"Will you explain to me, Madame, the meaning of the word fey?" Mrs. Allerton looked slightly surprised.
She and Poirot were toiling slowly up to the rock overlooking the Second Cataract. Most of the others had gone up on camels, but Poirot had felt that the motion of the camel was slightly reminiscent of that of a ship. Mrs. AileRon had put it on the grounds of personal dignity.
They had arrived at Wadi Halfa the night before. This morning two launches had conveyed all the party to the Second Cataract with the exception of Signor Richetti, who had insisted on making an excursion of his own to a remote spot called Semna, which he explained was of paramount interest as being the gateway of Nubia in the time of Amenemhet III, and where there was a stele recording the fact that on entering Egypt negroes must pay custom duties. Everything had been done to discourage this example of individuality but with no avail. Signor Richetti was determined and had waved aside each section (1) that the expedition was not worth making (2) that the expedition could not be made owing to the impossibility of getting a car there (3) that no car could be obtained to do the trip (4) that a car would be a prohibitive price. Having scoffed at 1, expressed incredulity at 2, offered to find a car himself to 3, and bargained fluently in Arabic for 4, Signor Richetti had at last departed his departure being arranged in a secret and furtive manner in case some of the other tourists should take it into their heads to stray from the appointed paths of sightseeing.
"Fey?" Mrs. Allerton put her head on one side as she considered her reply.
"Well, it's a Scotch word, really. It means the kind of exalted happiness that comes before the disaster. You know, it's too good to be true." She enlarged on the theme. Poirot listened attentively.
"I thank you, Madame. I understand now. It is odd that you should have said that yesterday--when
Madame Doyle was to escape death so shortly afterward." Mrs. Allerton gave a little shiver.
"It must have been a very near escape. Do you think some of those little black wretches rolled that stone over for fun? It's the sort of thing boys might do all over the world not perhaps really meaning any harm." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "It may be, Madame.' He changed the subject, talking of Majorca and asking various practical questions from the point of view of a possible visit.
Mrs. Allerton had grown to like the little man very much partly, perhaps, out of a contradictory spirit.
Tim, she felt, was always trying to make her less friendly to Hercule Poirot whom he had summarised firmly as "the worst kind of bounder." But she herself did not call him a bounder, she supposed it was his somewhat foreign exotic clothing which roused her son's prejudices. She herself found him an intelligent and stimulating companion. He was also extremely sympathetic. She found herself suddenly confiding in him her dislike of Joanna Southwood. It eased her to talk about the matter. And, after all, why not? He did not know Joanna would probably never meet her. Why should she not ease herself of that constantly borne burden of jealous thought.
At that same moment, Tim and Rosalie Otterbourne were talking of her.
Tim had just been half jestingly abusing his luck. His rotten health, never bad enough to be really
interesting yet not good enough for him to have led the life he would have chosen. Very little money, no congenial occupation.
"A thoroughly lukewarm tame existence," he finished.
Rosalie said abruptly: "You've got something heaps of people would envy you." "What's that?" "Your mother." Tim was surprised and pleased.
"Mother? Yes, of course, she is quite unique. It's nice of you to see it." "I think she's marvelous. She looks so lovely, so composed and calm as though nothing could ever touch her and yet somehow she's always ready to be funny about things too.
Rosalie was stammering slightly in her earnestness.
Tim felt a rising warmth towards the girl. He wished he could return the compliment, but lamentably Mrs. Otterbourne was his idea of the world's greatest menace. The inability to respond in kind made him embarrassed.
Miss Van Schuyler had stayed in the launch. She could neither risk the ascent on a camel nor on her legs.
She had said snappily: "I'm sorry to have to ask you to stay with me, Miss Bowers. I intended you to go and Cornelia to stay, but girls are so selfish. She rushed off without a word to me. And I actually saw her talking to that very unpleasant and ill-bred young man, Ferguson. Cornelia has disappointed me sadly.
She has absolutely no social sense." Miss Bowers replied in her usual matter-of-fact fashion: "That's quite all right, Miss Van Schuyler. It would have been a hot walk up there and I don't fancy the look of those saddles on the camels. Fleas as likely as not." She adjusted her glasses, screwed up her eyes to look at the party descending the hill and remarked: "Miss Robson isn't with that young man anymore. She's with Dr. Bessner." Miss Van Schuyler grunted.
Since she had discovered that Dr. Bessner had a large clinic in Czechoslovakia and a European reputation as a fashionable physician she was disposed to be gracious to him. Besides, she might need his professional services before the journey was over.
When the party returned to the Karnak, Linnet gave a cry of surprise.
"A telegram for me." She snatched it off the board and tore it open.
"Why? I don't understand, potatoes, bertucce, what does it mean, Simon?'' Simon was just coming to look over her shoulder when a furious voice said: "Excuse me, that telegram is for me." And Signor Richetti snatched it rudely from her hand, fixing her with a furious glare as he did so.
Linnet stared in surprise for a moment, then turned over the envelope.
"Oh, Simon, what a fool I am. It's Richetti, not Ridgeway and anyway, of course, my name isn't
Ridgeway now. I must apologize." She followed the little archaeologist up to the stern of the boat.
"I am so sorry, Signor Richetti. You see my name was Ridgeway before I married and I haven't been married very long and so..." She paused, her face dimpled with smiles, inviting him to smile upon a young bride's faux pas.
But Richetti was obviously "not amused." Queen Victoria at her most disapproving could not have
looked grimmer.
"Names should be read carefully. It is inexcusable to be careless in these matters." Linnet bit her lip and her color rose. She was not accustomed to have her apologies received in this fashion. She turned away and, rejoining Simon, she said angrily, "These Italians are really insupportable." "Never mind, darling, let's go and look at that big ivory crocodile you liked." They went ashore together.
Poirot, 'watching them walk up the landing-stage, heard a sharp indrawn breath. He turned to see
Jacqueline de Bellefort at his side. Her hands were clenched on the rail. The expression on her face as she turned it towards him quite startled him. It was no longer gay or malicious. She looked devoured by some inner consuming fire.
"They don't care anymore." The words came low and fast. "They've got beyond me. I can't reach them. They don't mind if I'm here or not . . . I can't hurt them anymore " Her hands on the rail trembled.
"Mademoiselle" She broke in.
"Oh, it's too late now, too late for warning .... You were right. I ought not to have come. Not on this
journey. What did you call it? A journey of the soul? I can't go back, I've got to go on. And I'm going on. They shan't be happy together, they shan't. I'd kill him sooner .... "
She turned abruptly away. Poirot staring after her, felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Your girlfriend seems a trifle upset, M. Poirot."
Poirot turned. He stared in surprise, seeing an old acquaintance.
"Colonel Race."
The tall bronzed man smiled.
"Bit of a surprise?"
Hercule Poirot had come across Colonel Race a year previously in London.
They had been fellow-guests at a very strange dinner party, a dinner party that had ended in death for that strange man, their host.
Poirot knew that Race was a man of unadvertised goings and comings. He was usually to be found in one of the outposts of Empire where trouble was brewing. "So you are here at Wadi Halfa," Poirot remarked thoughtfully. "I am here on this boat." "You mean?"
"That I am making the return journey with you to Shellal."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose.
"That is very interesting. Shall we, perhaps, have a little drink."
They went into the observation saloon, now quite empty. Poirot ordered a whiskey for the colonel and a double orangeade full of sugar for himself.
"So you make the return journey with us," said Poirot as he sipped. "You would go faster, would you not, on the Government steamer which travels by night as well as day?"
Colonel Race's face creased appreciatively.
"You're right on the spot, as usual, M, Poirot,' he said pleasantly. "It is, then, the passengers?" "One of the passengers."
"Now which one, I wonder?" Hercule Poirot asked of the ornate ceiling.
"Unfortunately I don't know myself," said Race ruefully.
Poirot looked interested.
Race said:
"There's no need to be mysterious to you. We've had a good deal of trouble out here one way and another. It isn't the people who ostensibly lead the rioters that we're after. It's the men who very cleverly put the match to the gunpowder.
There were three of them. One's dead. One's in prison. I want the third man, a man with five or six
cold-blooded murders to his credit. He's one of the cleverest paid agitators that ever existed .... He's on this boat. I know that from a passage in a letter that passed through our hands. Decoded it said: 'X will be on the Karnak trip Feb. 7th-13th .... ' It didn't say under what name X would be passing." "Have you any description of him?"
"No. American, Irish and French descent. Bit of a mongrel. That doesn't help us much. Have you got any ideas?"
"An idea, it is all very well," said Poirot meditatively.
Such was the understanding between them that Race pressed him no further.
He knew that Hercule Poirot did not ever speak unless he was sure.
Poirot rubbed his nose and said unhappily:
"There passes itself something on this boat that causes me much inquietude." Race looked at him
inquiringly.
"Figure to yourself," said Poirot, "a person A who has grievously wronged a person B. The person B desires revenge. Person B makes the threats."
"A and B being both on this boat?"
Poirot nodded.
"Precisely."
"And B, I gather, being a woman?"
"Exactly."
Race lit a cigarette.
"I shouldn't worry. People who go about talking of what they are going to do don't usually do it."
"And particularly is that the case with Les femmes, you would say! Yes, that is true.'
But he still did not look happy.
"Anything else?" asked Race.
"Yes, there is something. Yesterday the person A had a very near escape from death. The kind of death that might very conveniently be called an accident." "Engineered by B?'
"No, that is just the point. B could have had nothing to do with it."
"Then it was an accident."
"I suppose so, but I do not like such accidents." "You're quite sure B could have had no hand in it?"
"Absolutely.'
"Oh well, coincidences do happen. Who is A, by the way? A particularly disagreeable person?"
"On the contrary. A is a charming, rich and beautiful young lady.' Race grinned.
"Sounds quite like a novelette."
"Peut-tre. But I tell you, I am not happy, my friend. If I am right, and after all, I am constantly in the habit of being right"
Race smiled into his mustache at this typical utterance.
"Then there is a matter for grave inquietude. And now, you come to add yet another complication. You tell me that there is a man on the Karnak who kills." "He doesn't usually kill charming young ladies.
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
"I am afraid, my friend," he said. "I am afraid .... To-day, I advised this lady, Mrs. Doyle, to go with her husband to Khartoum, not to return on this boat.
But they would not agree. I pray to Heaven that we may arrive at Shellal without catastrophe."
"Aren't you taking rather a gloomy view?"
Poirot shook his head.
"I am afraid," he said simply. "Yes I, Hercule Poirot, am afraid .... "
Cornelia Robson stood inside the temple of Abu Simbel. It was the evening of the following day, a hot still evening. The Karnak was anchored once more at Abu Simbel to permit a second visit to be made to the temple this time by artificial light. The difference this made was considerable and Cornelia commented wonderingly on the fact to Mr. Ferguson who was standing by her side.
"Why you see it ever so much better now!" she exclaimed. "All those enemies having their heads cut off by the king they just stand right out. That's a cute kind of castle there that I never noticed before. I wish Dr. Bessner was here, he'd tell me what it was."
"How you can stand that old fool beats me," said Ferguson gloomily.
"Why, he's just one of the kindest men I've ever met!" "Pompous old bore."
"I don't think you ought to speak that way."
The young man gripped her suddenly by the arm. They were just emerging from the temple into the moonlight.
"Why do you stick being bored by fat old men and bullied and snubbed by a vicious old harridan?"
"Why, Mr. Ferguson!"
"Haven't you got any spirit? Don't you know you're just as good as she is?" "But I'm not!" Cornelia spoke with honest conviction.
"You're not as rich, that's all you mean."
"No, it isn't. Cousin Marie's very very cultured,"
"Cultured" the young man let go of her arm as suddenly as he had taken it.
"That word makes me sick."
Cornelia looked at him in alarm.
"She doesn't like you talking to me, does she?" said the young man.
Cornelia blushed and looked embarrassed.
"Why? Because she thinks I'm not her social equal! Pah doesn't that make you see red?"
Cornelia faltered out:
"I wish you wouldn't get so mad about things."
"Don't you realise, and you an American that everyone is born free and equal?"
"They're not," said Cornelia with calm certainty.
"My good girl it's part of your constitution!"
"Cousin Marie says politicians aren't gentlemen," said Cornelia. "And of course people aren't equal. It doesn't make sense. I know I'm kind of homely looking and I used to feel mortified about it sometimes, but I've got over that. I'd like to have been born elegant and beautiful like Mrs. Doyle, but I wasn't, so I guess it's no use worrying."
"Mrs. Doyle!" said Ferguson with deep contempt. "She's the sort of woman who ought to be shot as an example."
Cornelia looked at him anxiously.
"I believe it's your digestion," she said kindly. "I've got a special kind of pepsin that Cousin Marie tried once. Would you like to try it?" Mr. Ferguson said: "You're impossible!"
He turned and strode away. Cornelia went on towards the boat. Just as she was crossing on to the
gangway, he caught her up once more.
"You're the nicest person on the boat," he said. "And mind you remember it." Blushing with pleasure Cornelia repaired to the observation saloon.
Miss Van Schuyler was conversing with Dr. Bessner an agreeable on version dealing with certain royal patients of his.
Cornelia said guiltily: "I do hope I haven't been a long time, Cousin Marie." Glancing at her watch the old lady snapped:
"You haven't exactly hurried, my dear. And what have you done with my velvet stole?" Cornelia looked round.
"Shall I see if it's in the cabin, Cousin Marie?" "Of course it isn't! I had it just after dinner here, and I
haven't moved out of the place. It was on that chair." Cornelia made a desultory search.
"I can't see it anywhere, Cousin Marie." "Nonsense," said Miss Van Schuyler. "Look about." It was an order such as one might give to a dog and in her doglike fashion, Cornelia obeyed. The quiet Mr. Fanthorp who was sitting at a table nearby rose and assisted her. But the stole could not be found.
The day had been such an unusually hot and sultry one that most people had retired early after going ashore to view the temple. The Doyles were playing bridge with Pennington and Race at a table in a corner. The only other occupant of the saloon was Hercule Poirot, who was yawning his head off at a small table near the door.
Miss Van Schuyler, making a Royal Progress bedwards with Cornelia and Miss Bowers in attendance, paused by his chair, and he sprang politely to his feet, stifling a yawn of gargantuan dimensions.
Miss Van Schuyler said: "I have only just realized who you are, M. Poirot. I may tell you that I have
heard of you from my old friend Rufus Van Aldin. You must tell me about your cases some time." With a kindly but condescending nod she passed on.
Poirot, his eyes twinkling a little through their sleepiness, bowed in an exaggerated manner.
Then he yawned once more. He felt heavy and stupid with sleep and could hardly keep his eyes open.
He glanced over at the bridge players, absorbed in their game, then at young Fanthorp who was deep in a book. Apart from them, the saloon was empty.
He passed through the swinging door out on to the deck. Jacqueline de Bellefort, coming precipitately along the deck, almost collided with him.
"Pardon, Mademoiselle." She said: "You look sleepy, M. Poirot." He admitted it frankly.
"Mais oui, I am consumed with sleep. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It has been a day very close and oppressive." "Yes." She seemed to brood over it. "It's been the sort of day when things snap!
Break! When one can't go on .... " Her voice was low and charged with passion.
She looked not at him, but towards the sandy shore. Her hands were clenched, rigid.
Suddenly the tension relaxed. She said: "Good-night, M. Poirot." "Good-night, Mademoiselle." Her eyes met his, just for a swift moment. Thinking it over the next day he came to the conclusion that there had been appeal in that glance. He was to remember it afterward.
Then he passed on to his cabin and she went towards the saloon.
Cornelia, having dealt with Miss Van Schuyler's many needs and fantasies, took some needlework with her back to the saloon. She herself did not feel in the least sleepy. On the contrary, she felt wide awake and slightly excited.
The bridge four were still at it. In another chair, the quiet Fanthorp read a book. Cornelia sat down to her needlework.
Suddenly the door opened and Jacqueline de Bellefort came in. She stood in the doorway, her head thrown back. Then she pressed a bell and sauntered across to Cornelia and sat down.
"Been ashore?" she asked.
"Yes. I thought it was just fascinating in the moonlight."
Jacqueline nodded.
"Yes, lovely night .... A real honeymoon night."
Her eyes went to the bridge table rested a moment on Linnet Doyle.
The boy came in answer to the bell.
Jacqueline ordered a double gin. As she gave the order Simon Doyle shot a quick glance at her. A faint line of anxiety showed between his eyebrows.
His wife said:
"Simon, we're waiting for you to call."
Jacqueline hummed a little tune to herself.
When the drink came, she picked it up, said, "Well, here's to crime," drank it off and ordered another.
Again Simon looked across from the bridge table. His calls became slightly absent-minded. His partner, Pennington, took him to task.
Jacqueline began to hum again, at first under her breath, then louder.
"He was her man and he did her wrong .... "
"Sorry," said Simon to Pennington. "Stupid of me not to return your lead.
That gives 'em rubber."
Linnet rose to her feet.
"I'm sleepy. I think I'll go to bed."
"About time to turn in," said Colonel Race. "I'm with you," agreed Pennington.
"Coming, Simon?" Doyle said slowly: "Not just yet. I think I'll have a drink first."
Linnet nodded and went out. Race followed her. Pennington finished his drink and then followed suit.
Cornelia began to gather up her embroidery.
"Don't go to bed, Miss Robson," said Jacqueline. "Please don't. I feel like making a night of it. Don't desert me."
Cornelia sat down again.
"We girls must stick together," said Jacqueline.
She threw back her head and laughed a shrill laugh without merriment.
The second drink came.
"Have something," said Jacqueline.
"No, thank you very much," said Cornelia.
Jacqueline tilted back her chair. She hummed now loudly ....
"He was her man and he did her wrong .... "
Mr. Fanthorp turned a page of Europe from Within.
Simon Doyle picked up a magazine.
"Really, I think I'll go to bed," said Cornelia. "It's getting very late."
"You can't go to bed yet," said Jacqueline. "I forbid you to. Tell me all about yourself."
"Well, I don't know, there isn't much to tell," Cornelia faltered. "I've just lived at home and I haven't been around much. This is my first trip to Europe. I'm just loving every minute of it."
Jacqueline laughed.
"You're a happy sort of person, aren't you? God, I'd like to be you."
"Oh! would you? But I mean I'm sure"
Cornelia felt flustered.
Undoubtedly Miss de Bellefort was drinking too much. That wasn't exactly a novelty to Cornelia. She had seen plenty of drunkenness during Prohibition years.
But there was something else .... Jacqueline de Bellefort was talking to her, was looking at her and yet, Cornelia felt it was as though, somehow, she was talking to someone else ....
But there were only two other people in the room, Mr. Fanthorp, and Mr. Doyle. Mr. Fanthorp seemed quite absorbed in his book. Mr. Doyle was looking rather odd a queer sort of watchful look on his face .... Jacqueline said again:
"Tell me all about yourself."
Always obedient, Cornelia tried to comply. She talked rather heavily, going into unnecessary small details about her daily life. She was so unused to being the talker. Her role was so constantly that of the listener.
And yet Miss de Bellefort seemed to want to know. When Cornelia faltered to a standstill, the other girl was quick to prompt her.
"Go on, tell me more."
And so Cornelia went on ("Of course, mother's very delicate some days she touches nothing but
cereals") unhappily conscious that all she said was supremely uninteresting, yet flattered by the other girl's seeming interest. But was she interested? Wasn't she, somehow, listening to something else or perhaps for something else? She was looking at Cornelia, yes, but wasn't there really someone else, sitting in the room ....
"And of course we get very good art classes and last winter I had a course of..."
(How late was it? Surely very late. She had been talking and talking. If only something definite would happen .... )
And immediately, as though in answer to the wish, something did happen.
Only, at the moment, it seemed very natural.
Jacqueline turned her head and spoke to Simon Doyle:
"Ring the bell, Simon. I want another drink."
Simon Doyle looked up from his magazine and said quietly:
"The stewards have gone to bed. It's after midnight."
"I tell you I want another drink."
Simon said:
"You've had quite enough drinks, Jackie."
She swung around at him.
"What damned business is it of your"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"None."
She watched him for a minute or two. Then she said:
"What's the matter, Simon? Are you afraid?" Simon did not answer. Rather elaborately he picked up his magazine again.
Cornelia murmured.
"Oh, dear, as late as that I must" She began to fumble, dropped a thimble.
Jacqueline said: "Don't go to bed, I'd like another woman here to support me." She began to laugh again. "Do you know what Simon over there is afraid of?. He's afraid I'm going to tell you the story of my life." "Oh!" Cornelia spluttered a little.
Jacqueline said clearly: "You see, he and I were once engaged." "Oh, really?" Cornelia was the prey of conflicting emotions. She was deeply embarrassed but at the same time pleasurably thrilled. How black Simon Doyle was looking.
"Yes, it's a very sad story," said Jacqueline, her soft voice was low and mocking. "He treated me rather badly, didn't you, Simon?" Simon Doyle said brutally.
"Go to bed, Jackie. You're drunk." "If you're embarrassed, Simon dear, you'd better leave the room."
Simon Doyle looked at her. The hand that held the magazine shook a little, but he spoke bluntly.
"I'm staying," he said.
Cornelia murmured for the third time: "I really must, it's so late" "You're not to go," said Jacqueline. Her hand shot out and held the other girl in her chair. "You're to stay and hear what I've got to say." "Jackie,"
said Simon sharply. "you're making a fool of yourself. For God's sake, go to bed." Jacqueline sat up suddenly in her chair. Words poured from her in a soft hissing stream.
"You're afraid of a scene, aren't you? That's because you're so English, so reticent! You want me to
behave 'decently,' don't you? But I don't care whether I behave decently or not! You'd better get out of here quickly because I'm going to talk a lot." Jim Fanthorp carefully shut his book, yawned, glanced at his watch, got up and strolled out. It was a very British and utterly unconvincing performance.
Jacqueline swung round in her chair and glared at Simon.
"You damned fool," she said thickly, "do you think you can treat me as you have done and get away with it?" Simon Doy!e opened his lips, then shut them again. He sat quite still as though he were hoping that her outburst would exhaust itself if he said nothing to provoke her further.
Jacqueline's voice came thick and blurred. It fascinated Cornelia, totally unused to naked emotions of any kind.
"I told you," said Jacqueline, "that I'd kill you sooner than see you go to another woman .... You don't think I meant that? You're wrong. I've only been waiting! You're my man! Do you hear? You belong to me .... " Still Simon did not speak. Jacqueline's hand fumbled a moment or two on her lap. She leaned forward. "I told you I'd kill you and I meant it .... "Her hand came up suddenly with something in it that gleamed.
"I'll shoot you like a dog, like the dirty dog you are ....
Now at last Simon acted. He sprang to his feet, but at the same moment, she pulled the trigger ....
Simon half twisted fell across a chair Cornelia screamed and rushed to the door. Jim Fanthorp was on the deck leaning over the rail. She called to him. "Mr. Fanthorp .... Mr. Fanthorp .... " He ran to her, she clutched at him incoherently.
"She's shot him! Oh! She's shot him .... ' Simon Doyle still lay as he had fallen half into and across a chair .... Jacqueline stood as though paralyzed. She was trembling violently, and her eyes, dilated and frightened, were staring at the crimson stain slowly soaking through Simon's trouser leg just below the knee where he held a handkerchief close against the wound.
She stammered out: "I didn't mean .... Oh, my God, I didn't really mean . . ." The pistol dropped from her nervous fingers with a clatter on the floor. She kicked it away with her foot. It slid under one of the settees.
Simon, his voice faint, murmured: "Fanthorp, for Heaven's sake there's someone coming to Say it's all right an accident, something there mustn't be a scandal over this."
Fanthorp nodded in quick comprehension. He wheeled round to the door where a startled Nubian face showed. He said:
"All right, all right, just fun!"
The blackface looked doubtful, puzzled, then reassured. The teeth showed in a wide grin. The boy nodded and went off.
Fanthorp turned back.
"That's all right. Don't think anybody else heard. Only sounded like a cork, you know. Now the next thing"
He was startled. Jacqueline suddenly began to weep hysterically.
"Oh, God, I wish I were dead I'll kill myself. I'll be better dead .… Oh, what have I done what have I done?"
Cornelia hurried to her.
"Hush, dear, hush."
Simon, his brow wet, his face twisted with pain, said urgently:
"Get her away. For God's sake, get her out of here! Get her to her cabin, Fanthorp. Look here, Miss Robson, get that hospital nurse of yours." He looked appealingly from one to the other of them.
"Don't leave her. Make quite sure she's safe with the nurse looking after her.
Then get hold of old Bessner and bring him here. For God's sake, don't let any news of this get to my wife."
Jim Fanthorp nodded comprehendingly. The quiet young man was cool and competent in an emergency.
Between them, he and Cornelia got the weeping, struggling girl out of the saloon and along the deck to her cabin. There they had more trouble with her. She fought to free herself, her sobs redoubled.
"I'll drown myself.... I'll drown myself.... I'm not fit to live Oh, Simon."
Fanthorp said to Cornelia: "Better get hold of Miss Bowers. I'll stay while you get her." Cornelia nodded and hurried out.
As soon as she left Jacqueline clutched Fanthorp.
"His leg it's bleeding broken He may bleed to death. I must go to him Oh, Simon--Simon--how could I?" Her voice rose. Fanthorp said urgently: "Quietly, quietly .... He'll be all right." She began to struggle again.
"Let me go. Let me throw myself overboard Let me kill myself." Fanthorp, holding her by the shoulders, forced her back on to the bed.
"You must stay here. Don't make a fuss. Pull yourself together. It's all right, I tell you." To his relief, the distraught girl did manage to control herself a little, but he was thankful when the curtains were pushed aside and the efficient Miss Bowers, neatly dressed in a hideous kimono, entered accompanied by Cornelia. "Now then," said Miss Bowers briskly. "What's all this?" She took charge without any sign of surprise and alarm.
Fanthorp thankfully left the overwrought girl in her capable hands and hurried along to the cabin occupied by Dr. Bessner.
He knocked and entered on the top of the knock.
"Dr. Bessner?" A terrific snore resolved itself, and a startled voice said: "So? What is it?" By this time Fanthorp had switched the light on. The doctor blinked up at him, looking rather like a large owl.
"It's Doyle. He's been shot. Miss de Bellefort shot him. He's in the saloon. Can you come?" The stout doctor reacted promptly. He asked a few curt questions, pulled on his bedroom slippers and a dressing-gown, picked up a little case of necessities and accompanied Fanthorp to the lounge.
Simon had managed to get the window beside him open. He was leaning his head against it, inhaling the air. His face was a ghastly color. Dr. Bessner came over to him. "Ha? So? What have we here?" A handkerchief sodden with blood lay on the carpet and on the carpet itself was a dark stain.
The doctor's examination was punctuated with Teutonic grunts and exclamations.
"Yes, it is bad.... The bone is fractured. And a big loss of blood. Herr Fanthorp, you and I must get
him to my cabin. So like this. He cannot walk. We must carry him, thus." As they lifted him Cornelia
appeared in the doorway.
Catching sight of her, the doctor uttered a grunt of satisfaction.
"Ach, it is you? Goot. Come with us. I have need of assistance. You will be better than my friend here.
He looks a little pale already." Fanthorp emitted a rather sickly smile. "Shall I get Miss Bowers?" he
asked.
Dr. Bessner threw a considering glance over Cornelia.
"You will do very well, young lady," he announced. "You will not faint or be foolish, hein?' "I can do what you tell me," said Cornelia eagerly.
Bessner nodded in a satisfied fashion.
The procession passed along the deck.
The next ten minutes were purely surgical and Mr. Jim Fanthorp did not enjoy it at all. He felt secretly ashamed of the superior fortitude exhibited by Cornelia.
"So, that is the best I can do," announced Dr. Bessner at last. "You have been a hero, my friend." He patted Simon approvingly on the shoulder.
Then he rolled up his sleeve and produced a hypodermic needle.
"And now I will give you something to make you sleep. Your wife, what about her?"
Simon said weakly:
"She needn't know till the morning .... "He went on: "I mustn't blame Jackie .... It's been all my fault. I treated her disgracefully . . . poor kids he didn't know what she was doing .... "
Dr. Bessner nodded comprehendingly.
"Yes, yes, I understand .... "
"My fault" Simon urged. His eyes went to Cornelia. "Someone ought to stay with her she might hurt herse"
Dr. Bessner injected the needle. Cornelia said with quiet competence:
"It's all right, Mr. Doyle. Miss Bowers is going to stay with her all night "
A grateful look flashed over Simon's face.
His body relaxed. His eyes closed. Suddenly he jerked them open.
"Fanthorp?"
"Yes, Doyle." "The pistol Ought not to leave it... lying about.., the boys will find it in the morning "
Fanthorp nodded.
"Quite right.
I'll go and get hold of it now." He went out of the cabin and along the deck. Miss Bowers appeared at the door of Jacqueline's cabin.
"She'll be all right now," she announced. "I've given her a morphine injection." "But you'll stay with her?"
"Oh, yes. Morphia excites some people. I shall stay all night." Fanthorp went on to the lounge.
Some three minutes later there was a tap on Bessner's cabin door.
"Dr. Bessner?"
"Yes?" The stout man appeared.
Fanthorp beckoned him out on the deck.
"Look here I can't find that pistol " "What is that?"
"The pistol. It dropped out of the girl's hand. She kicked it away and it went under a settee. It isn't under that settee now." They stared at each other. "But who can have taken it?" Fanthorp shrugged his shoulders. "Bessner said: "It is curious, that. But I do not see what we can do about it." Puzzled and vaguely alarmed, the two men separated.
Hercule Poirot was just wiping the lather from his freshly shaved face when there was a quick tap on the door and hard on top of it Colonel Race entered unceremoniously.
He closed the door behind him.
He said:
"Your instinct was quite correct. It's happened." Poirot straightened up and asked sharply: "What has happened?"
"Linnet Doyle's dead, shot through the head last night."
Poirot was silent for a minute, two memories vividly before him a girl in a garden at Assuan saying in a hard breathless voice, "I'd like to put my dear little pistol against her head and just press the
trigger," ...and another more recent memory, the same voice saying, "One feels one can't go on the kind of day when something breaks, "and that strange momentary flash of appeal in her eyes. What had been the matter with him not to respond to that appeal? He had been blind, deaf, stupid with his need for sleep ....
Race went on:
"I've got some slight official standing--they sent for me. Put it in my hands.
The boat's due to start in half an hour but it will be delayed till I give the word.
There's a possibility, of course, that the murderer came from the shore."
Poirot shook his head.
Race acquiesced in the gesture.
"I agree. One can pretty well rule that out. Well, man, it's up to you. This is your show."
Poirot had been attiring himself with a neat-fingered celerity. He said now: "I am at your disposal."
The two men stepped out on the deck.
Race said:
"Bessner should be there by now. I sent the steward for him."
There were four cabins de luxe with bathrooms on the boat. Of the two on the port side one was
occupied by Dr. Bessner, the other by Andrew Pennington. On the starboard side, the first was occupied by Miss Van Schuyler, and the one next to it by Linnet Doyle. Her husband's dressing cabin was next door.
A white-faced steward was standing outside the door of Linnet Doyle's cabin.
He opened the door for them and they passed inside. Dr. Bessner was bending over the bed. He looked up and grunted as the other two entered.
"What can you tell us, doctor, about this business?" asked Race.
Bessner rubbed his unshaven jaw meditatively.
"Ach! She was shot at close quarters, see here just above the ear this is where the bullet entered.
A very little bullet. I should say a 22. The pistol it was held close against her head see there is
blackening here, the skin is scorched."
Again in a sick wave of memory, Poirot thought of those words uttered at Assuan.
Bessner went on.
"She was asleep there was no struggle the murderer crept up in the dark and shot her as she lay there."
"Ah! no!" Poirot cried out. His sense of psychology was outraged. Jacqueline de Bellefort creeping into a darkened cabin, pistol in hand no, it did not "fit," that picture.
Bessner stared at him through his thick lenses.
"But that is what happened, I tell you."
"Yes, yes. I did not mean what you thought. I was not contradicting you." Bessner gave a satisfied grunt.
Poirot came up and stood beside him. Linnet Doyle was lying on her side.
Her attitude was natural and peaceful. But above the ear was a tiny hole with an incrustation of dried blood around it.
Poirot shook his head sadly.
Then his gaze fell on the white painted wall just in front of him and he drew in his breath sharply.
Its white neatness was marred by a big wavering letter J scrawled in some brownish-red medium.
Poirot stared at it, then he leaned over the dead girl and very gently picked up her right hand. One finger
of it was stained a brownish-red. "Nom d'un nom d'un nom!" ejaculated Hercule Poirot.
"Eh? What is that?" Dr. Bessner looked up.
"Ach! That." Race said:
"Well, I'm damned. What do you make of that, Poirot?"
Poirot swayed a little on his toes.
"You ask me what I make of it. Eh bien, it is very simple, is it not? Mrs. Doyle is dying, she wishes to
indicate her murderer, and so she writes with her finger dipped in her own blood the initial letter of her murderer's name. Oh yes, it is astonishingly simple."
"Ach! But…."
Dr. Bessner was about to break out, but a peremptory gesture from Race silenced him.
"So it strikes you like that?" he said slowly.
Poirot turned round on him, nodding his head.
"Yes, yes. It is, as I say, of an astonishing simplicity! It is so familiar, is it not? It has been done so often, in the pages of the romance of crime! It is now, indeed, a little vieuxjeu! It leads one to suspect that our murderer is old fashioned!"
Race drew a long breath.
"I see," he said. "I thought at first..."
He stopped.
Poirot said with a very faint smile: "That I believed in all the old cliches of melodrama? But pardon, Dr. Bessner, you were about to say?"
Bessner broke out gutturally:
"What do I say? Pah! I say it is absurdist is the nonsense! The poor lady died instantaneously. To dip her finger in the blood (and as you see, there is hardly any blood) and write the letter J upon the wall.
Bahit is the nonsense, the melodramatic nonsense!"
"C'est l'enfantillage,' agreed Poirot.
"But it was done with a purpose," suggested Race.
"That naturally," said Poirot and his face was grave.
Race said:
"What does J stand for?"
Poirot replied promptly:
"J stands for Jacqueline de Bellefort, a young lady who declared to be less than a week ago that she would like nothing better than to..." he paused and then deliberately quoted, "...to put, my dear little pistol close against her head and then just press with my finger ....
"Gott im Himmel!" said Dr. Bessner.
There was a momentary silence. Then Race drew a deep breath and said: "Which is just what was done here?" Bessner nodded.
"That is so, yes. It was a pistol of very small calibers as I say probably a 22.
The bullet has got to be extracted, of course, before we can say definitely." Race nodded in Swift comprehension. Then he said: "What about the time of death?"
Bessner stroked his jaw again. His finger made a rasping sound.
"I would not care to be too precise. It is now eight o'clock. I will say, with due regard to the temperature last night, that she has been dead certainly six hours and probably not longer than eight."
"That puts it between midnight and 2 a.m."
"That is so."
There was a pause. Race looked round.
"What about her husband? I suppose he sleeps in the cabin next door." "At the moment," said Dr.
Bessner, "he is asleep in my cabin." Both men looked very surprised.
Bessner nodded his head several times. "Ach, so. I see you have not been told about that. Mr. Doyle was shot last night in the saloon."
"Shot? By whom?"
"By the young lady Jacqueline de Bellefort." Race asked sharply: "Is he badly hurt?"
"Yes, the bone was splintered. I have done all that is possible at the moment but it is necessary, you understand, that the fracture should be X-rayed as soon as possible and proper treatment given such as is impossible on this boat." Poirot murmured: "Jacqueline de Bellefort."
His eyes went again to the J on the wall.
Race said abruptly:
"If there is nothing more we can do here for the moment, let's go below. The management has put the smoking-room at our disposal. We must get the details of what happened last night."
They left the cabin. Race locked the door and took the key with him.
"We can come back later," he said. "The first thing to do is to get all the facts clear."
They went down to the deck below where they found the manager of the Karnak waiting uneasily in the doorway of the smoking-room.
The poor man was terribly upset and worried over the whole business, and was eager to leave everything in Colonel Race's hands,
"I feel I can't do better than leave it to you, sir, seeing your official position.
I'd had orders to put myself at your disposal in the other matter. If you will take charge, I'll see that
everything is done as you wish." "Goodman. To begin with I'd like this room kept clear for me and for M. Poirot during the inquiry." "Certainly, sir." "That's all at present. Go on with your own work. I know where to find you." Looking slightly relieved the manager left the room.
Race said: "Sit down, Bessner, and let's have the whole story of what happened last night." They listened in silence to the doctor's rumbling voice.
"Clear enough," said Race, when he had finished. "The girl worked herself up, helped by a drink or two, and finally took a pot shot at the man with a .22 pistol. Then she went along to Linnet Doyle's cabin and shot her as well." But Dr. Bessner was shaking his head.
"No, no. I do not think so. I do not think that was possible. For one thing, she would not write her own initial on the wall it would be ridiculous, Night war?" "She might," Race declared, "if she were as blindly mad and jealous as she sounds, she might want to well sign her name to the crime, so to speak." Poirot shook his head.
"No, no, I do not think she would be as crude as that." "Then there's only one reason for that J. It
was put there by someone else deliberately to throw suspicion on her." The doctor said: "Yes, and the criminal was unlucky because you see, it is not only unlikely that the young Fraulein did the murder it is also I think impossible." "How's that?" Bessner explained Jacqueline's hysterics and the circumstances which had led Miss Bowers to take charge of her.
"And I think, I am sure that Miss Bowers stayed with her all night." Race said: "If that's so, it's going to simplify matters very much." Poirot asked: "Who discovered the crime?" "Mrs. Doyle's maid, Louise Bourget. She went to call her mistress, as usual, found her dead, and came out and flopped into the steward's arms in a dead faint.
He went to the manager, who came to me. I got hold of Bessner and then came for you." Poirot nodded.
Race said: "Doyle's got to know. You say he's asleep still." The doctor said: "Yes, he's still asleep in my cabin. I gave him a strong opiate last night." Race turned to Poirot.
"Well," he said, "I don't think we need to detain the doctor any longer, eh?
Thank you, doctor." Bessner rose.
"I will have my breakfast, yes. And then I will go back to my cabin and see if Mr. Doyle is ready to wake." "Thanks.'
Bessner went out. The two men looked at each other.
"Well, what about it, Poirot?" Race said. "You're the man in charge. I'll take my orders from you. You say what's to be done."
Poirot bowed.
"Eh bien," he said, "We must hold the court of inquiry. First of all, I think we must verify the story of the affair last night. That is to say, we must question Fanthorp and Miss Robson who were the actual witnesses of what occurred. The disappearance of the pistol is very significant."
Race rang a bell and sent a message by the steward.
Poirot sighed and shook his head.
"It is bad, this," he murmured. "It is bad."
"Have you any ideas?" asked Race curiously.
"My ideas conflict. They are not well arranged, they are not orderly. There is, you see, the big fact that this girl hated Linnet Doyle and wanted to kill her."
"You think she's capable of it?"
"I think so yes." Poirot sounded doubtful.
"But not in this way? That's what's worrying you, isn't it? Not to creep into her cabin in the dark and shoot her while she was sleeping. It's the cold-bloodedness that strikes you as not ringing true?"
"in a sense, yes."
"You think that this girl, Jacqueline de Bellefort, is incapable of premeditated cold-blooded murder."
Poirot said slowly:
"I am not sure, you see. She would have the brains, yes. But I doubt fi, physically, she could bring
herself to do the act " Race nodded.
"Yes, I see Well, according to Bessner's story, it would also have been physically impossible.
"If that is true it clears the ground considerably. Let us hope it is true." He paused and then added simply:
"I shall be glad if it is so, for I have for that little one much sympathy." The door opened and Fanthorp and Cornelia came in. Bessner followed them. Cornelia gasped out: "Isn't this just awful? Poor, poor Mrs. Doyle. And she was so lovely too. It must have been a real friend who could hurt her! And poor Mr. Doyle, he'll just go half crazy when he knows! Why even last night he was so frightfully worried lest she should hear about his accident." "That is just what we want you to tell us about, Miss Robson," said Race. "We want to know exactly what happened last night." Cornelia began a little confusedly, but a question or two from Poirot helped matters.
"Ah, yes, I understand. After the bridge, Madame Doyle went to her cabin. Did she really go to her
cabin, I wonder?" "She did," said Race. "I actually saw her. I said good-night to her at the door." "And the time?" "Mercy, I couldn't say," said Cornelia.
"It was twenty past eleven," said Race.
"Bien. Then at twenty past eleven, Madame Doyle was alive and well. At that moment there was in the Saloon, who?" Fanthorp answered.
"Doyle was there. And Miss de Bellefort. Myself and Miss Robson." "That's so," agreed Cornelia. "Mr. Pennington had a drink and then went off to bed." "That as how much later?" "Oh, about three or four minutes." "Before half-past eleven, then?" "Oh, yes." "So that there were left in the saloon you, Miss Robson, Miss de Bellefort, Mr. Doyle and Mr. Fanthorp. What were you all doing?" "Mr. Fanthorp was reading a book. I'd got some embroidery. Miss de Bellefort was, she was." Fanthorp came to the rescue.
"She was drinking pretty heavily." "Yes," agreed Cornelia. "She was talking to me mostly and asking me about things at home. And she kept saying things to me mostly, but I think they were kind of meant for Mr. Doyle. He was getting kind of mad at her but he didn't say anything. I think he thought if he kept quiet she might simmer down." "But she didn't?" Cornelia shook her head.
"I tried to go once or twice, but she made me stop and I was getting very uncomfortable. And then Mr. Fanthorp got up and went out" "It was a LITTLE embarrassing," said Fanthorp. "I thought I'd make an unobtrusive exit. Miss de Bellefort was clearly working up for a scene." "And then she pulled out the pistol," went on Cornelia. "And Mr. Doyle jumped up to try and get it away from her, and it went off and shot him through the leg, and then she began to sob and cry and I was scared to death and ran out after Mr. Fanthorp and he came back with me, and Mr. Doyle said not to make a fuss, and one of the Nubian boys heard the noise of the shot and came along, but Mr. Fanthorp told him it was all right and then we got Jacqueline away to her cabin and Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her while I got Miss Bowers." Cornelia paused breathlessly.
"What time was this?" asked Race.
Cornelia said again: "Mercy, I don't know," but Fanthorp answered promptly: "It must have been about twenty minutes past twelve. I know that it was actually half-past twelve when I finally got to my cabin."
"Now let me be quite sure on one or two points," said Poirot. "After Mrs. Doyle left the saloon did any of you four leave it?" "No." "You are quite certain Miss de Bellefort did not leave the saloon at all?" Fanthorp answered promptly: "Positive. Neither Doyle, Miss de Bellefort, Miss Robson, nor myself left the saloon." "Good. That establishes the fact that Miss de Bellefort could not possibly have shot Mrs. Doyle before let us say twenty past twelve. Now, Miss Robson, you went to fetch Miss Bowers. Was Miss de Bellefort alone in her cabin during that period?" "No, Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her." "Good. So far, Miss de Bellefort has a perfect alibi. Miss Bowers is the next person to interview, but before I send for her I should like to have your opinion on one or two points. Mr. Doyle, you say, was very anxious that Miss de Bellefort should not be left alone. Was he afraid, do you think, that she was contemplating some further rash act?"
"That is my opinion," said Fanthorp.
"He was definitely afraid she might attack Mrs. Doyle?" "No." Fanthorp shook his head. "I don't think that was his idea at all. I think he was afraid she might-er-do something rash to herself." "Suicide?" "Yes. You see, she seemed completely sobered and heartbroken at what she had done. She was full of self-reproach. She kept saying she would be better dead." Cornelia said timidly: "I think he was rather upset about her. He spoke quite nicely. He said it was all his fault that he'd treated her badly. He, he was really very nice." Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"Now about the pistol," he went on. "What happened to that?" "She dropped it," said Cornelia.
"And afterward?" Fanthorp explained how he had gone back to search for it but had not been able to find it.
"Aha," said Poirot. "Now we begin to arrive. Let us, I pray you, be very precise. Describe to me exactly what happened." "Miss de Bellefort let it fall. Then she kicked it away from her with her foot." "She sort of hated it," explained Cornelia. "I know just what she felt." "And it went under a settee, you say. Now be very careful. Miss de Bellefort did not recover that pistol before she left the saloon?" Both Fanthorp and Cornelia were positive on that point.
"Precisment. I seek only to be very exact, you comprehend. Then we arrive at this point. When Miss de Bellefort leaves the saloon the pistol is under the settee. And since Miss de Bellefort is not left alone, Mr. Fanthorp, Miss Robson or Miss Bowers being with her, she has no opportunity to get back the pistol after she left the saloon. What time was it, Mr. Fanthorp, when you went back to look for it?" "It must have been just before half-past twelve.' "And how long would have elapsed between the time you and Dr. Bessner carried Mr. Doyle out of the saloon until you returned to look for the pistol?" "Perhaps five minutes, perhaps a little more." "Then in that five minutes, someone removes that pistol from where it the layout of sight under the settee. That, someone, was not Miss de Bellefort. Who was it? It seems highly probable that the person who removed it was the murderer of Mrs. Doyle. We may assume, too, that that person had overheard or seen something of the events immediately preceding." "I don't see how you make that out," objected Fanthorp. "Because," said Hercule Poirot. "You have just told us that the pistol was out of sight under the settee. Therefore it is hardly credible that it was discovered by accident. It was taken by someone who knew it was there. Therefore that someone must have assisted at the scene." Fanthorp shook his head.
"I saw no one when I went out on the deck just before the shot was fired." "Ah, but you went out by the door on the starboard side." "Yes. The same side as my cabin." 'Then if there had been anybody at the port door looking through the glass you would not have seen them?" "No," admitted Fanthorp.
"Did anyone hear the shot except the Nubian boy?" "Not as far as I know." Fanthorp went on: "You
see, the windows here were all closed. Miss Van Schuyler felt a draught earlier in the evening. The swing doors were shut. I doubt if the shot would be at all closely heard. It would only sound like the pop of a cork." Race said: "As far as I know no one seems to have heard the other shot, the shot that killed Mrs. Doyle." "That we will inquire into presently," said Poirot. "For the moment we still concern ourselves with Mademoiselle de Bellefort. We must speak to Miss Bowers. But first, before you go" he arrested Fanthorp and Cornelia with a gesture "you will give me a little information about yourselves.
Then it will not be necessary to call you again later. You first, Monsieur, your full name." "James
Lechdale Fanthorp." "Address?" "Glasmore House, Market Donnington, Northamptonshire." "Your
profession?" "I am a lawyer." "And your reasons for visiting this country." There was a pause. For the first time, the impassive Mr. Fanthorp seemed taken aback. He said at last almost mumbling the words:
"Pleasure." "Aha," said Poirot. "You take the holiday, that is it, yes?" "yes." "Very well, Mr.
Fanthorp. Will you just give me a brief account of your own movements last night after the events we have just been narrating.' "I went straight to bed." "That was at?" "Just after half-past twelve." "Your cabin is No. 22 on the starboard side the one nearest the saloon?" "Yes." "I will ask you one more question. Did you hear anything at all after you went to your cabin?" Fanthorp considered.
"I turned in very quickly. I think I heard a kind of splash just as I was dropping off to sleep. Nothing
else." "You heard a kind of splash? Near at hand?" Fanthorp shook his head, "Really, I couldn't say. I was half asleep." "And what time would that be?" "It might have been about one o'clock. I can't really say." "Thank you, Mr. Fanthorp. That is all.' Poirot turned his attention to Cornelia.
"And now, Miss Robson? Your full name?" "Cornelia Ruth. And my address is The Red House, Bellfield, Connecticut." "What brought you to Egypt?" "Cousin Marie, Miss Van Schuyler, brought me along on a trip.' "Had you ever met Mrs. Doyle previous to this journey?" "No, never." "And what did you do last night?" "I went right to bed after helping Dr. Bessner with Mr. Doyle's leg."
"Your cabin is?" "41 on the port side right next door to Miss de Bellefort." "And did you hear
anything?" Cornelia shook her head. "I didn't hear a thing." "No splash?" "No, but then I wouldn't
because the boat's against the bank on my side." Poirot nodded.
"Thank you, Miss Robson. Now perhaps you will be so kind as to ask Miss Bowers to come here."
Fanthorp and Cornelia went out.
"That seems clear enough," said Race. "Unless three independent witnesses are lying, Jacqueline de Bellefort couldn't have got hold of the pistol. But somebody did. And somebody overheard the scene.
And somebody was B.F. enough to write a big J on the wall." There was a tap on the door and Miss Bowers entered.
The hospital nurse sat down in her usual composed efficient manner. In answer to Poirot she gave her name, address, and qualifications, adding: "I've been looking after Miss Van Schuyler for over two years now." "Is Miss Van Schuyler's health very bad?" "Why, no, I wouldn't say that," said Miss Bowers.
"She's not very young and she's nervous about herself and she likes to have a nurse around handy.
There's nothing serious the matter with her. She just likes plenty of attention and she's willing to pay for it." Poirot nodded comprehendingly. Then he said: "I understand that Miss Robson fetched you last night?" "Why, yes, that's so." "Will you tell me exactly what happened?" "Well, Miss Robson just gave me a brief outline of what had occurred and I came along with her. I found Miss de Bellefort in a very exciting hysterical condition." "Did she utter any threats against Mrs. Doyle?" "No, nothing of that kind.
She was in a condition of morbid self-reproach.
She'd taken a good deal of alcohol, I should say, and she was suffering from reaction. I didn't think she ought to be left. I gave her a shot of morphia and sat up with her." "Now, Miss Bowers, I want you to answer this. Did Miss de Bellefort leave her cabin at all?" "No, she did not." "And you yourself?." "I stayed with her until early this morning." "You are quite sure of that." "Absolutely sure." "Thank you, Miss Bowers." The nurse went out. The two men looked at each other.
Jacqueline de Bellefort was definitely Cleared of the crime. Who then had shot Linnet Doyle?