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 crossroad—or if that lorry backed suddenly—or if the wheel came off the car that is approaching—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 if, 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 asked, half smiling through her tears: “Are you trying to console me, Monsieur 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—mais 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.
“Monsieur 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 are 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 brève.
Un peu d’espoir,
Un peu de rêve,
Et puis bonsoir.”
He went out again on to the deck. Colonel Race was striding along the deck and hailed him at once.
“Poirot. Good man! 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 Monsieur 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 Madame Allerton drinks water, that her son drinks whisky 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 it, 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 a very bad humour. 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 stumping down the deck.
Simon Doyle looked from one to the other of them inquiringly.
“Yes,” he said, “what is it?”
“A very little thing,” Race replied. “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 the 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 an atrocious handwriting. So she tore it open, couldn’t make head or tail of it, and was puzzling over it when this fellow Richetti came 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 Monsieur Poirot and Colonel Race? I must see them immediately! It is most important. I have vital information. I—Are they with Mr. Doyle?”
Bessner had not closed the door. Only the curtain hung across the open doorway. Mrs. Otterbourne
swept it to one side and entered like a tornado. Her face was suffused with colour, 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 sceptically.
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 will tell you exactly what occurred.”
Yes, she was very happy—no doubt of it! This was her moment, her triumph! What of it if her books were failing to sell, if the stupid public that once had bought them and devoured them voraciously now turned to newer favourites? Salome Otterbourne would once again be notorious. Her name would be in all the papers. She would be 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. Halfway down I remembered that I had—er—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—er—” Mrs. Otterbourne paused. Thin ice to skate over here, but it must be done somehow. “I—er—had an arrangement with one of the—er—personnel of the ship. He was to—er—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—the stuff from the man. I paid him and—er—just had a word with him. Then I started back. Just as I came around the corner I saw someone knock on the maid’s door and go into the cabin.”
Race said, “And that person was—?”
Bang!
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 a round 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. Ressner 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 defence 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.”
Twenty-Five
Mr. Pennington was shocked. Mr. Pennington could hardly believe it.
“Why, gentlemen,” he said, “this is a very serious matter. Very serious indeed.”
“Extremely serious for you, Mr. Pennington.”
“For me?” Pennington’s eyebrows
rose in startled surprise. “But, my dear sir, I was sitting quietly writing in here when that shot was fired.”
“You have, perhaps, a witness to prove that?”
Pennington shook his head.
“Why, no—I wouldn’t say that. But it’s clearly impossible that I should have gone to the deck above, shot this poor woman (and why should I shoot her anyway?) and come down again with no one seeing me. There are always plenty of people on the deck lounge this time of day.”
“How do you account for your pistol being used?”
“Well—I’m afraid I may be to blame there. Quite soon after getting aboard there was a conversation in the saloon one evening, I remember, about firearms, and I mentioned then that I always carried a revolver with me when I travel.”
“Who was there?”
“Well, I can’t remember exactly. Most people, I think. Quite a crowd, anyway.”
He shook his head gently.
“Why, yes,” he said. “I am certainly to blame there.”
He went on: “First Linnet, then Linnet’s maid, and now Mrs. Otterbourne. There seems no reason in it all!”
“There was reason,” said Race.
“There was?”
“Yes. Mrs. Otterbourne was on the point of telling us that she had seen a certain person go into Louise’s cabin. Before she could name that person she was shot dead.”
Andrew Pennington passed a fine silk handkerchief over his brow.
“All this is terrible,” he murmured.
Poirot said: “Monsieur Pennington, I would like to discuss certain aspects of the case with you. Will you come to my cabin in half an hour’s time?”
“I should be delighted.”
Pennington did not sound delighted. He did not look delighted either. Race and Poirot exchanged glances and then abruptly left the room.
“Cunning old devil,” said Race, “but he’s afraid. Eh?”
Poirot nodded. “Yes, he is not happy, our Monsieur Pennington.”
As they reached the promenade deck again, Mrs. Allerton came out of her cabin and, seeing Poirot, beckoned him imperiously.
“Madame?”
“That poor child! Tell me, Monsieur Poirot, is there a double cabin somewhere that I could share with her? She oughtn’t to go back to the one she shared with her mother, and mine is only a single one.”