Текст книги "Смерть на Ниле / Death on the Nile"

Chapter 15

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 would 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 – er – very unpleasant affair.’

‘Quite – quite. I was just saying to Monsieur 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 favour.

‘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 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.’

‘Très 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 awakened by that rather flashy young woman, Mrs Doyle’s maid, who said, “Bonne nuit, Madame” in what I cannot but think 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 Madame 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 leant 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 round 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 round a small pearlhandled 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, Monsieur 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 de luxe – a very feminine production – but it is none the less a lethal weapon.’

‘.22,’ murmured Race. He took out the clip. ‘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 there.’

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 Race 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 quickly:

‘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 colour 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, were 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 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. ‘Nom d’un nom 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 murderess. 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 the sequence of events is impossible. Something is wrong.’

Chapter 16

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 – merely 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 colour 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 Schuyler?’ 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,’ he replied, ‘but she heard something.’

‘What did she hear?’

‘Someone moving about in Madame Doyle’s cabin.’

‘I see,’ muttered Rosalie.

She was pale now – deadly pale.

‘And you persist in saying that you threw nothing overboard, Mademoiselle?’

‘What on earth should I run about throwing things overboard for in the middle of the night?’

‘There might be a reason – an innocent reason.’

‘Innocent?’ repeated the girl sharply.

‘That’s 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–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 and 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, hot-blooded, obeying the deepest instincts of her being, stealing forth, revolver in hand-’

‘But Jacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Madame 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 unattractive, innately 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 voluble, very agitated.

‘But what a horror, what an infamy – a woman so young and so beautiful – indeed an inhuman crime-’

Signor Richetti’s 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 – Prähistorische Forschung in Kleinasien – throwing an entirely new light on the painted pottery of the Anatolian foothills.

He had put out his light some time 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 heard 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? 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 round about midnight.’

‘Your cabin is on the lower deck, starboard side?’

‘Yes. I’m 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… Can’t remember when – 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 – if 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 likeable 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.’

Chapter 17

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 – number thirty-eight thrity-nine – 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 that 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 rumours going about the boat. That halfFrench 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 Madame 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 it is quite impossible for Mademoiselle de Bellefort to have shot Madame Doyle.’

He explained carefully the circumstances. Pennington seemed reluctant to accept them.

‘I agree it looks all right on the face 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, Monsieur Pennington. She had administered a emphasis 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,’ declared 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 definite – Jacqueline 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. 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 Madame Doyle’s removal. She had a near escape before, you remember, at this very place, when that boulder crashed down – ah! but you were not there, perhaps?’

‘No. I was inside the temple at the time. I heard about it afterwards, 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:

‘Mr Doyle happened to mention someone being on board who bore a grudge – 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 operations 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 Pennington 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 tomorrow 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. I – moi 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 kid, is it not so?’

‘That was the idea,’ agreed 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 lunch time 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’d like to make a brief précis 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 11.30–12.20 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.

Probable course of events: X (murderer) was witness of scene between Jacqueline and Simon Doyle in observation saloon and noted where pistol went under settee. After the saloon was vacant, X procured pistol – his or her idea being that Jacqueline de Bellefort would be thought guilty of crime. On 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 favour 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 J.B.?

Fleetwood. Motive, revenge. Fleetwood considered himself injured by Linnet Doyle. Might have overheard scene and noted position of pistol. He may have taken pistol because it was a handy weapon, rather than with the idea of throwing guilt on Jacqueline. This would fit in with throwing it overboard. But if that were the case, why did he write J 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 the 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 be convincing only 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 belonged 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 some time 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 the search for it was made? Did it never 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 on board into two classes – those who had a possible motive or against whom there is definite evidence, and those who, as far as we know, are free of suspicion.

Group IGroup II

Andrew Pennington Mrs Allerton

Fleetwood Tim Allerton

Rosalie Otterbourne Cornelia Robson

Miss Van Schuyler Miss Bowers

Louise Bourget (Robbery?) Dr Bessner

Ferguson (Political?) Signor Richetti

Mrs Otterbourne

James Fanthorp

Poirot pushed the paper back.

‘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 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 not 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 and smoothed it out, wet and limp, on the table. His fingers 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 round 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.’

Poirot picked up the handkerchief and examined it.

‘A man’s handkerchief – but not a gentleman’s handkerchief. Ce cher Woolworth, I imagine. Three pence 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.” ’