"In Madame Doyle's cabin?"
"Yes. Then I heard someone outside on the deck and then a splash."
"You have no idea what time this was?"
"I can tell you the time exactly. It was ten minutes past one."
"You are sure of that?"
"Yes. I looked at my little clock that stands by my bed."
"You did not hear a shot?"
"No, nothing of the kind."
"But it might possibly have been a shot that awakened you?"
Miss Van Schuyler considered the question, her toadlike head on one side.
"It might," she admitted rather grudgingly.
"And you have no idea what caused the splash you heard?"
"Not at all - I know perfectly."
Colonel Race sat up alertly.
"You know?"
"Certainly. I did not like this sound of prowling around, I got up and went to the door of my cabin. Miss Otterbourne was leaning over the side. She had just dropped something into the water."
"Miss Otterbourne?" Race sounded really surprised.
"Yes."
"You are quite sure it was Miss Otterbourne?"
"I saw her face distinctly."
"She did not see you?"
"I do not think so."
Poirot leaned forward.
"And what did her face look like, Mademoiselle?"
"She was in a condition of considerable emotion."
Race and Poirot exchanged a quick glance.
"And then?" Race prompted.
"Miss Otterbourne went away round the stern of the boat and I returned to bed." There was a knock at the door and the Manager entered. He carried in his hand a dripping bundle.
"We've got it, Colonel."
Race took the package. He unwrapped fold after fold of sodden velvet. Out of it fell a coarse handkerchief, faintly stained with pink, wrapped round a small pearl-handled pistol.
Race gave Poirot a glance of slightly malicious triumph.
"You see," he said, "my idea was right. It was thrown overboard."
He held the pistol out on the palm of his hand.
"What do you say, Monsieur Poirot? Is this the pistol you saw at the Cataract Hotel that night?"
Poirot examined it carefully; then he said quietly: "Yes - that is it. There is the ornamental work on it - and the initials J.B. It is an article de luxe, a very feminine production, but it is none the less a lethal weapon."
"Twenty-two," murmured Race. He took out the clip. "Two bullets fired. Yes, there doesn't seem much doubt about it."
Miss Van Schuyler coughed significantly.
"And what about my stole?" she demanded.
"Your stole, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes, that is my velvet stole you have here."
Race picked up the dripping folds of material.
"This is yours, Miss Van Schuyler?"
"Certainly it's mine!" the old lady snapped. "I missed it last night. I was asking everyone if they'd seen it."
Poirot questioned Race with a glance, and the latter gave a slight nod of assent. "Where did you see it last, Miss Van Schuyler?"
"I had it in the saloon yesterday evening. When I came to go to bed I could not find it anywhere."
Race said quietly, "You realize what it's been used for?"
He spread it out, indicating with a finger the scorching and several small holes.
"The murderer wrapped it round the pistol to deaden the noise of the shot."
"Impertinence!" snapped Miss Van Schuyler. The colour rose in her wizened cheeks.
Race said, "I shall be glad, Miss Van Schuyler, if you will tell me the extent of your previous acquaintance with Mrs Doyle."
"There was no previous acquaintance."
"But you knew of her?"
"I knew who she was, of course."
"But your families were not acquainted?"
"As a family we have always prided ourselves on being exclusive, Colonel Race. My dear mother would never have dreamed of calling upon any of the Hartz family, who, outside their wealth, were nobodies."
"That is all you have to say, Miss Van Schuyler?"
"I have nothing to add to what I have told you. Linnet Ridgeway was brought up in England and I never saw her till I came aboard this boat."
She rose. Poirot opened the door for her and she marched out.
The eyes of the two men met.
"That's her story," said Race, "and she's going to stick to it! It may be true. I don't know. But - Rosalie Otterbourne? I hadn't expected that."
Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner. Then he brought down his hand on the table with a sudden bang.
"But it does not make sense," he cried. "Nom d'un nom d'un nom! It does not make sense."
Race looked at him.
"What do you mean exactly?"
"I mean that up to a point it is all the clear sailing. Someone wished to kill Linnet Doyle. Someone overheard the scene in the saloon last night. Someone sneaked in there and retrieved the pistol - Jacqueline de Bellefort's pistol, remember. Somebody shot Linnet Doyle with that pistol and wrote the letter J on the wall... All so clear, is it not? All pointing to Jacqueline de Bellefort as the murderess. And then what does the murderer do. Leave the pistol - the damning pistol - Jacqueline de Bellefort's pistol, for everyone to find? No, he - or she - throws the pistol, that particularly damning bit of evidence, overboard. Why, my friend, why?"
52书库推荐浏览： [英]阿加莎·克里斯蒂