Seventeen

Colonel Race glanced curiously¹ at his colleague. He respected—he had reason to respect—thebrain of Hercule Poirot. Yet for the moment he did not follow the other’s process of thought. Heasked no question, however. He seldom did ask questions. He proceeded straightforwardly² withthe 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 unwilling³ and sulky.

“Well,” she asked, “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 abit of fuss outside Dr. Bessner’s cabin. I heard the old man’s German voice booming away. Ofcourse 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 somethingoverboard?”

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 overthe side.”

Rosalie said clearly, “That’s a damned lie.” Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, sheasked: “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 velvet⁴, 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 LinnetDoyle? 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 shesaw 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 despondently⁵. “So many people keep back the truth forpositively futile⁶ 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 corroboratedRosalie’s statement that they had both gone to bed before eleven o’clock. She herself had heardnothing 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 forth⁷.

“The crime passionel!” she exclaimed. “The primitive⁸ instinct—to kill! So closely allied⁹ to thesex instinct. That girl, Jacqueline, half Latin, hot-blooded, obeying the deepest instincts of herbeing, stealing forth, revolver in hand—”

“But Jacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Madame Doyle. That we know for certain. It isproved,” explained Poirot.

“Her husband, then,” said Mrs. Otterbourne, rallying from the blow. “The blood lust¹⁰ and the sexinstinct—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 wasfractured,” 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 Bowers¹¹!”

“Miss Bowers?”

“Yes. Naturally. It’s so clear psychologically. Repression¹²! The repressed virgin¹³! Maddened bythe sight of these two—a young husband and wife passionately¹⁴ in love with each other. Of courseit was her! She’s just the type—sexually unattractive, innately¹⁵ respectable. In my book, TheBarren Vine—”

Colonel Race interrupted tactfully: “Your suggestions have been most helpful, Mrs.

Otterbourne. We must get on with our job now. Thank you so much.”

He escorted her gallantly¹⁶ 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 forthe end, I think. Richetti—Ferguson.”

Signor Richetti was very voluble, very agitated¹⁷.

“But what a horror, what an infamy—a woman so young and so beautiful—indeed an inhumancrime!”

Signor Richetti’s hands flew expressively¹⁸ up in the air.

His answers were prompt. He had gone to bed early—very early. In fact immediately afterdinner. He had read for a while—a very interesting pamphlet lately published—Pr?historischeForschung in Kleinasien—throwing an entirely¹⁹ new light on the painted pottery²⁰ of the Anatolianfoothills.

He had put out his light some time before eleven. No, he had not heard any shot. Not any soundlike the pop of a cork²¹. 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 thebigness 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 awoman….”

Exit Signor Richetti, still gesticulating freely.

Race looked at Poirot. Poirot raised his eyebrows²² expressively, then shrugged²³ his shoulders.

They passed on to Mr. Ferguson.

Ferguson was difficult. He sprawled²⁴ insolently²⁵ in a chair.

“Grand to-do about this business!” he sneered²⁶. “What’s it really matter? Lots of superfluouswomen 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 ashore²⁷ withMiss Robson. When she went back to the boat I mooched around by myself for a while. Cameback 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 was still a lot of people about then—commotion, running abouton 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 besure 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 richestwomen in England?”

“What’s Fleetwood got to do with this?”

“Fleetwood, my friend, had an excellent motive²⁸ for killing²⁹ Linnet Doyle. He had a specialgrudge 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 likeFleetwood, who can’t defend himself, who’s got no money to hire lawyers. But I tell you this—ifyou 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 jobat a time. Let’s have a go at Pennington.”

 

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