Miss Van Schuyler. The velvet stole in which pistol was wrapped belongs to Miss Van Schuyler. According to her own statement she last saw it in the observation saloon. She drew attention to its loss during the evening, and a search was made for it without success.
How did the stole come into the possession of X? Did X purloin it some time early in the evening? But if so, why? Nobody could tell, in advance, that there was going to be a scene between Jacqueline and Simon. Did X find the stole in the saloon when he went to get the pistol from under the settee? But if so, why was it not found when the search for it was made? Did it never leave Miss Van Schuyler's possession? That is to say: Did Miss Van Schuyler murder Linnet Doyle? Is her accusation of Rosalie Otterbourne a deliberate lie? If she did murder her, what was her motive?
Other possibilities:
Robbery as a motive. Possible, since the pearls have disappeared, and Linnet Doyle was certainly wearing them last night.
Someone with a grudge against the Ridgeway family. Possibly - again no evidence. We know that there is a dangerous man on board - a killer. Here we have a killer and a death. May not the two be connected? But we should have to show that Linnet Doyle possessed dangerous knowledge concerning this man.
Conclusions: We can group the persons on board into two classes - those who had a possible motive or against whom there is definite evidence, and those who, as far as we know, are free of suspicion.
Group I
Andrew Pennington
Fleetwood
Rosalie Otterbourne
Miss Van Schuyler
Louise Bourget (Robbery?)
Ferguson (Political?)
Group II
Mrs Allerton
Tim Allerton
Cornelia Robson
Miss Bowers
Mrs Otterbourne
James Fanthorp
Dr Bessner
Signor Richetti
Poirot pushed the paper back.
"It is very just, very exact, what you have written there."
"You agree with it?"
"Yes."
"And now what is your contribution?"
Poirot drew himself up in an important manner.
"Me, I pose to myself one question: 'Why was the pistol thrown overboard?'"
"That's all?"
"At the moment, yes. Until I can arrive at a satisfactory answer to that question, there is no sense anywhere. That is - that must be the starting point. You will notice, my friend, that, in your summary of where we stand, you have not attempted to answer that point."
Race shrugged his shoulders.
"Panic."
Poirot shook his head perplexedly. He picked up the sodden velvet wrap and smoothed it out, wet and limp, on the table. His finger traced the scorched marks and the burnt holes.
"Tell me, my friend," he said suddenly. "You are more conversant with firearms than I am. Would such a thing as this, wrapped round a pistol, make much difference in muffling the sound?"
"No, it wouldn't. Not like a silencer, for instance."
Poirot nodded. He went on: "A man - certainly a man who had had much handling of firearms - would know that. But a woman - a woman would not know."
Race looked at him curiously. "Probably not."
"No. She would have read the detective stories where they are not always very exact as to details."
Race flicked the little pearl-handled pistol with his finger.
"This little fellow wouldn't make much noise anyway," he said. "Just a pop, that's all. With any other noise around, ten to one you wouldn't notice it."
"Yes, I have reflected as to that."
Poirot picked up the handkerchief and examined it.
"A man's handkerchief - but not a gentleman's handkerchief. Ce cher Woolworth, I imagine. Threepence at most."
"The sort of handkerchief a man like Fleetwood would own."
"Yes. Andrew Pennington, I notice, carries a very fine silk handkerchief."
"Ferguson?" suggested Race.
"Possibly. As a gesture. But then it ought to be a bandana."
"Used it instead of a glove, I suppose, to hold the pistol and obviate fingerprints." Race added, with slight facetiousness, "'The Clue of the Blushing Handkerchief.'"
"Ah, yes. Quite a jeune fille colour, is it not?" He laid it down and returned to the stole, once more examining the powder marks.
"All the same," he murmured, "it is odd..."
"What's that?"
Poirot said gently: "Cette pauvre Madame Doyle. Lying there so peacefully... with the little hole in her head. You remember how she looked?"
Race looked at him curiously.
"You know," he said, "I've got an idea you're trying to tell me something - but I haven't the faintest idea what it is."
Chapter 18
There was a tap on the door.
"Come in," Race called.
A steward entered.
"Excuse me, Sir," he said to Poirot, "but Mr Doyle is asking for you."
"I will come."
Poirot rose. He went out of the room and up the companionway to the promenade deck and along it to Dr Bessner's cabin.
Simon, his face flushed and feverish, was propped up with pillows. He looked embarrassed.
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