Sixteen

Race pored thoughtfully over a plan of the promenade¹ deck of the Karnak.

“Fanthorp, young Allerton, Mrs. Allerton. Then an empty cabin—Simon Doyle’s. Now who’son the other side of Mrs. Doyle’s? The old American dame². If anyone heard anything she wouldhave 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 thismorning. 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 notwish 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 thebetter, 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 soothingly³: “Precisely, Mademoiselle. That is why we wish to free you fromunpleasantness 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, veryinconsiderately, kept me waiting.”

“Très bien, Mademoiselle. Now what did you hear after you had retired⁴?”

Miss Van Schuyler said: “I sleep very lightly.”

“A merveille! That is very fortunate for us.”

“I was awakened⁵ 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 wassomeone 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 toadlike head on one side.

“It might,” she admitted rather grudgingly⁶.

“And you have no idea what might have caused the splash you heard?”

“Not at all—I know perfectly⁷.”

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 mycabin. Miss Otterbourne was leaning over the side. She had just dropped something into thewater.”

“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 leaned 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 drippingbundle.

“We’ve got it, Colonel.”

Race took the package. He unwrapped fold after fold of sodden⁸ velvet⁹. Out of it fell a coarsehandkerchief, faintly stained with pink, wrapped round a small pearl-handled pistol.

Race gave Poirot a glance of slightly malicious¹⁰ 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 Cataract¹¹ Hotel that night?”

Poirot examined it carefully; then he said quietly: “Yes—that is it. There is the ornamental¹² workon it—and the initials J.B. It is an article de luxe, a very feminine production, but it is none theless a lethal¹³ weapon.”

“Twenty-two,” murmured Race. He took out the clip. “Two bullets fired. Yes, there doesn’tseem 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 ifthey’d seen it.”

Poirot questioned Race with a glance, and the latter gave a slight nod of assent¹⁴.

“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 itanywhere.”

Race said quickly: “You realize what it’s been used for?” He spread it out, indicating with afinger the scorching¹⁵ and several small holes. “The murderer wrapped it round the pistol to deadenthe noise of the shot.”

“Impertinence!” snapped Miss Van Schuyler. The colour rose in her wizened¹⁶ cheeks.

Race said: “I shall be glad, Miss Van Schuyler, if you will tell me the extent of your previousacquaintance 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 dearmother would never have dreamed of calling upon any of the Hartz family, who, outside theirwealth, 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 andI 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 perplexed¹⁷ manner. Then he brought down his hand on the table witha 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 sneaked¹⁸ in there and retrieved¹⁹ thepistol—Jacqueline de Bellefort’s pistol, remember. Somebody shot Linnet Doyle with that pistoland wrote the letter J on the wall…All so clear, is it not? All pointing to Jacqueline de Bellefort asthe 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, thatparticularly 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.”

 

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