"But Jacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Madame Doyle. That we know for certain. It is proved," explained Poirot.
"Her husband, then," said Mrs Otterbourne, rallying from the blow. "The blood lust and the sex instinct - a sexual crime. There are many well-known instances."
"Mr Doyle was shot through the leg and he was quite unable to move - the bone was fractured," explained Colonel Race. "He spent the night with Dr Bessner."
Mrs Otterbourne was even more disappointed. She searched her mind hopefully.
"Of course!" she said. "How foolish of me! Miss Bowers!"
"Miss Bowers?"
"Yes. Naturally. It's so clear psychologically. Repression! The repressed virgin! Maddened by the sight of these two - a young husband and wife passionately in love with each other. Of course it was her! She's just the type - sexually unattractive, innately respectable. In my book, The Barren Vine -"
Colonel Race interposed tactfully: "Your suggestions have been most helpful, Mrs Otterbourne. We must get on with our job now. Thank you so much."
He escorted her gallantly to the door and came back wiping his brow.
"What a poisonous woman! Whew! Why didn't somebody murder her?"
"It may yet happen," Poirot consoled him.
"There might be some sense in that. Whom have we got left? Pennington - we'll keep him for the end, I think. Richetti - Ferguson."
Signor Richetti was very voluble, very agitated.
"But what a horror, what an infamy - a woman so young and so beautiful - indeed an inhuman crime!"
Signor Richetti's hands flew expressively up in the air.
His answers were prompt. He had gone to bed early - very early. In fact immediately after dinner. He had read for a while - a very interesting pamphlet lately published - Prдhistorische Forschung in Kleinasien - throwing an entirely new light on the painted pottery of the Anatolian foothills.
He had put out his light some time before eleven. No, he had not heard any shot. Nor any sound like the pop of a cork. The only thing he had heard - but that was later, in the middle of the night - was a splash, a big splash, just near his porthole.
"Your cabin is on the lower deck, on the starboard side, is it not?"
"Yes, yes, that is so. And I hear the big splash." His arms flew up once more to describe the bigness of the splash.
"Can you tell me at all what time that was?"
Signor Richetti reflected.
"It was one, two, three hours after I go to sleep. Perhaps two hours."
"About ten minutes past one, for instance?"
"It might very well be, yes. Ah! but what a terrible crime - how inhuman... So charming a woman..."
Exit Signor Richetti, still gesticulating freely.
Race looked at Poirot. Poirot raised his eyebrows expressively, then shrugged his shoulders. They passed on to Mr Ferguson.
Ferguson was difficult. He sprawled insolently in a chair.
"Grand to-do about this business!" he sneered. "What's it really matter? Lot of superfluous women in the world!"
Race said coldly, "Can we have an account of your movements last night, Mr Ferguson?"
"Don't see why you should, but I don't mind. I mooched around a good bit. Went ashore with Miss Robson. When she went back to the boat I mooched around by myself for a while. Came back and turned in round about midnight."
"Your cabin is on the lower deck, starboard side?"
"Yes. I'm not up among the nobs."
"Did you hear a shot? It might only have sounded like the popping of a cork."
Ferguson considered. "Yes, I think I did hear something like a cork... Can't remember when - before I went to sleep. But there were still a lot of people about then - commotion, running about on the deck above."
"That was probably the shot fired by Miss de Bellefort. You didn't hear another?" Ferguson shook his head.
"Nor a splash?"
"A splash? Yes, I believe I did hear a splash. But there was so much row going on I can't be sure about it."
"Did you leave your cabin during the night?"
Ferguson grinned. "No, I didn't. And I didn't participate in the good work, worse luck."
"Come, come, Mr Ferguson, don't behave childishly."
The young man reacted angrily.
"Why shouldn't I say what I think? I believe in violence."
"But you don't practise what you preach?" murmured Poirot. "I wonder."
He leaned forward.
"It was the man, Fleetwood, was it not, who told you that Linnet Doyle was one of the richest women in England?"
"What's Fleetwood got to do with this?"
"Fleetwood, my friend, had an excellent motive for killing Linnet Doyle. He had a special grudge against her."
Mr Ferguson came up out of his seat like a Jack in the Box.
"So that's your dirty game, is it?" he demanded wrathfully. "Put it on to a poor devil like Fleetwood, who can't defend himself, who's got no money to hire lawyers. But I tell you this - if you try and saddle Fleetwood with this business you'll have me to deal with."
"And who exactly are you?" asked Poirot sweetly.
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