Poirot looked at him with gently twinkling eyes.
"Oh, la, la, la!" he said unexpectedly. "That suggestion of mine, it has indeed stirred up the nest of hornets."
Simon repeated doggedly, unmoved by Poirot's lighter note, "Jackie's straight!" Poirot remembered a girl's voice by the Nile in Assuan saying, "I love Simon - and he loves me..."
He had wondered which of the three statements he had heard that night was the true one. It seemed to him that it had turned out to be Jacqueline who had come closest to the truth.
The door opened and Race came in.
"Nothing," he said brusquely. "Well, we didn't expect it. I see the stewards coming along with their report as to the searching of the passengers."
A steward and stewardess appeared in the doorway. The former spoke first.
"Nothing, Sir."
"Any of the gentlemen make any fuss?"
"Only the Italian gentleman, Sir. He carried on a good deal. Said it was a dishonour - something of that kind. He'd got a gun on him, too."
"What kind of a gun?"
"Mauser automatic twenty-five, Sir."
"Italians are pretty hot-tempered," said Simon. "Richetti got in no end of a stew at Wвdi Halfa just because of a mistake over a telegram. He was darned rude to Linnet over it."
Race turned to the stewardess. She was a big handsome looking woman.
"Nothing on any of the ladies, Sir. They made a good deal of fuss - except for Mrs Allerton, who was as nice as nice could be. Not a sign of the pearls. By the way, the young lady, Miss Rosalie Otterbourne, had a little pistol in her handbag."
"What kind?"
"It was a very small one, Sir, with a pearl handle. A kind of toy." Race stared.
"Devil take this case," he muttered. "I thought we'd got her cleared of suspicion, and now - Does every girl on this blinking boat carry around pearl-handled toy pistols?"
He shot a question at the stewardess. "Did she show any feeling over your finding it?"
The woman shook her head. "I don't think she noticed. I had my back turned whilst I was going through the handbag."
"Still, she must have known you'd come across it. Oh, well, it beats me. What about the maid?"
"We've looked all over the boat, Sir. We can't find her anywhere."
"What's this?" asked Simon.
"Mrs Doyle's maid - Louise Bourget. She's disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
Race said thoughtfully: "She might have stolen the pearls. She is the one person who had ample opportunity to get a replica made."
"And then, when she found a search was being instituted, she threw herself overboard?" suggested Simon.
"Nonsense," replied Race, irritably. "A woman can't throw herself overboard in broad daylight, from a boat like this, without somebody realizing the fact. She's bound to be somewhere on board." He addressed the stewardess once more. "When was she last seen?"
"About half an hour before the bell went for lunch, sir."
"We'll have a look at her cabin anyway," said Race. "That may tell us something." He led the way to the deck below. Poirot followed him. They unlocked the door of the cabin and passed inside.
Louise Bourget, whose trade it was to keep other people's belongings in order, had taken a holiday where her own were concerned. Odds and ends littered the top of the chest of drawers; a suitcase gaped open, with clothes hanging out of the side of it and preventing it shutting; underclothing hung limply over the sides of the chairs.
As Poirot, with swift neat fingers, opened the drawers of the dressing-chest, Race examined the suitcase.
Louise's shoes were lined along by the bed. One of them, a black patent leather, seemed to be resting at an extraordinary angle, almost unsupported. The appearance of it was so odd that it attracted Race's attention.
He closed the suitcase and bent over the line of shoes. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation.
Poirot whirled round.
"Qu'est ce qu'il y a?"
Race said grimly: "She hasn't disappeared. She's here - under the bed..."
Chapter 22
The body of a dead woman, who in life had been Louise Bourget, lay on the floor of her cabin. The two men bent over it.
Race straightened himself first.
"Been dead close on an hour, I should say. We'll get Bessner on to it. Stabbed to the heart. Death pretty well instantaneous, I should imagine. She doesn't look pretty, does she?"
"No."
Poirot shook his head with a slight shudder.
The dark feline face was convulsed, as though with surprise and fury, the lips drawn back from the teeth.
Poirot bent again gently and picked up the right hand. Something just showed within the fingers. He detached it and held it out to Race, a little sliver of flimsy paper coloured a pale mauvish pink.
"You see what it is?"
"Money," said Race.
"The corner of a thousand franc note, I fancy."
"Well, it's clear what happened," said Race. "She knew something and she was blackmailing the murderer with her knowledge. We thought she wasn't being quite straight this morning."
52书库推荐浏览： [英]阿加莎·克里斯蒂