Race shook his head. "It's odd."
"It is more than odd - it is impossible!"
"Not impossible, since it happened?"
"I do not mean that. I mean that the sequence of events is impossible. Something is wrong."
Chapter 16
Colonel Race glanced curiously at his colleague. He respected - he had reason to respect - the brain of Hercule Poirot. Yet for the moment he did not follow the other's process of thought. He asked no question, however. He seldom did ask questions. He proceeded straightforwardly with the matter in hand.
"What's the next thing to be done? Question the Otterbourne girl?"
"Yes, that may advance us a little."
Rosalie Otterbourne entered ungraciously. She did not look nervous or frightened in any way - merely unwilling and sulky.
"Well," she asked, "what is it?"
Race was the spokesman.
"We're investigating Mrs Doyle's death," he explained.
Rosalie nodded.
"Will you tell me what you did last night?"
Rosalie reflected a minute.
"Mother and I went to bed early - before eleven. We didn't hear anything in particular, except a bit of fuss outside Dr Bessner's cabin. I heard the old man's German voice booming away. Of course I didn't know want it was all about till this morning."
"You didn't hear a shot?"
"No."
"Did you leave your cabin at all last night?"
"No."
"You are quite sure of that?"
Rosalie stared at him.
"What do you mean? Of course I'm sure of it."
"You did not, for instance, go round to the starboard side of the boat and throw something overboard?"
The colour rose in her face.
"Is there any rule against throwing things overboard?"
"No, of course not. Then you did?"
"No, I didn't. I never left my cabin, I tell you."
"Then if anyone says that they saw you -"
She interrupted him. "Who says they saw me?"
"Miss Van Schuyler."
"Miss Van Schuyler?" She sounded genuinely astonished.
"Yes. Miss Van Schuyler says she looked out of her cabin and saw you throw something over the side."
Rosalie said clearly, "That's a damned lie."
Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, she asked, "What time was this?"
It was Poirot who answered.
"It was ten minutes past one, Mademoiselle."
She nodded her head thoughtfully. "Did she see anything else?"
Poirot looked at her curiously. He stroked his chin.
"See - no," he replied, "but she heard something."
"What did she hear?"
"Someone moving about in Madame Doyle's cabin."
"I see," muttered Rosalie.
She was pale now - deadly pale.
"And you persist in saying that you threw nothing overboard, Mademoiselle?"
"What on earth should I run about throwing things overboard for in the middle of the night?"
"There might be a reason - an innocent reason."
"Innocent?" repeated the girl sharply.
"That's what I said. You see, Mademoiselle, something was thrown overboard last night - something that was not innocent."
Race silently held out the bundle of stained velvet, opening it to display its contents.
Rosalie Otterbourne shrank back. "Was that - what - she was killed with?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"And you think that I - I did it? What utter nonsense! Why on earth should I want to kill Linnet Doyle? I don't even know her!"
She laughed and stood up scornfully. "The whole thing is too ridiculous."
"Remember, Miss Otterbourne," said Race, "that Miss Van Schuyler is prepared to swear she saw your face quite clearly in the moonlight."
Rosalie laughed again. "That old cat? She's probably half blind anyway. It wasn't me she saw."
She paused. "Can I go now?"
Race nodded and Rosalie Otterbourne left the room.
The eyes of the two men met. Race lighted a cigarette.
"Well, that's that. Flat contradiction. Which of 'em do we believe?"
Poirot shook his head. "I have a little idea that neither of them was being quite frank."
"That's the worst of our job," said Race despondently. "So many people keep back the truth for positively futile reasons. What's our next move? Get on with the questioning of the passengers?"
"I think so. It is always well to proceed with order and method."
Race nodded.
Mrs Otterbourne, dressed in floating batik material, succeeded her daughter. She corroborated Rosalie's statement that they had both gone to bed before eleven o'clock. She herself had heard nothing of interest during the night. She could not say whether Rosalie had left their cabin or not. On the subject of the crime she was inclined to hold forth.
"The crime passionnel!" she exclaimed. "The primitive instinct - to kill! So closely allied to the sex instinct. That girl, Jacqueline, half Latin, hot-blooded, obeying the deepest instincts of her being, stealing forth, revolver in hand -"
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