Twenty-Three

The body of the dead woman, who in life had been Louise Bourget, lay on the floor of her cabin.

The two men bent¹ over it.

Race straightened himself first.

“Been dead close on an hour, I should say. We’ll get Bessner on to it. Stabbed to the heart.

Death pretty well instantaneous, I should imagine. She doesn’t look pretty, does she?”

“No.”

Poirot shook his head with a slight shudder².

The dark feline³ face was convulsed, as though with surprise and fury, the lips drawn⁴ back fromthe teeth.

Poirot bent again gently and picked up the right hand. Something just showed within the fingers.

He detached it and held it out to Race, a little sliver⁵ of flimsy paper coloured a pale mauvish pink.

“You see what it is?”

“Money,” said Race.

“The corner of a thousand-franc note, I fancy.”

“Well, it’s clear what happened,” said Race. “She knew something—and she was blackmailingthe murderer with her knowledge. We thought she wasn’t being quite straight this morning.”

Poirot cried out: “We have been idiots—fools! We should have known—then. What did shesay? ‘What could I have seen or heard? I was on the deck below. Naturally, if I had been unable tosleep, if I had mounted the stairs, then perhaps I might have seen this assassin, this monster, enteror leave Madame’s cabin, but as it is—’ Of course, that is what did happen! She did come up. Shedid see someone gliding⁷ into Linnet Doyle’s cabin—or coming out of it. And, because of hergreed, her insensate greed, she lies here—”

“And we are no nearer to knowing who killed her,” finished Race disgustedly.

Poirot shook his head. “No, no. We know much more now. We know — we know almosteverything. Only what we know seems incredible…Yet it must be so. Only I do not see. Pah!

What a fool I was this morning! We felt—both of us felt—that she was keeping something back,and yet we never realized that logical reason, blackmail⁶.”

“She must have demanded hush⁸ money straight away,” said Race. “Demanded it with threats.

The murderer was forced to accede⁹ to that request and paid her in French notes. Anything there?”

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. “I hardly think so. Many people take a reserve of moneywith them when travelling — sometimes five- pound notes, sometimes dollars, but very oftenFrench notes as well. Possibly the murderer paid her all he had in a mixture of currencies. Let uscontinue our reconstruction¹⁰.”

“The murderer comes to her cabin, gives her the money, and then—”

“And then,” said Poirot, “she counts it. Oh, yes, I know that class. She would count the money,and while she counted it she was completely off her guard. The murderer struck. Having done sosuccessfully, he gathered up the money and fled—not noticing that the corner of one of the noteswas torn.”

“We may get him that way,” suggested Race doubtfully.

“I doubt it,” said Poirot. “He will examine those notes, and will probably notice the tear. Ofcourse if he were of a parsimonious¹¹ disposition¹² he would not be able to bring himself to destroy amille note—but I very much fear that his temperament¹³ is just the opposite.”

“How do you make that out?”

“Both this crime and the murder of Madame Doyle demanded certain qualities — courage,audacity, bold execution, lightning action; those qualities do not accord with a saving, prudentdisposition.”

Race shook his head sadly. “I’d better get Bessner down,” he said.

The stout¹⁴ doctor’s examination did not take long. Accompanied by a good many Ach’s andSo’s, he went to work.

“She has been dead not more than an hour,” he announced. “Death it was very quick—at once.”

“And what weapon do you think was used?”

“Ach, it is interesting that. It was something very sharp, very thin, very delicate. I could showyou the kind of thing.”

Back again in his cabin he opened a case and extracted a long, delicate, surgical¹⁵ knife.

“It was something like that, my friend; it was not a common table knife.”

“I suppose,” suggested Race smoothly¹⁶, “that none of your own knives are—er—missing,Doctor?”

Bessner stared at him; then his face grew red with indignation.

“What is that you say? Do you think I—I, Carl Bessner—who is so well-known all over Austria—I with my clients, my highly born patients—I have killed a miserable¹⁷ little femme de chambre?

Ah, but it is ridiculous—absurd, what you say! None of my knives are missing—not one, I tellyou. They are all here, correct, in their places. You can see for yourself. And this insult to myprofession I will not forget.”

Dr. Bessner closed his case with a snap, flung it down, and stamped out on to the deck.

“Whew!” said Simon. “You’ve put the old boy’s back up.”

Poirot shrugged¹⁸ his shoulders. “It is regrettable.”

“You’re on the wrong tack¹⁹. Old Bessner’s one of the best, even though he is a kind of Boche.”

Dr. Bessner reappeared suddenly.

“Will you be so kind as to leave me now my cabin? I have to do the dressing²⁰ of my patient’sleg.”

Miss Bowers²¹ had entered with him and stood, brisk and professional, waiting for the others togo.

Race and Poirot crept out meekly²². Race muttered something and went off. Poirot turned to hisleft. He heard scraps²³ of girlish conversation, a little laugh. Jacqueline and Rosalie were together inthe latter’s cabin.

The door was open and the two girls were standing²⁴ near it. As his shadow fell on them theylooked up. He saw Rosalie Otterbourne smile at him for the first time—a shy welcoming smile—alittle uncertain in its lines, as of one who does a new and unfamiliar²⁵ thing.

“You talk the scandal, Mesdemoiselles?” he accused them.

“No, indeed,” said Rosalie. “As a matter of fact we were just comparing lipsticks²⁶.”

Poirot smiled. “Les chiffons d’aujourd’hui,” he murmured.

But there was something a little mechanical about his smile, and Jacqueline de Bellefort,quicker and more observant than Rosalie, saw it. She dropped the lipstick²⁷ she was holding andcame out upon the deck.

“Has something—what has happened now?”

“It is as you guess, Mademoiselle; something has happened.”

“What?” Rosalie came out too.

“Another death,” said Poirot.

Rosalie caught her breath sharply. Poirot was watching her narrowly. He saw alarm andsomething more—consternation—show for a minute or two in her eyes.

“Madame Doyle’s maid has been killed,” he told them bluntly.

“Killed?” cried Jacqueline. “Killed, do you say?”

“Yes, that is what I said.” Though his answer was nominally²⁸ to her, it was Rosalie whom hewatched. It was Rosalie to whom he spoke²⁹ as he went on: “You see, this maid she saw somethingshe was not intended to see. And so—she was silenced, in case she should not hold her tongue.”

“What was it she saw?”

Again it was Jacqueline who asked, and again Poirot’s answer was to Rosalie. It was an oddlittle three-cornered scene.

“There is, I think, very little doubt what it was she saw,” said Poirot. “She saw someone enterand leave Linnet Doyle’s cabin on that fatal night.”

His ears were quick. He heard the sharp intake³⁰ of breath and saw the eyelids³¹ flicker³². RosalieOtterbourne had reacted just as he intended she should.

“Did she say who it was she saw?” Rosalie asked.

Gently—regretfully—Poirot shook his head.

Footsteps pattered up the deck. It was Cornelia Robson, her eyes wide and startled.

“Oh, Jacqueline,” she cried, “something awful has happened! Another dreadful thing!”

Jacqueline turned to her. The two moved a few steps forward. Almost unconsciously Poirot andRosalie Otterbourne moved in the other direction.

Rosalie said sharply: “Why do you look at me? What have you got in your mind?”

“That is two questions you ask me. I will ask you only one in return. Why do you not tell me allthe truth, Mademoiselle?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I told you—everything—this morning.”

“No, there were things you did not tell me. You did not tell me that you carry about in yourhandbag a small-calibre pistol with a pearl handle. You did not tell me all that you saw last night.”

She flushed. Then she said sharply: “It’s quite untrue. I haven’t got a revolver.”

“I did not say a revolver. I said a small pistol that you carry about in your handbag.”

She wheeled round, darted³³ into her cabin and out again and thrust her grey leather handbag intohis hands.

“You’re talking nonsense. Look for yourself if you like.”

Poirot opened the bag. There was no pistol inside.

He handed the bag back to her, meeting her scornful triumphant³⁴ glance.

“No,” he said pleasantly. “It is not there.”

“You see. You’re not always right, Monsieur Poirot. And you’re wrong about that otherridiculous thing you said.”

“No, I do not think so.”

“You’re infuriating!” She stamped an angry foot.

“You get an idea into your head, and you go on and on and on about it.”

“Because I want you to tell me the truth.”

“What is the truth? You seem to know it better than I do.”

Poirot said: “You want me to tell what it was you saw? If I am right, will you admit that I amright? I will tell you my little idea. I think that when you came round the stern of the boat youstopped involuntarily because you saw a man come out of a cabin about halfway³⁵ down the deck—Linnet Doyle’s cabin, as you realized next day. You saw him come out, close the door behind him,and walk away from you down the deck and—perhaps—enter one of the two end cabins. Now,then, am I right, Mademoiselle?”

She did not answer.

Poirot said: “Perhaps you think it is wiser not to speak. Perhaps you are afraid that, if you do,you too will be killed.”

For a moment he thought she had risen to the easy bait, that the accusation³⁶ against her couragewould succeed where more subtle arguments would have failed.

Her lips opened—trembled—then, “I saw no one,” said Rosalie Otterbourne.

 

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