Twenty-Five

Mr. Pennington was shocked. Mr. Pennington could hardly believe it.

“Why, gentlemen,” he said, “this is a very serious matter. Very serious indeed.”

“Extremely serious for you, Mr. Pennington.”

“For me?” Pennington’s eyebrows¹ rose in startled surprise. “But, my dear sir, I was sittingquietly writing in here when that shot was fired.”

“You have, perhaps, a witness to prove that?”

Pennington shook his head.

“Why, no—I wouldn’t say that. But it’s clearly impossible that I should have gone to the deckabove, shot this poor woman (and why should I shoot her anyway?) and come down again with noone seeing me. There are always plenty of people on the deck lounge this time of day.”

“How do you account for your pistol being used?”

“Well — I’m afraid I may be to blame there. Quite soon after getting aboard there was aconversation in the saloon one evening, I remember, about firearms, and I mentioned then that Ialways carried a revolver with me when I travel.”

“Who was there?”

“Well, I can’t remember exactly. Most people, I think. Quite a crowd, anyway.”

He shook his head gently.

“Why, yes,” he said. “I am certainly to blame there.”

He went on: “First Linnet, then Linnet’s maid, and now Mrs. Otterbourne. There seems noreason in it all!”

“There was reason,” said Race.

“There was?”

“Yes. Mrs. Otterbourne was on the point of telling us that she had seen a certain person go intoLouise’s cabin. Before she could name that person she was shot dead.”

Andrew Pennington passed a fine silk handkerchief over his brow.

“All this is terrible,” he murmured.

Poirot said: “Monsieur Pennington, I would like to discuss certain aspects of the case with you.

Will you come to my cabin in half an hour’s time?”

“I should be delighted.”

Pennington did not sound delighted. He did not look delighted either. Race and Poirotexchanged glances and then abruptly² left the room.

“Cunning old devil,” said Race, “but he’s afraid. Eh?”

Poirot nodded. “Yes, he is not happy, our Monsieur Pennington.”

As they reached the promenade³ deck again, Mrs. Allerton came out of her cabin and, seeingPoirot, beckoned⁴ him imperiously.

“Madame?”

“That poor child! Tell me, Monsieur Poirot, is there a double cabin somewhere that I couldshare with her? She oughtn’t to go back to the one she shared with her mother, and mine is only asingle one.”

“That can be arranged, Madame. It is very good of you.”

“It’s mere⁵ decency⁶. Besides, I’m very fond of the girl. I’ve always liked her.”

“Is she very upset?”

“Terribly. She seems to have been absolutely devoted⁷ to that odious⁸ woman. That is what is sopathetic about it all. Tim says he believes she drank. Is that true?”

Poirot nodded.

“Oh, well, poor woman, one must not judge her, I suppose; but that girl must have had a terriblelife.”

“She did, Madame. She is very proud and she was very loyal.”

“Yes, I like that—loyalty, I mean. It’s out of fashion nowadays. She’s an odd character, that girl—proud, reserved, stubborn, and terribly warm-hearted underneath⁹, I fancy.”

“I see that I have given her into good hands, Madame.”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’ll look after her. She’s inclined to cling to me in the most pathetic fashion.”

Mrs. Allerton went back into the cabin. Poirot returned to the scene of the tragedy.

Cornelia was still standing¹⁰ on the deck, her eyes wide. She said: “I don’t understand, MonsieurPoirot. How did the person who shot her get away without our seeing him?”

“Yes, how?” echoed Jacqueline.

“Ah,” said Poirot, “it was not quite such a disappearing trick as you think, Mademoiselle. Therewere three distinct ways the murderer might have gone.”

Jacqueline looked puzzled. She said, “Three?”

“He might have gone to the right, or he might have gone to the left, but I don’t see any otherway,” puzzled Cornelia.

Jacqueline too frowned. Then her brow cleared.

She said: “Of course. He could move in two directions on one plane, but he could go at rightangles to that plane too. That is, he couldn’t go up very well, but he could go down.”

Poirot smiled. “You have brains, Mademoiselle.”

Cornelia said: “I know I’m just a plain mutt, but I still don’t see.”

Jacqueline said: “Monsieur Poirot means, darling, that he could swing himself over the rail anddown on to the deck below.”

“My!” gasped¹¹ Cornelia. “I never thought of that. He’d have to be mighty¹² quick about it, though.

I suppose he could just do it?”

“He could do it easily enough,” said Tim Allerton. “Remember, there’s always a minute ofshock after a thing like this. One hears a shot and one’s too paralysed to move for a second ortwo.”

“That was your experience, Monsieur Allerton?”

“Yes, it was. I just stood like a dummy¹³ for quite five seconds. Then I fairly sprinted¹⁴ round thedeck.”

Race came out of Bessner’s cabin and said authoritatively¹⁵: “Would you mind all clearing off?

We want to bring out the body.”

Everyone moved away obediently. Poirot went with them. Cornelia said to him with sadearnestness: “I’ll never forget this trip as long as I live. Three deaths…It’s just like living in anightmare.”

Ferguson overheard her. He said aggressively: “That’s because you’re over- civilized¹⁶. Youshould look on death as the Oriental does. It’s a mere incident—hardly noticeable.”

“That’s all very well,” Cornelia said.

“They’re not educated, poor creatures.”

“No, and a good thing too. Education has devitalized the white races. Look at America—goes infor an orgy of culture. Simply disgusting.”

“I think you’re talking nonsense,” said Cornelia, flushing. “I attend lectures every winter onGreek Art and the Renaissance¹⁷, and I went to some on famous Women of History.”

Mr. Ferguson groaned¹⁸ in agony: “Greek Art; Renaissance! Famous Women of History! It makesme quite sick to hear you. It’s the future that matters, woman, not the past. Three women are deadon this boat. Well, what of it? They’re no loss! Linnet Doyle and her money! The French maid—adomestic parasite¹⁹. Mrs. Otterbourne—a useless fool of a woman. Do you think anyone really careswhether they’re dead or not? I don’t. I think it’s a damned good thing!”

“Then you’re wrong!” Cornelia blazed out at him. “And it makes me sick to hear you talk andtalk, as though nobody mattered but you. I didn’t like Mrs. Otterbourne much, but her daughterwas ever so fond of her, and she’s all broken up over her mother’s death. I don’t know much aboutthe French maid, but I expect somebody was fond of her somewhere; and as for Linnet Doyle—well, apart from everything else, she was just lovely! She was so beautiful when she came into aroom that it made a lump come in your throat. I’m homely²⁰ myself, and that makes me appreciatebeauty a lot more. She was as beautiful—just as a woman—as anything in Greek Art. And whenanything beautiful’s dead, it’s a loss to the world. So there!”

Mr. Ferguson stepped back a pace. He caught hold of his hair with both hands and tugged²² at itvehemently.

“I give it up,” he said. “You’re unbelievable. Just haven’t got a bit of natural female spite in youanywhere.” He turned to Poirot. “Do you know, sir, that Cornelia’s father was practically ruinedby Linnet Ridgeway’s old man? But does the girl gnash her teeth when she sees the heiress sailingabout in pearls and Paris models? No, she just bleats²⁴ out: ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ like a blessed BaaLamb. I don’t believe she even felt sore at her.”

Cornelia flushed. “I did—just for a minute. Poppa kind of died of discouragement, you know,because he hadn’t made good.”

“Felt sore for a minute! I ask you.”

Cornelia flashed round on him.

“Well, didn’t you say just now it was the future that mattered, not the past? All that was in thepast, wasn’t it? It’s over.”

“Got me there,” said Ferguson. “Cornelia Robson, you’re the only nice woman I’ve ever comeacross. Will you marry me?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“It’s a genuine proposal—even if it is made in the presence of Old Man Sleuth. Anyway, you’rea witness, Monsieur Poirot. I’ve deliberately²⁵ offered marriage to this female—against all myprinciples, because I don’t believe in legal contracts between the sexes; but I don’t think she’dstand for anything else, so marriage it shall be. Come on, Cornelia, say yes.”

“I think you’re utterly²⁶ ridiculous,” said Cornelia, flushing.

“Why won’t you marry me?”

“You’re not serious,” said Cornelia.

“Do you mean not serious in proposing or do you mean not serious in character?”

“Both, but I really meant character. You laugh at all sorts of serious things. Education andCulture—and—and Death. You wouldn’t be reliable.”

She broke off, flushed again, and hurried along into her cabin.

Ferguson stared after her. “Damn the girl! I believe she really means it. She wants a man to bereliable. Reliable—ye gods!” He paused and then said curiously²⁷: “What’s the matter with you,Monsieur Poirot? You seem very deep in thought.”

Poirot roused himself with a start.

“I reflect, that is all. I reflect.”

“Meditation on Death. Death, the Recurring²⁸ Decimal, by Hercule Poirot. One of his well-knownmonographs.”

“Monsieur Ferguson,” said Poirot, “you are a very impertinent young man.”

“You must excuse me. I like attacking established institutions.”

“And I am an established institution?”

“Precisely. What do you think of that girl?”

“Of Miss Robson?”

“Yes.”

“I think that she has a great deal of character.”

“You’re right. She’s got spirit. She looks meek²⁹, but she isn’t. She’s got guts³⁰. She’s—oh, damnit, I want that girl. It mightn’t be a bad move if I tackled the old lady. If I could once get herthoroughly against me, it might cut some ice with Cornelia.”

He wheeled and went into the observation saloon. Miss Van Schuyler was seated in her usualcorner. She looked even more arrogant³¹ than usual. She was knitting. Ferguson strode up to her.

Hercule Poirot, entering unobtrusively, took a seat a discreet³² distance away and appeared to beabsorbed in a magazine.

“Good afternoon, Miss Van Schuyler.”

Miss Van Schuyler raised her eyes for a bare second, dropped them again and murmuredfrigidly, “Er—good afternoon.”

“Look here, Miss Van Schuyler, I want to talk to you about something pretty important. It’s justthis. I want to marry your cousin.”

Miss Van Schuyler’s ball of wool dropped on to the ground and ran wildly across the saloon.

She said in a venomous tone: “You must be out of your senses, young man.”

“Not at all. I’m determined³³ to marry her. I’ve asked her to marry me!”

Miss Van Schuyler surveyed him coldly, with the kind of speculative³⁴ interest she might haveaccorded to an odd sort of beetle³⁵.

“Indeed? And I presume she sent you about your business.”

“She refused me.”

“Naturally.”

“Not ‘naturally’ at all. I’m going to go on asking her till she agrees.”

“I can assure you, sir, that I shall take steps to see that my young cousin is not subjected to anysuch persecution,” said Miss Van Schuyler in a biting tone.

“What have you got against me?”

Miss Van Schuyler merely raised her eyebrows and gave a vehement²³ tug²¹ to her wool,preparatory to regaining³⁶ it and closing the interview.

“Come now,” persisted Mr. Ferguson, “what have you got against me?”

“I should think that was quite obvious, Mr—er—I don’t know your name.”

“Ferguson.”

“Mr. Ferguson.” Miss Van Schuyler uttered the name with definite distaste. “Any such idea isquite out of the question.”

“You mean,” said Ferguson, “that I’m not good enough for her?”

“I should think that would have been obvious to you.”

“In what way am I not good enough?”

Miss Van Schuyler again did not answer.

“I’ve got two legs, two arms, good health, and quite reasonable brains. What’s wrong withthat?”

“There is such a thing as social position, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Social position is bunk³⁷!”

The door swung open and Cornelia came in. She stopped dead on seeing her redoubtableCousin Marie in conversation with her would-be suitor.

The outrageous³⁸ Mr. Ferguson turned his head, grinned broadly and called out: “Come along,Cornelia. I’m asking for your hand in marriage in the best conventional manner.”

“Cornelia,” said Miss Van Schuyler, and her voice was truly awful in quality, “have youencouraged this young man?”

“I—no, of course not—at least—not exactly—I mean—”

“What do you mean?”

“She hasn’t encouraged me,” said Mr. Ferguson helpfully. “I’ve done it all. She hasn’t actuallypushed me in the face, because she’s got too kind a heart. Cornelia, your cousin says I’m not goodenough for you. That, of course, is true, but not in the way she means it. My moral nature certainlydoesn’t equal yours, but her point is that I’m hopelessly below you socially.”

“That I think, is equally obvious to Cornelia,” said Miss Van Schuyler.

“Is it?” Mr. Ferguson looked at her searchingly. “Is that why you won’t marry me?”

“No, it isn’t.” Cornelia flushed. “If—if I liked you, I’d marry you no matter who you were.”

“But you don’t like me?”

“I—I think you’re just outrageous. The way you say things…The things you say…I—I’venever met anyone the least like you. I—”

Tears threatened to overcome her. She rushed from the room.

“On the whole,” said Mr. Ferguson, “that’s not too bad for a start.” He leaned back in his chair,gazed at the ceiling, whistled, crossed his disreputable knees and remarked: “I’ll be calling youCousin yet.”

Miss Van Schuyler trembled with rage. “Leave this room at once, sir, or I’ll ring for thesteward.”

“I’ve paid for my ticket,” said Mr. Ferguson. “They can’t possibly turn me out of the publiclounge. But I’ll humour you.” He sang softly, “Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.” Rising, hesauntered nonchalantly to the door and passed out.

Choking with anger Miss Van Schuyler struggled to her feet. Poirot, discreetly³⁹ emerging fromretirement behind his magazine, sprang up and retrieved⁴⁰ the ball of wool.

“Thank you, Monsieur Poirot. If you would send Miss Bowers⁴¹ to me—I feel quite upset—thatinsolent young man.”

“Rather eccentric, I’m afraid,” said Poirot. “Most of that family are. Spoilt, of course. Alwaysinclined to tilt⁴² at windmills.” He added carelessly, “You recognized him, I suppose?”

“Recognized him?”

“Calls himself Ferguson and won’t use his title because of his advanced ideas.”

“His title?” Miss Van Schuyler’s tone was sharp.

“Yes, that’s young Lord Dawlish. Rolling in money, of course, but he became a communistwhen he was at Oxford⁴³.”

Miss Van Schuyler, her face a battleground of contradictory⁴⁴ emotions, said: “How long haveyou known this, Monsieur Poirot?”

Poirot shrugged⁴⁵ his shoulders.

“There was a picture in one of these papers—I noticed the resemblance. Then I found a signetring with a coat of arms on it. Oh, there’s no doubt about it, I assure you.”

He quite enjoyed reading the conflicting expressions that succeeded each other on Miss VanSchuyler’s face. Finally, with a gracious inclination⁴⁶ of the head, she said, “I am very much obligedto you, Monsieur Poirot.”

Poirot looked after her and smiled as she went out of the saloon. Then he sat down and his facegrew grave once more. He was following out a train of thought in his mind. From time to time henodded his head.

“Mais oui,” he said at last. “It all fits in.”

 

点击收听单词发音