."

"Yes, I am. Who wouldn't be?"

"I don't see what there is to be cross about. It's just frightfully sad."

Tim said crossly:

"You're taking the romantic point of view! What you don't seem to realize is that it's no joke being mixed up in a murder case." Mrs. Allerton looked a little startled.

"But surely."

"That's just it. There's no 'But surely' about it. Everyone on this damned boat is under suspicion, you and I as well as the rest of them."

Mrs. Allerton demurred.

"Technically we are, I suppose but actually it's ridiculous!"

"There's nothing ridiculous where murder's concerned! You may sit there, darling, just exuding virtue and conscious rectitude, but a lot of unpleasant policemen at Shellal or Assuan won't take you at your face value." "Perhaps the truth will be known before then." "Why should it be?"

"M. Poirot may find out."

"That old mountebank? He won't find out anything. He's all talk and mustaches."

"Well, Tim," said Mrs. Allerton, "I dare say everything you say is true, but even if it is, we've got to go through with it, so we might as well make up our minds to it and go through with it as cheerfully as we can."

But her son showed no abatement of gloom.

"There's this blasted business of the pearls being missing, too."

"Linnet's pearls?"

"Yes. It seems somebody must have pinched 'em."

"I suppose that was the motive for the crime," said Mrs. Allerton.

"Why should it be? You're mixing up two perfectly different things." "Who told you that they were

missing?"

"Ferguson. He got it from his tough friend in the engine-room who got it from the maid."

"They were lovely pearls," said Mrs. Allerton.

Poirot sat down at the table, bowing to Mrs. Allerton.

"I am a little late," he said.

"I expect you have been busy," said Mrs. Allerton.

"Yes, I have been much occupied."

He ordered a fresh bottle of wine from the waiter.

"We're very catholic in our tastes," said Mrs. Allerton. "You drink wine always, Tim drinks whiskey and soda, and I try all the different brands of mineral water in turn."

"Tiens.t'' said Poirot. He stared at her for a moment. He murmured to himself. "It is an idea, that ..."

Then, with an impatient shrug of his shoulders, he dismissed the sudden preoccupation that had distracted him and began to chat lightly of other matters.

"Is Mr. Doyle badly hurt?" asked Mrs. Allerton.

"Yes, it is a fairly serious injury. Dr. Bessner is anxious to reach Assuan so that his leg can be X-rayed and the bullet removed. But he hopes that there will be no permanent lameness." "Poor Simon," said Mrs. Allerton. "Only yesterday he looked such a happy boy, with everything in the world he wanted. And now his beautiful wife killed and he himself laid up and helpless. I do hope, though." "What do you hope, Madame?" asked Poirot as Mrs. Allerton paused.

"I hope he's not too angry with that poor child." "With Mademoiselle Jacqueline? Quite the contrary. He was full of anxiety on her behalf." He turned to Tim.

"You know, it is a pretty little problem of psychology that. All the time that Mademoiselle Jacqueline was following them from place to place he was absolutely furious but now when she has actually shot him, and wounded him dangerously, perhaps made him lame for life, all his anger seems to have evaporated. Can you understand that?" "Yes," said Tim thoughtfully, "I think I can. The first thing made him feel a fool"

Poirot nodded.

"You are right. It offended his male dignity." "But now if you look at it a certain way, it's she who's made a fool of herself. Everyone's down on her and so" "He can be generously forgiving," finished Mrs. Alleron. "What children, men are!" "A profoundly untrue statement that women always make," murmured Tim.

Poirot smiled. Then he said to Tim: "Tell me, Madame Doyle's cousin, Miss joanna Southwood, did she resemble Madame Doyle?" "You've got it a little wrong, M. Poirot. She was our cousin and Linnet's friend." "Ah, pardon! I was confused. She is a young-lady much in the news that. I have been interested in her for some time." "Why?" asked Tim sharply.

Poirot half rose to bow to Jacqueline de Bellefort who had just come in and passed their table on the way to her own. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and her breath came a little unevenly. As he resumed his seat Poirot seemed to have forgotten Tim's question. He murmured vaguely: "I wonder if all young ladies with valuable jewels are as careless as Madame Doyle was?" "It is true, then, that they were stolen?" asked Mrs. Allerton.

"Who told you so, Madame?" "Ferguson said so," said Tim.

Poirot nodded gravely. "It is quite true.' "I suppose," said Mrs. Allerton nervously, "that this will mean a lot of unpleasantness for all of us. Tim says it will." Her son scowled. But Poirot had turned to him.

"Ah! you have had previous experience, perhaps? You have been in a house where there was a

robbery?" "Never," said Tim.

"Oh, yes, darling, you were at the Portarlington that time when that awful woman's diamonds were

stolen." "You always get things hopelessly wrong, Mother. I was there when it was discovered that the diamonds she was wearing around her fat neck were only pasted! The actual substitution was probably done months earlier, as a matter of fact, a lot of people said she'd had it done herself' "Joanna said so, I expect." "Joanna wasn't there." "But she knew them quite well. And it's very like her to make that kind of suggestion." "You're always down on Joanna, Mother."

Poirot hastily changed the subject. He had it in mind to make a really big purchase at one of the Assuan shops.

Some very attractive purple and gold material at one of the Indian merchants. There would, of course, be the duty to pay, but... "They tell me that they can how do you say expedite it for me? And that the charges will not be too high. How think you, will it arrive all right?" Mrs. Allerton said that many people, so she had heard, had had things sent straight to England from the shops in question and that everything had arrived safely.

"Bien. Then I will do that. But the trouble one has, when one is abroad if a parcel comes out from

England! Have you had experience with that? Have you had any parcels arrive since you have been on your travels?" "I don't think we have, have we, Tim? You get books sometimes but of course, there is never any trouble about them." "Ah, no, books are different." Dessert had been served. Now, without any previous warning, Colonel Race stood up and made his speech.

He touched on the circumstances of the crime and announced the theft of the pearls. A search of the boat was about to be instituted, and he would be obliged if all the passengers would remain in the saloon until this was completed. Then, after all, if the passengers agreed, as he was sure they would, they themselves would be kind enough to submit to a search.

Poirot slipped nimbly along to his side. There were a little buzz and hum all around them. Voices doubtful, indignant, excited.

Poirot reached Race's side and murmured something in his ear just as the latter was about to leave the dining-saloon.

Race listened, nodded assent, and beckoned a steward.

He said a few brief words to him, then, together with Poirot he passed out on to the deck, closing the door behind him.

They stood for a minute or two by rail. Race lit a cigarette.

"Not a bad idea of yours," he said. "We'll soon see if there's anything in it. I'll give 'em three minutes." The door of the dining-saloon opened and the same steward to whom they had spoken came out. He salutes Race and said: "Quite right, sir. There's a lady who says it's urgent she should speak to you at once without any delay." "Ah!" Race's face showed his satisfaction. "Who is it?"

"Miss Bowers, sir, the hospital nurse lady." A slight shade of surprise showed on Race's face. He said:

"Bring her to the smoking-room. Don't let anyone else leave." "No, sir, the other steward will attend to that." He went back into the dining-room. Poirot and Race went to the smoking-room.

"Bowers, eh?" murmured Race.

They had hardly got inside the smoking-room before the steward reappeared with Miss Bowers. He ushered her in and left, shutting the door behind him.

"Well, Miss Bowers?" Colonel Race looked at her inquiringly. "What's all this?" Miss Bowers looked at her usual composed unhurried self. She displayed no particular emotion.

"You'll excuse me, Colonel Race," she said. "But under the circumstances, I thought the best thing to do would be to speak to you at once" she opened her neat black handbag. " and to return you these.' She took out a string of pearls and laid them on the table.

If Miss Bowers had been the kind of woman who enjoyed creating a sensation, she would have been richly repaid by the result of her action.

A look of utter astonishment passed over Colonel Race's face as he picked up the pearls from the table.

"This is most extraordinary," he said. "Will you kindly explain, Miss Bowers?" "Of course. That's what I've come to do." Miss Bowers settled herself comfortably in a chair. "Naturally it was a little difficult for me to decide what it was best for me to do. The family would naturally be averse to the scandal of any kind, and they trust my discretion, but the circumstances are so very unusual that it really leaves me no choice.

Of course, when you didn't find anything in the cabins your next move would be a search of the

passengers, and if the pearls were then found in my possession it would be rather an awkward situation and the truth would come out just the same." "And just what is the truth? Did you take these pearls from Mrs. Doyle's cabin?" "Oh, no, Colonel Race, of course not. Miss Van Schuyler did." "Miss Van Schuyler?" "Yes. She can't help it, you know, but she does take things. Especially jewelry. That's really why I'm always with her, it's not her health at all it's this little idiosyncrasy. I keep on the alert and fortunately, there's never been any trouble since I've been with her. It just-means being watchful, you know. And she always hides the things she takes in the same place rolled up in a pair of stockings so that makes it very simple. I look each morning. Of course, I'm a light sleeper, and I always sleep next door to her and with the communicating door open if it's in a hotel so that I usually hear. Then I go after her and persuade her to go back to bed. Of course, it's been rather more difficult on a boat. But she doesn't usually do it at night. It's more just picking up things that she sees left about. Of course, pearls have a great attraction for her always." Miss Bowers ceased speaking.

Race asked:

"How did you discover they had been taken?"

"They were in her stockings this morning. I knew whose they were, of course. I've often noticed them. I went along to put them back, hoping that Mrs. Doyle wasn't up yet and hadn't discovered her loss. But there was a steward standing there and he told me about the murder and that no one could go in. So then, you see, I was in a regular quandary. But I still hoped to slip them back in the cabin later before their absence had been noticed. I can assure you I've passed a very unpleasant morning wondering what was the best thing to do. You see the Van Schuyler family is so very particular and exclusive. It would never do if this got into the newspapers. But that won't be necessary, will it?"

Miss Bowers really looked worried.

"That depends on circumstances," said Colonel Race cautiously. "But we shall do our best for you, of course. What does Miss Van Schuyler say to this?"

"Oh, she'll deny it, of course. She always does. Says some wicked person has put it there. She never admits taking anything. That's why if you catch her in time she goes back to bed like a lamb. Says she just went out to look at the moon. Something like that."

"Does Miss Robson know about this failing?"

"No, she doesn't. Her mother knows, but she's a very simple kind of girl and her mother thought it best she should know nothing about it. I was quite equal to dealing with Miss Van Schuyler," added the competent Miss Bowers.

"We have to thank you, Mademoiselle, for coming to us so promptly," said Poirot.

Miss Bowers stood up.

"I'm sure I hope I've acted for the best."

"Be assured that you have,"

"You see what with there being a murder as well."

Colonel Race interrupted her. His voice was grave.

"Miss Bowers. I am going to ask you a question and I want to impress upon you that it has got to be answered truthfully. Miss Van Schuyler is unhinged mentally to the extent of being a kleptomaniac. Has she also a tendency to homicidal mania?"

Miss Bower's answer came immediately.

"Oh, dear me, no! Nothing of the kind. You can take my word for it absolutely.

The old lady wouldn't hurt a fly."

The reply came with such positive assurance that there seemed nothing more to be said. Nevertheless, Poirot did interpolate one mild inquiry.

"Does Miss Van Schuyler suffer at all from deafness?"

"As a matter of fact she does, M. Poirot. Not so that you'd notice it anyway, not if you were speaking to her, I mean. But quite often she doesn't hear you come into a room. Things like that."

"Do you think she would have heard anyone moving about in Mrs, Doyle's cabin which is next door to her own?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think so not for a minute. You see, the bunk is the other side of the cabin, not even against the partition wall. No, I don't think she would have heard anything." "Thank you, Miss Bowers."

Race said: "Perhaps you will now go back to the dining-saloon and wait with the others?" He opened the door for her and watched her go down the staircase and enter the saloon. Then he shut the door and came back to the table. Poirot had picked up the pearls.

"Well," said Race grimly. "That reaction came pretty quickly. That's a very cool-headed and astute young woman, perfectly capable of holding out on us still further if she thinks it suits her book. What about Miss Van Schuyler now? I don't think we can eliminate her from the possible suspects. You know, she might have committed murder to get hold of those jewels. We can't take the nurse's word for it. She's all out to do the best for the family." Poirot nodded in agreement. He was very busy with the pearls running them through his fingers, holding them up to his eyes.

He said: "We may take it, I think, that part of the old lady's story to us was true. She did look out of her cabin and she did see Rosalie Otterbourne. But I don't think she heard anything or anyone in Linnet Doyle's cabin. I think she was just peering out from her cabin preparatory to slipping along and purloining the pearls," "The Otterbourne girl was there, then?" "Yes. Throwing her mother's secret cache of drink overboard." Colonel Race shook his head sympathetically. "So that's it! Tough on a young 'un." "Yes, her life has not been very gay, cette pauvre-petite Rosalie." "Well, I'm glad that's been cleared up. She didn't see or hear anything?" "I asked her that. She responded, after a lapse of quite twenty seconds, that she saw nobody." "Oh?" Race looked alert.

"Yes, it is suggestive, that." Race said slowly: "If Linnet Doyle was shot round about ten minutes past one or indeed any time after the boat had quieted down it has seemed amazing to me that no one heard the shot. I grant you that a little pistol like that wouldn't make much noise, but all the same, the boat would be deadly quiet and any noise, even a gentle pop, should have been heard. But I begin to understand better now. The cabin on the forward side of hers was unoccupied-since her husband was in Dr. Bessner's cabin. The one aft was occupied by the Van Schuyler woman who was deaf. That leaves only." He paused and looked expectantly at Poirot who nodded.

"The cabin next to hers on the other side of the boat. In other words Pennington. We always seem to come back to Pennington." "We will come back to him presently with the kid gloves removed! Ah, yes, I am promising myself that pleasure." "In the meantime, we'd better get on with our search of the boat. The pearls still make a convenient excuse even though they have been returned but Miss Bowers is not likely to advertise that fact." "Ah, these pearls." Poirot held them up against the light once more. He stuck out his tongue and licked them, he even gingerly tried one of them between his teeth. Then, with a sigh, he threw them down on the table.

"Here are more complications, my friend," he said. "I am 'not an expert on precious stones, but I had a good deal to do with them in my time and I am fairly certain of what I say. These pearls are only aclever imitation."

Colonel Race swore lustily.

"This damned case gets more and more involved." He picked up the pearls. "I suppose you've not made a mistake? They look all right to me." "They are a very good imitation, yes." "Now where does that lead us? I suppose Linnet Doyle didn't deliberately have an imitation made and bring it aboard with her for safety. Many women do." "I think, if that were so, her husband would know about it." "She may not have told him." Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

"No, I do not think that is so. I was admiring Mrs. Doyle's pearls the first evening on the boat, their

wonderful sheen and luster. I am sure that she was wearing the genuine ones then." "That brings us up against two possibilities. First, that Miss Van Schuyler only stole the imitation string after the real ones had been stolen by someone else.

Second, that the whole kleptomaniac story is a fabrication. Either Miss Bowers is a thief and quickly invented the story and allayed suspicion by handing over the false pearls, or else that whole party is in it together. That is to say, they are a gang of clever jewel thieves masquerading as an exclusive American family." "Yes," Poirot murmured. "It is difficult to say. But I will point out to you one thing to make a perfect and exact copy of the pearls, clasp and all, good enough to stand a chance of deceiving Mrs. Doyle is a highly-skilled technical performance. It could not be done in a hurry. Whoever copied those pearls must have had a good opportunity of studying the original." Race rose to his feet.

"Useless to speculate about it any further now. Let's get on with the job. We've got to find the real pearls. And at the same time, we'll keep our eyes open." They disposed first of the cabins occupied on the lower deck.

That of Signor Richetti contained various archaeological works in different languages, a varied assortment of clothing, hair lotions of a highly-scented kind and two personal letters, one from an archaeological expedition in Syria, and one from, apparently, a sister in Rome. His handkerchiefs were all of the colored silk.

They passed on to Ferguson's cabin.

There was a sprinkling of communistic literature, a good many snapshots, Samuel Butler's Erewhon and a cheap edition of Pepys' Diary. His personal possessions were not many, most of what outer clothing there was, was torn and dirty, the underclothing, on the other hand; was of really good quality. The handkerchiefs were expensive linen ones.

"Some interesting discrepancies," murmured Poirot.

Race nodded.

"Rather odd that there are absolutely no personal papers, letters, etc." "Yes, that gives one to think. An odd young man, M. Ferguson." He looked thoughtfully at a signet ring he held in his hand, before replacing it in the drawer where he had found it.

They went along to the cabin occupied by Louise Bourget. The maid had her meals after the other

passengers, but Race had sent word that she was to be taken to join the others. A cabin steward met them.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. "But I've not been able to find the young woman anywhere. I can't think where she can have got to." Race glanced inside the cabin. It was empty.

They went up to the promenade deck and started on the starboard side. The first cabin was that

occupied by James Fanthorp. Here, all was in meticulous ' order. Mr. Fanthorp traveled light, but all that he had was of good quality.

"No letters," said Poirot thoughtfully. "He is careful, our Mr. Fanthorp, to destroy his correspondence."

They passed on to Tim Allerton's cabin next door.

There were evidences here of an Anglo-Catholic turn of mind an exquisite little triptych, and a big

rosary, of intricately-carved wood. Besides personal clothing, there was a half-completed manuscript, a good deal annotated and scribbled over, and a good collection of books, most of them recently published.

There was also a number of letters thrown carelessly into a drawer. Poirot, never in the least scrupulous about reading other people's correspondence, glanced through them. He noted that amongst them there were no letters from Joanna Southwood. He picked up a tube of serotine, fingered it absently for a minute or two, then said: "Let us pass on." "No Woolworth handkerchiefs," said Race, rapidly replacing the contents of a drawer.

Mrs. Allerton's cabin was the next. It was exquisitely neat and a faint, old-fashioned smell of lavender hung about it.

The two men's search was soon over. Race remarked as they left it: "Nice woman, that." The next cabin was that which had been used as a dressing-room by Simon Doyle. His immediate necessities, pajamas, toilet things, etc., had been moved to Bessner's cabin, but the remainder of his possessions were still there, two good-sized leather suitcases and a kitbag. There were also some clothes in the wardrobe.

"We will look carefully here, my friend,' said Poirot. "For it is very possible that the thief hid the pearls here." "You think it is likely?" "But, yes, indeed. Consider! The thief whoever he or she may be must know that sooner or later a search will be made and therefore a hiding-place in his or her own cabin would be injudicious in the extreme. The public rooms present other difficulties. But here is a cabin belonging to a man who cannot possibly visit it himself. So that if the pearls are found here it tells us nothing at all." But the most meticulous search failed to reveal any trace of the missing necklace.

Poirot murmured "Zut!' to himself and they emerged once more on the deck.

Linnet Doyle's cabin had been locked after the body was removed but Race had the key with him. He unlocked the door and the two men stepped inside.

Except for the removal of the girl's body, the cabin was exactly as it had been that morning.

"Poirot," said Race. "If there's anything to be found here, for God's sake go ahead and find it. You can if anyone can, I know that." "This time you do not mean the pearls, mon ami?"

"No. The murder's the main thing. There may be something I overlooked this morning."

Quietly, deftly, Poirot went about his search. He went down on his knees and scrutinized the floor inch by inch. He examined the bed. He went rapidly through the wardrobe and chest of drawers. He went through the wardrobe trunk and the two costly suitcases. He looked through the expensive gold-fitted dressing-case.

Finally, he turned his attention to the washstand. There were various creams, powders, face lotions. But the only thing that seemed to interest Poirot were two little bottles labeled Nailex. He picked them up at last and brought them to the dressing-table. One, which bore the inscription Nailex Rose, was empty but for a drop or two of dark-red fluid at the bottom. The other, the same size, but labeled Nailex Cardinal, was nearly full. Poirot uncorked first the empty then the full one and sniffed them both delicately.

An odor of pear drops billowed into the room. With a slight grimace, he recorked them.

"Get anything?" asked Race.

Poirot replied by a French proverb.

"On ne prend pas les mouches avec la vinaigre."

Then he said with a sigh:

"My friend, we have not been fortunate. The murderer has not been obliging.

He has not dropped for us the cuff-link, the cigarette end, the cigar ash in the case of a woman, the handkerchief, the lip-stick, or the hair-slide." "Only the bottle of nail polish?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"I must ask the maid. There is somethings, yes, a little curious there."

"I wonder where the devil the girl's got to?" said Race.

They left the cabin locking the door behind them and passed on to that of Miss Van Schuyler.

Here, again, were all the appurtenances of wealth, expensive toilet fittings, good luggage, a certain number of private letters and papers all perfectly in order.

Th$ next cabin was the double one occupied by Poirot and beyond it that of Race.

"Hardly likely to hide 'em in either of these," said the colonel.

Poirot demurred.

"It might be. Once, on the Orient Express, I investigated a murder. There was a little matter of a scarlet kimono. It had disappeared and yet it must be on the train. I found it where do you think? in my own locked suitcase! Ah! it was an impertinence, that."

"Well, let's see if anybody has been impertinent with you or me this time.'

But the thief of the pearls had not been impertinent with Hercule Poirot or with Colonel Race.

Rounding the stern they made a very careful search of Miss Bowers's cabin but could find nothing of a suspicious nature. Her handkerchiefs were of plain linen with an initial. .

The Otterbournes' cabin came next. Here again, Poirot made a very meticulous search but with no result.

The next cabin was Bessner's. Simon Doyle lay with an untasted tray of food beside him.

"Off my feed," he said apologetically.

He was looking feverish and very much worse than earlier in the day. Poirot appreciated Bessner's

anxiety to get him as swiftly as possible to hospital and skilled appliances.

The little Belgian explained what the two of them were doing and Simon nodded approval. On learning that the pearls had been restored by Miss Bowers but proved to be mere imitation, he expressed the most complete astonishment.

"You are quite sure, Mr. Doyle, that your wife did not have an imitation string which she brought aboard with her instead of the real ones?"

Simon shook his head decisively.

"Oh, no. I'm quite sure of that. Linnet loved those pearls and she wore 'em everywhere. They were

insured against every possible risk, so I think that made her a bit careless."

"Then we must continue our search."

He started opening drawers. Race attacked a suitcase.

Simon stared.

"Look here, you surely don't suspect old Bessner pinched them?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"It might be so. After all, what do we know of Dr. Bessner? Only what he himself gives out."

"But he couldn't have hidden them in here without my seeing him."

"He could not have hidden anything to-day without your having seen him.

But we do not know when the substitution took place. He may have affected the exchange some days ago."

"I never thought of that."

But the search was unavailing.

The next cabin was Pennington's. The two men spent some time in their search. In particular, Poirot and Race examined carefully a case full of legal and business documents, most of them requiring Linnet's signature.

He shook his head gloomily.

"These seem all square and above board. You agree?"

"Absolutely. Still, the man isn't a born fool. If there had been a compromising document there, a power of attorney or something of that kind, he'd be pretty sure to have destroyed it first thing."

"That is so, yes."

Poirot lifted a heavy Colt revolver out of the top drawer of the chest of drawers, looked at it and put it back.

"So it seems there are still some people who travel with revolvers," he murmured.

"Yes, a little suggestive, perhaps. Still, Linnet Doyle wasn't shot with a thing that size." He paused and then said, "You know, I've thought of a possible answer to your point about the pistol being thrown overboard. Supposing that the actual murderer did leave it in Linnet Doyle's cabin and that someone else, some second person took it away and threw it into the river?"

"Yes, that is possible. I have thought of it. But it opens up a whole string of questions. Who was that second person? What interest had they in endeavoring to shield Jacqueline de Bellefort by taking away the pistol? What was that second person doing there? The only other person we know of who went into the cabin was Miss Van Schuyler. Was it conceivably Miss Van Shuyler who removed it? Why should she wish to shield Jacqueline de Bellefort? And yet what other reason can there be for the removal of the pistol?"

Race suggested:

"She may have recognized the stole as hers, got the wind-up, and thrown the whole bag of tricks over on that account."

"The stole, perhaps, but would she have got rid of the pistol, too? Still, I agree, that is a possible solution. But it is clumsy, bon Dieu, it is clumsy. And you still have not appreciated one point about the stole"

As they emerged from Pennington's cabin Poirot suggested that Race should search the remaining cabins, those occupied by Jacqueline, Cornelia and two empty ones at the end, while he himself had a few words with Simon Doyle.

Accordingly, he retraced his steps along the deck and re-entered Bessner's cabin.

Simon said:

"Look here, I've been thinking. I'm perfectly sure that these pearls were all right yesterday."

"Why is that, Mr. Doyle?"

"BecauseLinnet" he winced as he uttered his wife's name"was passing them through her hands just before dinner and talking about them. She knew something about pearls. I feel certain she'd have known if they were a fake."

"They were a very good imitation, though. Tell me, was Mrs. Doyle in the habit of letting those pearls out of her hands? Did she ever lend them to a friend, for instance?"

Simon flushed with slight embarrassment.

"You see, M. Poirot, it's difficult for me to say . . . I'm well, you see, I hadn't known Linnet very long."

"Ah, no, it was a quick romance yours."

Simon went on: "And so, really, I shouldn't know a thing like that. But Linnet was awfully generous with her things. I should think she might have done."

"She never, for instance, "Poirot's voice was very smooth," she never, for instance, lent them to Mademoiselle de Bellefort?"

"What d'you mean?" Simon flushed brick red tried to sit up, and wincing fell back. "What are you

getting at? That Jackie stole the pearls? She didn't. I'll swear she didn't. Jackie's as straight as a die. The mere idea of her being a thief is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous."

Poirot looked at him with gently twinkling eyes.

"Oh, la la la!" he said unexpectedly. "That suggestion of mine it has indeed stirred up the nest of hornets."

Simon repeated doggedly, unmoved by Poirot's lighter note.

"Jackie's straight!"

Poirot remembered a girl's voice by the Nile in Assuan saying:

"I love Simon and he loves me . . ."

He had wondered which of the three statements he had heard that night was the true one. It seemed to him that it had turned out to be Jacqueline who had come closest to the truth.

The door opened and Race came in.

"Nothing," he said brusquely. "Well, we didn't expect it. I see the stewards coming along with their report as to the searching of the passengers."

A steward and stewardess appeared in the doorway. The former spoke first.

"Nothing,· sir."

"Any of the gentlemen make any fuss?"

"Only the Italian gentleman, sir. He carried on a good deal. Said it was a dishonor, something of that kind. He'd got a gun on him, too."

"What kind of a gun?"

"Mauser automatic .25, sir." "Italians are pretty hot-tempered," said Simon. "Richetti was darned rude to Linnet over it."

Race turned to the stewardess. She was a big handsome-looking woman.

"Nothing on any of the ladies, sir. They made a good deal of fuss except for Mrs. Allerton who was as nice as nice could be. Not a sign of the pearl. By th way, the young lady, Miss Rosalie Otterbourne, had a little pistol in her handbag." "What kind?" "It was a very small one, sir, with a pearl handle. A kind of toy." Race stared.

"Devil takes this case," he muttered. "I thought we'd got hr cleared of suspicion and now, does every girl on this blinking boat carry around learl-handled toy pistols?" He shot a question at the stewardess.

"Did she show any feeling over your finding it?" The woman shook her head.

"I don't think she noticed. I had my back turned whilst I was g00ing through the handbags." "Still she must have known you'd come across it. Oh, well, it beats me.

What about the maid?" "We've looked all over the boat, sir. We can't find her anywhere." "What's this?" asked Simon.

"Mrs. Doyle's maid-Louise Bourget. She's disappeared." "Disappeared?" Race said thoughtfully: "She might have stolen the pearls. She is the one person who had arable opportunity to get a replica made."

"And then, when she found a search was being instituted, she threw herself overboard?" suggested Simon.

"Nonsense," said Race irritably. "A woman can't throw herself overboard in broad daylight from a boat like this without somebody realizing the fact. She's bound to be somewhere on board." He addressed the stewardess once more.

"When was she last seen?" "About half an hour before the bell went for lunch, Sir." "We'll have a look at her cabin, anyway," said Race. "That may tll us something." He led the way to the deck below. Poirot followed him. They unlocked the door of the cabin and passed inside.

Louise Bourget, whose trade it was to keep other people's belongings in order, had taken a holiday were her own were concerned. Odds and ends littered the top of the chest of drawers, a suitcase gaped open with clothes hanging out of the side of it and preventing it shutting, underclothing hung limply the sides of the chairs.

As Poirot with swift neat fingers opened the drawers of the crossing chest Race examined the suitcase.

Lonise's shoes were lined along by the bed. One of them, a black latent leather, seemed to be resting at an extraordinary angle almost unsupported. The appearance of it was so odd that it attracted Race's attention.

He closed the suitcase and bent over the line of shoes.

Then he uttered a sharp exclamation.

Poirot whirled round.

"Qu'est ce qui'il ya?' Race said grimly: "She hasn't disappeared. He's here under the bed . . ."

The body of a dead woman who in life had been Louise Bourget lay on the floor of her cabin. The two men bent over it.

Race straightened himself first.

"Been dead close on an hour, I should say. We'll get Bessner on to it. Stabbed to the heart. Death pretty well instantaneous, I should imagine. She doesn't look pretty, does she?" "No." Poirot shook his head with a slight shudder.

The dark feline face was convulsed as though with surprise and fury the lips drawn back from the teeth.

Poirot bent again gently and picked up the right hand. Something just showed within the fingers. He detached it and held it out to Race a little sliver of flimsy paper colored a pale mauvish pink.

"You see what it is?" "Money," said Race.

"The corner of a thousand franc note, I fancy." said Race. "She knew something and she was blackmailing the murderer with her knowledge. We thought she wasn't being quite straight this morning." Poirot cried out: "We have been idiots! We should have known then.

What did she say? 'What could I have seen or heard. I was on the deck below. 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 of course, that is what did happen! She comes up. She did see some one going into Linnet Doyle's cabin or coming but of it. And because of her greed, her insensate greed, she lies her" "And we are no nearer to klnowing who killed her," finished Race disgustedly. Poirot shook his head.

"No, no. We know much more now. We know, we know almost everything.

Only what we know seems incredible .... Yet it must be so. Only I do not see .... Pah! what a fool I

was this morning. We felt both of us felt that she was keeping something back and yet we never realised the logical reason blackmail." "She must have demande,d hush money straight away," said Race. "Demanded it with threats. The murderer was forced to accede to that request and paid her in French notes. Anything there?" Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.

"I hardly think so. Many people take a reserve of money with them when traveling sometimes

five-pound notes, sometimes dollars, but very often French notes as well. Possibly the murderer paid her all he had in a mixture of currencies.

Let us continue our reconstruction." "The murderer comes to her cabin, gives her the money and then..."

"And then," said Poirot, "she counts it. Oh, yes, I know that class. She would count the money and while she counted it she was completely off her guard. The murderer struck. Having done so successfully, he gathered up the money and fled not noticing that the corner of one of the notes was torn." "We may get him that way," said Race doubtfully.

"Both this crime and the murder of Mrs. Doyle demanded certain qualities, courage, audacity, bold execution, lightning action, those qualities do not accord with a saving, prudent disposition." Race shook his head sadly.

"I'd better get Bessner down," he said.

The stout doctor's examination did not take long.

"She has been dead not more than an hour," he announced. "Death, it was very quick at once." "And what weapon do you think was used?" "Ach, it is interesting, that. It was something very sharp, very thin, very delicate. I could show you the kind of thing." Back again in his cabin he opened a case and extracted a long delicate surgical knife.

"It was something like that, my friend, it was not a common table knife." "I suppose," said Race

smoothly, "that none of your own knives arc missing, doctor?" Bessner stared at him, then his face grew red with indignation.

"What is that you say? Do you think? I, Carl Bessner who so well known is all over Austria, I with my

clinics, my highly-born patients, I have killed a miserable little femme de cambrì! Ah, but it is

ridiculous, absurd, what you say!

None of my knives are missing not one, I tell you. They are all here, correct, in their places. You can see it for yourself. And this insult to my profession I will not forget." Dr. Bessner closed his case with a snap, flung it down and stamped out on to the deck.

"Whew!" said Simon. "You've put the old boy's back up." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "It is

regrettable." "You're on the wrong track. Old Bessner's one of the best even though he is a kind of Boche." Dr. Bessner reappeared suddenly.

"Will you be so kind as to leave me now my cabin? I have to do the dressing of my patient's leg."

Miss Bowers had entered with him and stood, brisk and professional, waiting for the others to go.

Race and Poirot crept out meekly. Race muttered something and went off.

Poirot turned to his left.

He heard scraps of girlish conversation, a little laugh. Jacqueline and Rosalie were together in the latter's cabin.

The door was open and the two girls were standing near it. As his shadow fell on them they looked up.

He saw Rosalie Otterbourne smile at him for the first time a shy welcoming smile little uncertain in its lines as of one who does a new and unfamiliar thing.

"You talk the scandal, Mademoiselles?" he accused them.

"No, indeed," said Rosalie. "As a matter of fact, we were just comparing lipsticks."

Poirot smiled.

"Les chiffons d'aujourd'hui," he murmured.

But there was something a little mechanical about his smile and Jacqueline de Bellefort, quicker and more observant than Rosalie, saw it. She dropped the lipstick she was holding and came out upon the deck.

"Has something that has happened now?"

"It is as you guess Mademoiselle, something has happened." "What?" Rosalie came out too.

"Another death," said Poirot.

Rosalie caught her breath sharply. Poirot was watching her narrowly. He saw alarm and something more consternation show for a minute or two in her eyes.

"Mrs. Doyle's maid has been killed," he said bluntly.

"Killed?" cried Jacqueline. "Killed, do you say?"

"Yes, that is what I said." Though his answer was nominal to her it was Rosalie whom he watched. It

was to Rosalie to whom he spoke as he went on. "You see, this maid she saw something she was not intended to see. And so she was silenced in case she should not hold her tongue."

"What was it she saw?"

Again it was Jacqueline who asked, and again Poirot's answer was to Rosalie. It was an odd little

three-cornered scene.

"There is, I think, very little doubt what it was she saw," said Poirot. "She saw someone enter and leave Linnet Doyle's cabin on that fatal night."

His ears were quick. He heard the sharp intake of breath and saw the eyelids flicker. Rosalie

Otterbourne had reacted just as he had intended she should.

"Did she say who it was she saw?" Rosalie asked.

Gently, regretfully, Poirot shook his head.

Footsteps pattered up the deck. It was Cornelia Robson, her eyes wide and startled.

"Oh, Jacqueline," she cried. "Something awful has happened. Another dreadful thing."

Jacqueline turned to her. The two' moved a few steps forward. Almost unconsciously Poirot and Rosalie Otterbourne moved in the other direction.

Rosalie said sharply:

"Why do you look at me? What have you got in your mind?" "That is two questions you ask me. I will ask you only one in return. Why do you not tell me all the truth, Mademoiselle?" "I don't know what you mean. I told you everything this morning." "No, there were things you did not tell me. You did not tell me that you carry about in your handbag a small-caliber pistol with a pearl handle. You did not tell me all that you saw last night." She flushed. Then she said sharply: "It's quite untrue. I haven't got a revolver." "I

did not say a revolver. I said a small pistol that you carry about in your handbag." She wheeled around, darted into her cabin and out again and thrust her grey leather handbag into his hands.

"You're talking nonsense. Look for yourself if you like." Poirot opened the bag. There was no pistol inside.

He handed the bag back to her, meeting her scornful triumphant glance.

"No," he said pleasantly. "It is not there." "You see. You're not always right, M. Poirot. And you're wrong about that other ridiculous thing you said." "No, I do not think so." "You're infuriating." She

stamped an angry foot. "You get an idea into your head and you go on and on and on about it." "Because I want you to tell me the truth." "What is the truth? You seem to know it better than I do." Poirot said:

"You want me to tell you what it was you saw? If I am right, will you admit that I am right? I will tell you my little idea. I think that when you came round the stern of the boat you stopped involuntarily because you saw a man come out of a cabin about half-way down the deck Linnet Doyle's cabin as you realized next day, you saw him come out, close the door behind him and walk away from you down the deck and perhaps enter one of the two end cabins. Now then, am I right, Mademoiselle?" She did not answer.

Poirot said: "Perhaps you think it wiser not to speak. Perhaps you are afraid that if you do, you too will be killed." For a moment he thought she had risen to the easy bait that the accusation against her courage would succeed where more subtle arguments would have failed.

Her lips opened trembled then: "I saw no one," said Rosalie Otterbourue.

Miss Bowers came out of Dr. Bessner's cabin, smoothing her cuffs over her wrists.

Jacqueline left Cornelia abruptly and accosted the hospital nurse.

"How is he?" she demanded.

Poirot came up in time to hear the answer.

Miss Bowers was looking rather worried.

"Things aren't going too badly," she said.

Jacqueline cried: "You mean, he's worse?" "Well, I must say I shall be relieved when we get in and can get a proper X-ray done and the whole thing cleaned up under an anesthetic. When do you think we shall get to Shellal, M. Poirot?" "To-morrow morning." Miss Bowers pursed her lips and shook her head.

"It's very unfortunate. We are doing all we can, but there's always such a danger of septicemia."

Jacqueline caught Miss Bowers's arm and shook it.

"Is he going to die? Is he going to die?" "Dear me, no, Miss de Bellefort. That is, I hope not, I'm sure.

The wound in itself isn't dangerous. But there's no doubt it ought to be X-rayed as soon as possible. And then, of course, poor Mr. Doyle ought to have been kept absolutely quiet to-day. He's had far too much worry and excitement. No. wonder his temperature is rising. What with the shock of his wife's death, and one thing and annotate." Jacqueline relinquished her grasp of the nurse's arm and turned away. She stood

leaning over the side, her back to the other two.

"What I say is, we've got to hope for the best always," said Miss Bowers. "Of course Mr. Doyle has a very strong constitution can see that, probably never had a day's illness in his life, so that's in his

favor. But there's no denying that this rise in temperature is a nasty sign and..." She shook her head, adjusted her cuffs once more, and moved briskly away.

Jacqueline turned and walked gropingly, blinded by tears towards her cabin.

A hand below her elbow steadied and guided her. She looked up through the tears to find Poirot by her side. She leaned on him a little and he guided her through the cabin door.

She sank down on the bed and the tears came more' freely punctuated by great shuddering sobs.

"He'll die. He'll die. I know he'll die .... And I shall have killed him. Yes, I shall have killed him .... " Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head a little, sadly.

"Mademoiselle, what is done, is done. One cannot take back the accomplished action. It is too late to regret." She cried out more vehemently: "I shall have killed him! And I love him so I love him so." Poirot sighed.

"Too much . . .' It had been his thought long ago in the restaurant of M. Blondin. It was his thought again now.

He said, hesitating a little.

"Do not, at all events, go by what Miss Bowers says. Hospital nurses, me, I find them always gloomy!

The night nurse, always, she is astonished to find her patient alive in the evening the day nurse, always, she is surprised to find him alive in the morning! They know too much, you see, of the possibilities that may arise. When one is motoring one might easily say to oneself if a car came out from that cross-road if that lorry backed suddenly or if the wheel came off the car that is approaching me or if a dog jumped off the hedge on to my driving arm, eh bien! I should probably be killed! But one assumes and usually rightly that none of these things will happen and that one will get to one's journey's end. But fi, of course, one has been in an accident or seen one or more accidents, then one is inclined to take the opposite point of view." Jacqueline said, half-smiling through her tears:

"Are you trying to console me, M. Poirot?" "The bon Dieu knows what I am trying to do! You should not have come on this journey." "No, I wish I hadn't. It's been so awful. But it will be soon over now."

"Mais oui, oui." "And Simon will go to the hospital and they'll give the proper treatment and everything will be all right." "You speak like the child] And they lived happily ever afterward. That is it, is it not?"

She flushed suddenly scarlet.

"M. Poirot. I never meant, never!" "It is too soon to think of such a thing! That is the proper

hypocritical thing to say, is it not? But you ar partly a Latin, Mademoiselle Jacqueline. You should be able to admit facts even if they do not sound very decorous. Le roi est mort, vive le roi! The sun has gone and the moon rises. That is so, is it not?" "You don't understand. He's just sorry for me awfully sorry for me because he knows how terrible it is for me to know I've hurt him so badly." "Ah, well," said

Poirot. "The pure pity, it is a very lofty sentiment." He looked at her half-mockingly, half with some other emotion. He murmured softly under his breath words in French:

La vie est vaine Un peu d'amour Un peu de haine Et puis bonjour.

La vie est brve On peu d'espoir Un peu de I've Et puis bonsoir

He went out again on to the deck. Colonel Race was striding along the deck and hailed him at once.

"Poirot. Goodman. I want you. I've got an idea." Thrusting his arm through Poirot's he walked him up the deck.

"Just a chance remark Of Doyle's. I hardly noticed it at the time. Something about a telegram."

"Tiens c'est vrai." "Nothing in it, perhaps, but one can't leave any avenue unexplored. Damn it all, man, two murders and we're still in the dark." Poirot shook his head.

"No, not in the dark. In the light." Race looked at him curiously.

"You have an idea?" "It is more than an idea now. I am sure." "Since when?"

"Since the death of the maid Louise Bourget."

"Damned if I see it!"

"My friend, it is so clear, so clear. Only there are difficulties! Embarrassments, impediments!

See you, around a person like Linnet Doyle there is so much, so many conflicting hates and jealousies and envies and meannesses. It is like a cloud of flies buzzing, buzzing.."

"But you think you know?" The other looked at him curiously. "You wouldn't say so unless you were sure. Can't say I've any real light, myself. I've suspicions, of course . . ."

Poirot stopped. He laid an impressive hand on Race's arm.

"You are a great man, mon Colonel You do not say, 'Tell me.' 'What is it that you think?' You know that if I could speak now, I would. But there is much to be cleared away first. But think, think for a moment along the lines that I shall indicate. There are certain points ... There is the statement of Mademoiselle de Bellefort that someone overheard our conversation that night in the garden at Assuan.

There is the statement of Mr. Tim Allerton as to what he heard and did on the night of the crime. There are Louise Bourget's significant answers to our questions this morning. There is the fact that Mrs. Allerton drinks water, that her son drinks whiskey and soda and that I drink wine. Add to that the fact of two bottles of nail polish and the proverb I quoted. And finally we come to the crux of the whole business, the fact that the pistol was wrapped up in a cheap handkerchief and a velvet stole and thrown overboard..."

Race was silent a minute or two then he shook his head.

"No," he said, "I don't see it. Mind, I've got a faint idea what you're driving at. But as far as I can see it doesn't work." "But yes, but yes, you are seeing only half the truth. And remember this, we must start again from the beginning since our first conception was entirely wrong." Race made a slight grimace.

"I'm used to that. It often seems to me that's all detective work is wiping out your false starts and

beginning again." "Yes, it is very true, that. And it is just what some people will not do, they conceive a certain theory and everything has to fit into that theory. If one little fact will not fit, they throw it aside. But it is always the facts that will not fit in that are significant. All along I have realized the significance of that pistol being removed from the scene of the crime. I knew that it meant something but what that something was I only realized one little half-hour ago." "And I still don't see it!" "But you will! Only reflect along the lines I indicated. And now let us clear up this matter of a telegram. That is if the Herr Doktor will admit us." Dr. Bessner was still in very bad humor. In answer to their knock, he disclosed a scowling face.

"What is it? Once more you wish to see my patient? But I tell you it is not wise. He has fever. He has had

more than enough excitement today." "Just one question," said Race. "Nothing more, I assure you." With an unwilling grunt, the doctor moved aside and the two men entered the cabin.

Dr. Bessner, growling to himself, pushed past them.

"I return in three minutes," he said. "And then, positively, you go!"

They heard him stomping down the deck.

Simon Doyle looked from one to the other of them inquiringly.

"Yes," he said. "What is it?" "A very little thing," said Race. "Just now, when the stewards were reporting to me, they mentioned that Signor Richetti had been particularly troublesome.

You said that that didn't surprise you as you knew he had a bad temper and that he had been rude to your wife over some matter of a telegram. Now can you tell me about that incident?" "Easily. It was at Wadi Halfa. We'd just come back from the Second Cataract.

Linnet thought she saw a 'telegram for her sticking up on the board.' She'd forgotten, you see, that she wasn't called Ridgeway any longer and Richetti and Ridgeway do look rather alike when written in atrocious handwriting. So she tore it open, couldn't make head or tail of it, and was puzzling over it when this fellow Richetti canoe along, fairly tore it out of her hand and gibbered with rage.

She went after him to apologize and he was frightfully rude to her about it." Race drew a deep breath.

"And do you know at all, Mr. Doyle, what was in that telegram?" "Yes, Linnet read part of it out aloud. It said " He paused. There was a commotion outside. A high-pitched voice was rapidly approaching.

"Where are M. Poirot and Colonel Race? I must see them immediately.t It is the most important. I have vital information. Are they with Mr. Doyle?" Bessner had not closed the door. The only curtain hung across the open doorway. Mrs. Otterbourne swept it to one side and entered like a tornado. Her face was suffused with color, her gait slightly unsteady her command of words not quite under her control.

"Mr. Doyle," she said dramatically, "I know who killed your wife!" "What?" Simon stared at her. So did the other two.

Mrs. Otterbourne swept all three of them with a triumphant glance. She was happy, superbly happy.

"Yes," she said. "My theories are completely vindicated the deep primeval, primordial urges it may appear impossible fantastic but it is the truth!" Race said sharply: "Do I understand that you have evidence in your possession to show who killed Mrs. Doyle?" Mrs. Otterbourne sat down in a chair and leaned forward nodding her head vigorously.

"Certainly I have. You will agree, will you not, that whoever killed Louise Bourget also killed Linnet

Doyle that the two crimes were committed by one and the same hand?" "Yes, yes," said Simon

impatiently. "Of course. That stands to reason. Go on." "Then my assertion holds. I know who killed Louise Bourget, therefore, I know who killed Linnet Doyle." "You mean, you have a theory as to who killed Louise Bourget," suggested Race skeptically.

Mrs. Otterbourne turned on him like a tiger.

"No, I have exact knowledge. I saw the person with my own eyes." Simon, fevered, shouted out: "For God's sake, start at the beginning. You know the person who killed Louise Bourget, you say." Mrs. Otterbourne nodded.

"I'll tell you exactly what occurred."

Yes, she was very happy, no doubt about it! This was her moment, her triumph!

What of it if her books were failing to the stupid public that once had bought them and devoured them voraciously now turned to newer favorites.

Salome Otterbourne would once again be notorious. Her name would be in all the papers. She would be a principal witness for the prosecution at the trial.

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

"It was when I went down to lunch. I hardly felt like eating all the horror of the recent tragedy, well, I needn't go into that."

"Half-way down I remembered that I had left something in my cabin. I told Rosalie to go on without me.

She did." Mrs. Otterbourne paused a minute.

The curtain across the door moved slightly as though lifted by the wind, but none of the three men noticed it.

"I..." Mrs. Otterbourne paused. Thin ice to skate over here, but it must be done somehow. "I had

an arrangement with one of the personnel of the ship. He was to get me something I needed, but

I did not wish my daughter to know of it, she is inclined to be tiresome in certain ways. Not too good, this, but she could think of something that sounded better before it came to telling the story in court.

Race's eyebrows lifted as his eyes asked a question of Poirot.

Poirot gave an infinitesimal nod. His lips formed the word, "Drink." The curtain across the door moved again. Between it and the door itself, something showed with a faint steel blue gleam.

Mrs. Otterbourne continued.

"The arrangement was that I should go round to the stern on the deck below this, and there I should find the man waiting for me. As I went along the deck a cabin door opened and somebody looked out. It was this girl Louise Bourget or whatever her name is. She seemed to be expecting someone. When she saw it was me, she looked disappointed and went abruptly inside again. I didn't think anything of it, of course.

I went along just as I had said I would and got the stuff from the man. I paid for him and just had

a word with him. Then I started back. Just as I came round the corner I saw someone knock on the

maid's door and go into the cabin." Race said: "And that person was" Bang.t The noise of the explosion filled the cabin. There was an acrid sour smell of smoke. Mrs. Otterbourne turned slowly sideways as though in supreme inquiry, then her body slumped forward and she fell to the ground with a crash. From just behind her ear the blood flowed from the around neat hole.

There was a moment's stupefied silence.

Then both the able-bodied men jumped to their feet. The woman's body hindered their movements a little. Race bent over her while Poirot made a catlike jump for the door and the deck.

The deck was empty. On the ground just in front of the sill lay a big Colt revolver.

Poirot glanced in both directions, the deck was empty. He then sprinted towards the stern. As he

rounded the corner he ran into Tim Allerton who was coming full tilt from the opposite direction.

"What the devil was that?" cried Tim breathlessly.

Poirot said sharply: "Did you meet anyone on your way here?" "Meet anyone? No." "Then come with me." He took the young man by the arm and retraced his steps. A little crowd had assembled by now.

Rosalie, Jacqueline, and Cornelia had rushed out of their cabins. More people were coming along the deck from the saloon, Ferguson, Jim Fanthorp and Mrs. Allerton.

Race stood by the revolver. Poirot turned his head and said sharply to Tim Allerton.

"Got any gloves in your pocket?" Tim fumbled.

"Yes, I have." Poirot seized them from him, put them on, and bent to examine the revolver.

Race did the same. The others watched breathlessly.

Race said: "He didn't go the other way. Fanthorp and Ferguson were sitting on this deck lounge, they'd have seen him." Poirot responded: "And Mr. Allerton would have met him if he'd gone aft." Race said pointing to the revolver: "Rather fancy we've seen this not so very long ago. Must make sure, though." He knocked on the door of Pennington's cabin. There was no answer. The cabin was empty.

Race strode to the right-hand drawer of the chest and jerked it open. The revolver was gone.

"Settles that," said Race. "Now then, where's Pennington himself?." They went out again on deck. Mrs. Allerton had joined the group. Poirot moved swiftly over to her.

"Madame, take Miss Otterbourne with you and look after her. Her mother has been" he consulted Race with an eye and Race nodded "killed." Dr. Bessner came bustling along. "Gott im Himmel! What is there now?" They made way for him, Race indicated the cabin. Bessner went inside. "Find Pennington," said Race. "Any fingerprints on that revolver?" "None," said Poirot.

They found Pennington on the deck below. He was sitting in the little drawing-room writing letters. He lifted a handsome clean-shaven face.

"Anything new?" he asked.

"Didn't you hear a shot?" "Why now you mention it? I believe I did hear a kind of a bang. But I never dreamed who's been shot?" "Mrs. Otterbourne." "Mrs. Otterbourne?' Pennington sounded quite astounded. "Well, you do surprise me. Mrs. Otterbourne." He shook his head. "I can't see that at all." He lowered his voice. "Strikes me, gentlemen, we've got a homicidal maniac aboard.

We ought to organize a defense system." "Mr. Pennington," said Race. "How long have you been in this room?" "Why let me see," Mr. Pennington gently rubbed his chin. "I should say a matter of twenty minutes or so." "And you haven't left it?" "Why, no, certainly not." He looked inquiringly at the two men. "You see, Mr. Pennington," said Race. "Mrs. Otterbourne was shot with your revolver."