Thirteen

Hercule Poirot was just wiping the lather¹ from his freshly shaved face when there was a quick tapon the door, and hard on top of it Colonel Race entered unceremoniously. He closed the doorbehind him.

He said: “Your instinct was quite correct. It’s happened.”

Poirot straightened up and asked sharply: “What has happened?”

“Linnet Doyle’s dead—shot through the head last night.”

Poirot was silent for a minute, two memories vividly² before him—a girl in a garden at Assuansaying in a hard breathless voice: “I’d like to put my dear little pistol against her head and justpress the trigger,” and another more recent memory, the same voice saying: “One feels one can’tgo on—the kind of day when something breaks”—and that strange momentary³ flash of appeal inher eyes. What had been the matter with him not to respond to that appeal? He had been blind,deaf, stupid with his need for sleep….

Race went on: “I’ve got some slight official standing⁴; they sent for me, put it in my hands. Theboat’s due to start in half an hour, but it will be delayed till I give the word. There’s a possibility,of course, that the murderer came from the shore.”

Poirot shook his head.

Race acquiesced⁵ in the gesture.

“I agree. One can pretty well rule that out. Well, man, it’s up to you. This is your show.”

Poirot had been attiring⁶ himself with a neat-fingered celerity. He said now: “I am at yourdisposal.”

The two men stepped out on the deck.

Race said: “Bessner should be there by now. I sent the steward⁷ for him.”

There were four cabins de luxe, with bathrooms, on the boat. Of the two on the port side onewas occupied by Dr. Bessner, the other by Andrew Pennington. On the starboard side the first wasoccupied by Miss Van Schuyler, and the one next to it by Linnet Doyle. Her husband’s dressingcabin was next door.

A white-faced steward was standing outside the door of Linnet Doyle’s cabin. He opened thedoor for them and they passed inside. Dr. Bessner was bending over the bed. He looked up andgrunted as the other two entered.

“What can you tell us, Doctor, about this business?” asked Race.

Bessner rubbed his unshaven jaw⁹ meditatively¹⁰.

“Ach! She was shot—shot at close quarters. See—here just above the ear—that is where thebullet entered. A very little bullet—I should say a twenty-two. The pistol, it was held close againsther head, see, there is blackening here, the skin is scorched¹¹.”

Again in a sick wave of memory Poirot thought of those words uttered in Assuan.

Bessner went on: “She was asleep; there was no struggle; the murderer crept up in the dark andshot her as she lay there.”

“Ah! non!” Poirot cried out. His sense of psychology¹² was outraged¹³. Jacqueline de Bellefortcreeping into a darkened cabin, pistol in hand—no, it did not “fit,” that picture.

Bessner stared at him with his thick lenses.

“But that is what happened, I tell you.”

“Yes, yes. I did not mean what you thought. I was not contradicting you.”

Bessner gave a satisfied grunt⁸.

Poirot came up and stood beside him. Linnet Doyle was lying on her side. Her attitude wasnatural and peaceful. But above the ear was a tiny hole with an incrustation of dried blood roundit.

Poirot shook his head sadly.

Then his gaze fell on the white painted wall just in front of him and he drew in his breathsharply. Its white neatness was marred¹⁴ by a big wavering letter J scrawled¹⁵ in some brownish-redmedium.

Poirot stared at it, then he leaned over the dead girl and very gently picked up her right hand.

One finger of it was stained a brownish-red.

“Non d’un nom d’un nom!” ejaculated Hercule Poirot.

“Eh? What is that?”

Dr. Bessner looked up.

“Ach! That.”

Race said: “Well, I’m damned. What do you make of that, Poirot?”

Poirot swayed a little on his toes.

“You ask me what I make of it. Eh bien, it is very simple, is it not? Madame Doyle is dying; shewishes to indicate her murderer, and so she writes with her finger, dipped in her own blood, theinitial letter of her murderer’s name. Oh, yes, it is astonishingly simple.”

“Ach, but—”

Dr. Bessner was about to break out, but a peremptory¹⁶ gesture from Race silenced him.

“So it strikes you that?” he asked slowly.

Poirot turned round on him nodding his head.

“Yes, yes. It is, as I say, of an astonishing simplicity¹⁷! It is so familiar, is it not? It has been doneso often, in the pages of the romance of crime! It is now, indeed, a little vieux jeu! It leads one tosuspect that our murderer is—old-fashioned!”

“C’est de l’enfantillage,” agreed Poirot.

“But it was done with a purpose,” suggested Race.

“That—naturally,” agreed Poirot, and his face was grave.

“What does J stand for?” asked Race.

Poirot replied promptly¹⁸: “J stands for Jacqueline de Bellefort, a young lady who declared to meless than a week ago that she would like nothing better than to—” he paused and then deliberatelyquoted, “‘to put my dear little pistol close against her head and then just press with my finger—’”

“Gott im Himmel” exclaimed Dr. Bessner.

There was a momentary silence. Then Race drew a deep breath and said: “Which is just whatwas done here?”

Bessner nodded.

“That is so, yes. It was a pistol of very small calibre—as I say, probably a twenty-two. Thebullet has got to be extracted, of course, before we can say definitely.”

Race nodded in swift comprehension. Then he asked: “What about time of death?”

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 thetemperature last night, that she has been dead certainly six hours and probably not longer thaneight.”

“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 givensuch as is impossible on this boat.”

Poirot murmured: “Jacqueline de Bellefort.”

His eyes went again to the J on the wall.

Race said abruptly²⁰: “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 whathappened 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 waitinguneasily in the doorway²¹ of the smoking room. The poor man was terribly upset and worried overthe 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 toput myself at your disposal in the — er — other matter. If you will take charge, I’ll see thateverything is done as you wish.”

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

“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 rumbling²³ voice.

“Clear enough,” said Race, when he had finished. “The girl worked herself up, helped by adrink or two, and finally took a pot shot at the man with a twenty-two pistol. Then she went alongto 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 writeher 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 mightwant 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 deliberately¹⁹ to throwsuspicion on her.”

Bessner nodded. “Yes, and the criminal was unlucky, because, you see, it is not only unlikelythat the young Fr?ulein did the murder; it is also I think impossible.”

“How’s that?”

Bessner explained Jacqueline’s hysterics and the circumstances which had led Miss Bowers²⁴ totake 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, andcame out and flopped²⁵ into the steward’s arms in a dead faint. He went to the manager, who cameto 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 fromyou. You say what’s to be done.”

Poirot bowed.

“Eh bien!” he said, “we must hold the court of inquiry²². First of all, I think we must verify thestory of the affair last night. That is to say, we must question Fanthorp and Miss Robson, whowere the actual witnesses of what occurred. The disappearance²⁶ 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 curiously²⁷.

“My ideas conflict. They are not well arranged; they are not orderly. There is, you see, the bigfact 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 thedark and shoot her while she was sleeping. It’s the cold-bloodedness that strikes you as not ringingtrue.”

“In a sense, yes.”

“You think that this girl, Jacqueline de Bellefort, is incapable²⁸ of a premeditated cold-bloodedmurder?”

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 beenphysically impossible.”

“If that is true it clears the ground considerably²⁹. Let us hope it is true.” Poirot paused and thenadded 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 gasped³⁰ 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 whenhe knows! Why, even last night he was so frightfully worried lest she should hear about hisaccident.”

“That is just what we want you to tell us about, Miss Robson,” said Race. “We want to knowexactly 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 toher 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 therewas, 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 embroidery³¹. 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. Hewas getting kind of mad at her, but he didn’t say anything. I think he thought if he kept quiet shemight 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 deBellefort was clearly working up for a scene.”

“And then she pulled out the pistol,” went on Cornelia, “and Mr. Doyle jumped up to try andget it away from her, and it went off and shot him through the leg; and then she began to sob³² andcry—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 camealong, 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-pasttwelve when I finally got to my cabin.”

“Now let me be quite sure on one or two points,” said Poirot. “After Madame Doyle left thesaloon, 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, normyself left the saloon.”

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

“No. Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her.”

“Good! So far, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has a perfect alibi³³. Mademoiselle Bowers is the nextperson to interview, but, before I send for her, I should like to have your opinion on one or twopoints. Monsieur Doyle, you say, was very anxious that Mademoiselle de Bellefort should not beleft alone. Was he afraid, do you think, that she was contemplating³⁴ 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 shemight—er—do something rash to herself.”

“Suicide?”

“Yes. You see, she seemed completely sobered and heartbroken at what she had done. She wasfull 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 itwas 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 tothat?”

“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 meexactly 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 notrecover 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. WhenMademoiselle de Bellefort leaves the saloon the pistol is under the settee, and, since Mademoisellede Bellefort is not left alone — Monsieur Fanthorp, Mademoiselle Robson or MademoiselleBowers 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 MonsieurDoyle 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 thesettee. That someone was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who was it? It seems highly probablethat the person who removed it was the murderer of Madame Doyle. We may assume, too, that theperson 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 thesettee. Therefore it is hardly credible³⁵ that it was discovered by accident. It was taken by someonewho 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 wasfired.”

“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 haveseen 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 adraught earlier in the evening. The swing doors were shut. I doubt if the shot would be clearlyheard. It would only sound like the pop of a cork³⁶.”

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

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

“For the moment we still concern ourselves with Mademoiselle de Bellefort. We must speak toMademoiselle Bowers. But first, before you go”— he arrested Fanthorp and Cornelia with agesture—“you will give me a little information about yourselves. Then it will not be necessary tocall 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 atlast, almost mumbling³⁷ 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 lastnight after the events we have just been narrating³⁸?”

“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 more question. Did you hear anything—anything at all—after you went toyour 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 helping³⁹ 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 askMademoiselle 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 somebodyoverheard 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 usualcomposed 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 nervousabout herself, and she likes to have a nurse around handy. There’s nothing serious the matter withher. She just likes plenty of attention, and she’s willing to pay for it.”

Poirot nodded comprehendingly. Then he said: “I understand that Mademoiselle Robsonfetched you last night?”

“Why, yes, that’s so.”

“Will you tell me exactly what happened?”

“Well, Miss Robson just gave me a brief outline of what had occurred, and I came along withher. I found Miss de Bellefort in a very excited, hysterical⁴⁰ condition.”

“Did she utter any threats against Madame Doyle?”

“No, nothing of that kind. She was in a condition of morbid⁴¹ self-reproach. She’d taken a gooddeal of alcohol, I should say, and she was suffering from reaction. I didn’t think she ought to beleft. I gave her a shot of morphia and sat with her.”

“Now, Mademoiselle Bowers, I want you to answer this. Did Mademoiselle de Bellefort leaveher cabin at all?”

“No, she did not.”

“And you yourself?”

“I stayed with her until early this morning.”

“You are quite sure of that?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Bowers.”

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

Jacqueline de Bellefort was definitely cleared of the crime. Who then had shot Linnet Doyle?

 

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