Twenty-Four

Miss Bowers¹ came out of Dr. Bessner’s cabin, smoothing her cuffs² over her wrists.

Jacqueline left Cornelia abruptly³ and accosted⁴ the hospital nurse.

“How is he?” she demanded.

Poirot came up in time to hear the answer. Miss Bowers was looking rather worried.

“Things aren’t going too badly,” she said.

Jacqueline cried: “You mean, he’s worse?”

“Well, I must say I shall be relieved when we get in and can get a proper X-ray done and thewhole thing cleaned up under an anaesthetic. When do you think we shall get to Shellal, MonsieurPoirot?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Miss Bowers pursed her lips and shook her head.

“It’s very fortunate. We are doing all we can, but there’s always such a danger of septic?mia.”

Jacqueline caught Miss Bowers’ arm and shook it.

“Is he going to die? Is he going to die?”

“Dear me, no, Miss de Bellefort. That is, I hope not, I’m sure. The wound in itself isn’tdangerous, but there’s no doubt it ought to be X-rayed as soon as possible. And then, of coursepoor Mr. Doyle ought to have been kept absolutely quiet today. He’s had far too much worry andexcitement. No wonder his temperature is rising. What with the shock of his wife’s death, and onething and another—”

Jacqueline relinquished⁵ her grasp of the nurse’s arm and turned away. She stood leaning overthe side, her back to the other two.

“What I say is, we’ve got to hope for the best always,” said Miss Bowers. “Of course Mr. Doylehas a very strong constitution—one can see that—probably never had a day’s illness in his life. Sothat’s in his favour. But there’s no denying that this rise in temperature is a nasty sign and—”

She shook her head, adjusted her cuffs once more, and moved briskly away.

Jacqueline turned and walked gropingly, blinded by tears, towards her cabin. A hand below herelbow steadied and guided her. She looked up through the tears to find Poirot by her side. Sheleaned on him a little and he guided her through the cabin door.

She sank down on the bed and the tears came more freely, punctuated⁶ by great shuddering⁷ sobs⁸.

“He’ll die! He’ll die! I know he’ll die…And I shall have killed him. Yes, I shall have killedhim….”

Poirot shrugged⁹ his shoulders. He shook his head a little, sadly. “Mademoiselle, what is done isdone. One cannot take back the accomplished¹⁰ action. It is too late to regret.”

She cried out more vehemently¹¹: “I shall have killed him! And I love him so…I love him so.”

Poirot sighed. “Too much….”

It had been his thought long ago in the restaurant of M. Blondin. It was his thought again now.

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 alivein the evening; the day nurse, always, she is surprised to find him alive in the morning! They knowtoo much, you see, of the possibilities that may arise. When one is motoring one might easily sayto oneself: ‘If a car came out from that crossroad—or if that lorry backed suddenly—or if thewheel 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 thesethings will happen, and that one will get to one’s journey’s end. But if, of course, one has been inan 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, MonsieurPoirot?”

“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 beall right.”

“You speak like the child! ‘And they lived happily ever afterward¹².’ That is it, is it not?”

She flushed suddenly scarlet¹³.

“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? Butyou are partly a Latin, Mademoiselle Jacqueline. You should be able to admit facts even if they donot sound very decorous. Le roi est mort—vive le roi! The sun has gone and the moon rises. Thatis so, is it not?”

“You don’t understand. He’s just sorry for me—awfully sorry for me, because he knows howterrible 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 atonce.

“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, twomurders, and we’re still in the dark.”

Poirot shook his head. “No, not in the dark. In the light.”

Race looked at him curiously¹⁴. “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 andjealousies 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 unlessyou 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?’ Youknow 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 thestatement of Mademoiselle de Bellefort that someone overheard our conversation that night in thegarden at Assuan. There is the statement of Monsieur Tim Allerton as to what he heard and did onthe night of the crime. There are Louise Bourget’s significant answers to our questions thismorning. There is the fact that Madame Allerton drinks water, that her son drinks whisky and sodaand 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 crux¹⁵ of the whole business, the fact that the pistol was wrapped up in acheap handkerchief and a velvet¹⁶ 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 Ican see, it doesn’t work.”

“But yes…but yes. You are seeing only half the truth. And remember this—we must start againfrom the beginning, since our first conception was entirely¹⁷ wrong.”

Race made a slight grimace¹⁸.

“I’m used to that. It often seems to me that’s all detective work is, wiping out your false startsand beginning again.”

“Yes, it is very true, that. And it is just what some people will not do. They conceive a certaintheory, 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 thesignificance of that pistol being removed from the scene of the crime. I knew that it meantsomething, 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 atelegram. 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 scowlingface.

“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 unwilling¹⁹ grunt²⁰ the doctor moved aside and the two men entered the cabin. Dr.

Bessner, growling²¹ to himself, pushed past them.

“I return in three minutes,” he said. “And then—positively—you go!”

They heard him stumping²² 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 stewards²³ were reporting to me, theymentioned that Signor Richetti had been particularly troublesome. You said that that didn’tsurprise you, as you knew he had a bad temper, and that he had been rude to your wife over somematter 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 Cataract²⁴. Linnet thoughtshe saw a telegram for her sticking up on the board. She’d forgotten, you see, that she wasn’tcalled Ridgeway any longer, and Richetti and Ridgeway do look rather alike when written in anatrocious handwriting. So she tore it open, couldn’t make head or tail of it, and was puzzling overit when this fellow Richetti came along, fairly tore it out of her hand and gibbered with rage. Shewent 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 commotion²⁵ outside. A high-pitched voice was rapidly approaching.

“Where are Monsieur Poirot and Colonel Race? I must see them immediately! It is mostimportant. I have vital information. I—Are they with Mr. Doyle?”

Bessner had not closed the door. Only the curtain hung across the open doorway²⁶. Mrs.

Otterbourne swept it to one side and entered like a tornado²⁷. Her face was suffused²⁸ with colour, hergait 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 triumphant²⁹ glance. She was happy—superblyhappy.

“Yes,” she said. “My theories are completely vindicated³⁰. The deep, primeval, primordial³¹ 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 whokilled 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 killedLinnet 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 killedLinnet 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 whokilled 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 herbooks were failing to sell, if the stupid public that once had bought them and devoured³² themvoraciously 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 prosecution³³ at thetrial.

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. Halfway³⁴ down I remembered that I had—er—left something in mycabin. 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 threemen 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 mesomething I needed, but I did not wish my daughter to know of it. She is inclined to be tiresome³⁵ incertain ways—”

Not too good, this, but she could think of something that sounded better before it came to tellingthe story in court.

Race’s eyebrows³⁶ 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 witha faint steel-blue gleam.

Mrs. Otterbourne continued: “The arrangement was that I should go round to the stern on thedeck below this, and there I should find the man waiting for me. As I went along the deck a cabindoor 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 wentabruptly inside again. I didn’t think anything of it, of course. I went along just as I had said Iwould and got the—the stuff from the man. I paid him and—er—just had a word with him. Then Istarted back. Just as I came around the corner I saw someone knock on the maid’s door and gointo the cabin.”

Race said, “And that person was—?”

Bang!

The noise of the explosion filled the cabin. There was an acrid³⁷ sour smell of smoke. Mrs.

Otterbourne turned slowly sideways, as though in supreme³⁸ inquiry³⁹, then her body slumpedforward and she fell to the ground with a crash. From just behind her ear the blood flowed from around 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 bent⁴⁰ over her while Poirot made acatlike 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 sprinted⁴¹ towards the stern. Ashe rounded the corner he ran into Tim Allerton, who was coming full tilt⁴² from the oppositedirection.

“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 retraced⁴³ his steps. A little crowdhad assembled by now. Rosalie, Jacqueline, and Cornelia had rushed out of their cabins. Morepeople 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 anygloves in your pocket?”

Tim fumbled⁴⁴.

“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 decklounge; 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. Mustmake 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 toher.

“Madame, take Miss Otterbourne with you and look after her. Her mother has been”— heconsulted Race with an eye and Race nodded—“killed.”

Dr. Bessner came bustling⁴⁵ 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 fingerprints⁴⁶ on that revolver?”

“None,” said Poirot.

They found Pennington on the deck below. He was sitting in the little drawing room writingletters. 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 astounded⁴⁷. “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 maniac⁴⁸ 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 twentyminutes 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.”

 

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