Death on the Nile

Bessner stroked his jaw again. His fingers made a rasping sound.

  “I would not care to be too precise. It is now eight o’clock. I will say, with due regard to the temperature last night, that she has been dead certainly six hours and probably not longer than eight.”

  “That puts it between midnight and two a.m.”

  “That is so.”

  There was a pause. Race looked around.

  “What about her husband? I suppose he sleeps in the cabin next door.”

  “At the moment,” said Dr. Bessner, “he is asleep in my cabin.” Both men looked very surprised.

  Bessner nodded his head several times.

  “Ach, so. I see you have not been told about that. Mr. Doyle was shot last night in the saloon.”

  “Shot? By whom?”

  “By the young lady, Jacqueline de Bellefort.”

  Race asked sharply, “Is he badly hurt?”

  “Yes, the bone is splintered. I have done all that is possible at the moment, but it is necessary, you understand, that the fracture should be X-rayed as soon as possible and proper treatment given such as is impossible on this boat.”

  Poirot murmured: “Jacqueline de Bellefort.”

  His eyes went again to the J on the wall.

  Race said abruptly: “If there is nothing more we can do here for the moment, let’s go below. The management has put the smoking room at our disposal. We must get the details of what happened last night.”

  They left the cabin. Race locked the door and took the key with him.

  “We can come back later,” he said. “The first thing to do is to get all the facts clear.”

  They went down to the deck below, where they found the manager of the Karnak waiting uneasily in the doorway of the smoking room. The poor man was terribly upset and worried over the whole business, and was eager to leave everything in Colonel Race’s hands.

  “I feel I can’t do better than leave it to you, sir, seeing your official position. I’d had orders to put myself at your disposal in the—er—other matter. If you will take charge, I’ll see that everything is done as you wish.”

  “Good man! To begin with I’d like this room kept clear for me and Monsieur Poirot during this inquiry.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “That’s all at present. Go on with your own work. I know where to find you.”

  Looking slightly relieved, the manager left the room.

  Race said, “Sit down, Bessner, and let’s have the whole story of what happened last night.”

  They listened in silence to the doctor’s rumbling voice.

  “Clear enough,” said Race, when he had finished. “The girl worked herself up, helped by a drink or two, and finally took a pot shot at the man with a twenty-two pistol. Then she went along to Linnet Doyle’s cabin and shot her as well.”

  But Dr. Bessner was shaking his head.

  “No, no, I do not think so. I do not think that was possible. For one thing she would not write her own initial on the wall; it would be ridiculous, nicht wahr?”

  “She might,” Race declared, “if she were as blindly mad and jealous as she sounds; she might want to—well—sign her name to the crime, so to speak.”

  Poirot shook his head. “No, no, I do not think she would be as—as crude as that.”

  “Then there’s only one reason for that J. It was put there by someone else deliberately to throw suspicion on her.”

  Bessner nodded. “Yes, and the criminal was unlucky, because, you see, it is not only unlikely that the young Fräulein did the murder; it is also I think impossible.”

  “How’s that?”

  Bessner explained Jacqueline’s hysterics and the circumstances which had led Miss Bowers to take charge of her.

  “And I think—I am sure—that Miss Bowers stayed with her all night.”

  Race said: “If that’s so, it’s going to simplify matters very much.”

  “Who discovered the crime?” Poirot asked.

  “Mrs. Doyle’s maid, Louise Bourget. She went to call her mistress as usual, found her dead, and came out and flopped into the steward’s arms in a dead faint. He went to the manager, who came to me. I got hold of Bessner and then came for you.”

  Poirot nodded.

  Race said: “Doyle’s got to know. You say he’s asleep still?”

  Bessner nodded. “Yes, he’s still asleep in my cabin. I gave him a strong opiate last night.”

  Race turned to Poirot.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t think we need detain the doctor any longer, eh? Thank you, Doctor.”

  Bessner rose. “I will have my breakfast, yes. And then I will go back to my cabin and see if Mr. Doyle is ready to wake.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bessner went out. The two men looked at each other.

  “Well, what about it, Poirot?” Race asked. “You’re the man in charge. I’ll take my orders from you. You say what’s to be done.”

  Poirot bowed.

  “Eh bien!” he said, “we must hold the court of inquiry. First of all, I think we must verify the story of the affair last night. That is to say, we must question Fanthorp and Miss Robson, who were the actual witnesses of what occurred. The disappearance of the pistol is very significant.”

  Race rang a bell and sent a message by the steward.

  Poirot sighed and shook his head. “It is bad, this,” he murmured. “It is bad.”

  “Have you any ideas?” asked Race curiously.

  “My ideas conflict. They are not well arranged; they are not orderly. There is, you see, the big fact that this girl hated Linnet Doyle and wanted to kill her.”

  “You think she’s capable of it?”

  “I think so—yes.” Poirot sounded doubtful.

  “But not in this way? That’s what’s worrying you, isn’t it? Not to creep into her cabin in the dark and shoot her while she was sleeping. It’s the cold-bloodedness that strikes you as not ringing true.”

  “In a sense, yes.”

  “You think that this girl, Jacqueline de Bellefort, is incapable of a premeditated cold-blooded murder?”

  Poirot said slowly: “I am not sure, you see. She would have the brains—yes. But I doubt if, physically, she could bring herself to do the act….”

  Race nodded. “Yes, I see…Well, according to Bessner’s story, it would also have been physically impossible.”

  “If that is true it clears the ground considerably. Let us hope it is true.” Poirot paused and then added simply: “I shall be glad if it is so, for I have for that little one much sympathy.”

  The door opened and Fanthorp and Cornelia came in. Bessner followed them.

  Cornelia gasped out: “Isn’t this just awful? Poor, poor Mrs. Doyle! And she was so lovely too. It must have been a real fiend who could hurt her! And poor Mr. Doyle; he’ll go half crazy when he knows! Why, even last night he was so frightfully worried lest she should hear about his accident.”

  “That is just what we want you to tell us about, Miss Robson,” said Race. “We want to know exactly what happened last night.”

  Cornelia began a little confusedly, but a question or two from Poirot helped matters.

  “Ah, yes, I understand. After the bridge, Madame Doyle went to her cabin. Did she really go to her cabin, I wonder?”

  “She did,” said Race. “I actually saw her. I said good night to her at the door.”

  “And the time?”

  “Mercy, I couldn’t say,” replied Cornelia.

  “It was twenty past eleven,” said Race.

  “Bien. Then at twenty past eleven, Madame Doyle was alive and well. At that moment there was, in the saloon, who?”

  Fanthorp answered: “Doyle was there. And Miss de Bellefort. Myself and Miss Robson.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Cornelia. “Mr. Pennington had a drink and then went off to bed.”

  “That was how much later?”

  “Oh, about three or four minutes.”

  “Before half-past eleven, then?
”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “So that there were left in the saloon you, Mademoiselle Robson, Mademoiselle de Bellefort, Monsieur Doyle, and Monsieur Fanthorp. What were you all doing?”

  “Mr. Fanthorp was reading a book. I’d got some embroidery. Miss de Bellefort was—she was—”

  Fanthorp came to the rescue. “She was drinking pretty heavily.”

  “Yes,” agreed Cornelia. “She was talking to me mostly and asking me about things at home. And she kept saying things—to me mostly, but I think they were kind of meant for Mr. Doyle. He was getting kind of mad at her, but he didn’t say anything. I think he thought if he kept quiet she might simmer down.

  “But she didn’t?”

  Cornelia shook her head.

  “I tried to go once or twice, but she made me stay, and I was getting very, very uncomfortable. And then Mr. Fanthorp got up and went out—”

  “It was a little embarrassing,” said Fanthorp. “I thought I’d make an unobtrusive exit. Miss de Bellefort was clearly working up for a scene.”

  “And then she pulled out the pistol,” went on Cornelia, “and Mr. Doyle jumped up to try and get it away from her, and it went off and shot him through the leg; and then she began to sob and cry—and I was scared to death and ran out after Mr. Fanthorp, and he came back with me, and Mr. Doyle said not to make a fuss, and one of the Nubian boys heard the noise of the shot and came along, but Mr. Fanthorp told him it was all right; and then we got Jacqueline away to her cabin, and Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her while I got Miss Bowers.” Cornelia paused breathless.

  “What time was this?” asked Race.

  Cornelia said again, “Mercy, I don’t know,” but Fanthorp answered promptly:

  “It must have been about twenty minutes past twelve. I know that it was actually half-past twelve when I finally got to my cabin.”

  “Now let me be quite sure on one or two points,” said Poirot. “After Madame Doyle left the saloon, did any of you four leave it?”

  “No.”

  “You are quite certain Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not leave the saloon at all?”

  Fanthorp answered promptly: “Positive. Neither Doyle, Miss de Bellefort, Miss Robson, nor myself left the saloon.”

  “Good. That establishes the fact that Mademoiselle de Bellefort could not possibly have shot Madame Doyle before—let us say—twenty past twelve. Now, Mademoiselle Robson, you went to fetch Mademoiselle Bowers. Was Mademoiselle de Bellefort alone in her cabin during that period?”

  “No. Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her.”

  “Good! So far, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has a perfect alibi. Mademoiselle Bowers is the next person to interview, but, before I send for her, I should like to have your opinion on one or two points. Monsieur Doyle, you say, was very anxious that Mademoiselle de Bellefort should not be left alone. Was he afraid, do you think, that she was contemplating some further rash act?”

  “That is my opinion,” said Fanthorp.

  “He was definitely afraid she might attack Madame Doyle?”

  “No.” Fanthorp shook his head. “I don’t think that was his idea at all. I think he was afraid she might—er—do something rash to herself.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Yes. You see, she seemed completely sobered and heartbroken at what she had done. She was full of self-reproach. She kept saying she would be better dead.”

  Cornelia said timidly: “I think he was rather upset about her. He spoke—quite nicely. He said it was all his fault—that he’d treated her badly. He—he was really very nice.”

  Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. “Now about that pistol,” he went on. “What happened to that?”

  “She dropped it,” said Cornelia.

  “And afterwards?”

  Fanthorp explained how he had gone back to search for it, but had not been able to find it.

  “Aha!” said Poirot. “Now we begin to arrive. Let us, I pray you, be very precise. Describe to me exactly what happened.”

  “Miss de Bellefort let it fall. Then she kicked it away from her with her foot.”

  “She sort of hated it,” explained Cornelia. “I know just what she felt.”

  “And it went under a settee, you say. Now be very careful. Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not recover that pistol before she left the saloon?”

  Both Fanthorp and Cornelia were positive on that point.

  “Précisément. I seek only to be very exact, you comprehend. Then we arrive at this point. When Mademoiselle de Bellefort leaves the saloon the pistol is under the settee, and, since Mademoiselle de Bellefort is not left alone—Monsieur Fanthorp, Mademoiselle Robson or Mademoiselle Bowers being with her—she has no opportunity to get back the pistol after she left the saloon. What time was it, Monsieur Fanthorp, when you went back to look for it?”

  “It must have been just before half-past twelve.”

  “And how long would have elapsed between the time you and Dr. Bessner carried Monsieur Doyle out of the saloon until you returned to look for the pistol?”

  “Perhaps five minutes—perhaps a little more.”

  “Then in that five minutes someone removes that pistol from where it lay out of sight under the settee. That someone was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who was it? It seems highly probable that the person who removed it was the murderer of Madame Doyle. We may assume, too, that the person had overheard or seen something of the events immediately preceding.”

  “I don’t see how you make that out,” objected Fanthorp.

  “Because,” said Hercule Poirot, “you have just told us that the pistol was out of sight under the settee. Therefore it is hardly credible that it was discovered by accident. It was taken by someone who knew it was there. Therefore that someone must have assisted at the scene.”

  Fanthorp shook his head. “I saw no one when I went out on the deck just before the shot was fired.”

  “Ah, but you went out by the door on the starboard side.”

  “Yes. The same side as my cabin.”

  “Then if there had been anybody at the port door looking through the glass you would not have seen him?”

  “No,” admitted Fanthorp.

  “Did anyone hear the shot except the Nubian boy?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Fanthorp went on: “You see, the windows in here were all closed. Miss Van Schuyler felt a draught earlier in the evening. The swing doors were shut. I doubt if the shot would be clearly heard. It would only sound like the pop of a cork.”

  Race said: “As far as I know, no one seems to have heard the other shot—the shot that killed Mrs. Doyle.”

  “That we will inquire into presently,” said Poirot.

  “For the moment we still concern ourselves with Mademoiselle de Bellefort. We must speak to Mademoiselle Bowers. But first, before you go”—he arrested Fanthorp and Cornelia with a gesture—“you will give me a little information about yourselves. Then it will not be necessary to call you again later. You first, Monsieur—your full name.”

  “James Lechdale Fanthorp.”

  “Address?”

  “Glasmore House, Market Donnington, Northamptonshire.”

  “Your profession?”

  “I am a lawyer.”

  “And your reasons for visiting this country?”

  There was a pause. For the first time the impassive Mr. Fanthorp seemed taken aback. He said at last, almost mumbling the words, “Er—pleasure.”

  “Aha!” said Poirot. “You take the holiday; that is it, yes?”

  “Er—yes.”

  “Very well, Monsieur Fanthorp. Will you give me a brief account of your own movements last night after the events we have just been narrating?”

  “I went straight to bed.”

  “That was at—?”

  “Just after half-past twelve.”

  “Your cabin is number twenty-two on the starboard side—the one nearest the saloon.”

  “Yes.”

  “I will ask you one m
ore question. Did you hear anything—anything at all—after you went to your cabin?”

  Fanthorp considered.

  “I turned in very quickly. I think I heard a kind of splash just as I was dropping off to sleep. Nothing else.”

  “You heard a kind of splash? Near at hand?”

  Fanthorp shook his head.

  “Really, I couldn’t say. I was half asleep.”

  “And what time would that be?”

  “It might have been about one o’clock. I can’t really say.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Fanthorp. That is all.”

  Poirot turned his attention to Cornelia.

  “And now, Mademoiselle Robson. Your full name?”

  “Cornelia Ruth. And my address is The Red House, Bellfield, Connecticut.”

  “What brought you to Egypt?”

  “Cousin Marie, Miss Van Schuyler, brought me along on a trip.”

  “Had you ever met Madame Doyle previous to this journey?”

  “No, never.”

  “And what did you do last night?”

  “I went right to bed after helping Dr. Bessner with Mr. Doyle’s leg.”

  “Your cabin is—?”

  “Forty-three on the port side—right next door to Miss de Bellefort.”

  “And did you hear anything?”

  Cornelia shook her head. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “No splash?”

  “No, but then I wouldn’t, because the boat’s against the bank on my side.”

  Poirot nodded. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Robson. Now perhaps you will be so kind as to ask Mademoiselle Bowers to come here.”

  Fanthorp and Cornelia went out.

  “That seems clear enough,” said Race. “Unless three independent witnesses are lying, Jacqueline de Bellefort couldn’t have got hold of the pistol. But somebody did. And somebody overheard the scene. And somebody was B.F. enough to write a big J on the wall.”

  There was a tap on the door and Miss Bowers entered. The hospital nurse sat down in her usual composed efficient manner. In answer to Poirot she gave her name, address, and qualifications, adding: “I’ve been looking after Miss Van Schuyler for over two years now.”

  “Is Mademoiselle Van Schuyler’s health very bad?”

  “Why, no, I wouldn’t say that,” replied Miss Bowers. “She’s not very young, and she’s nervous about herself, and she likes to have a nurse around handy. There’s nothing serious the matter with her. She just likes plenty of attention, and she’s willing to pay for it.”