"What I say is, we've got to hope for the best always," said Miss Bowers. "Of course Mr Doyle has a very strong constitution - one can see that - probably never had a day's illness in his life. So that's in his favour. But there's no denying that this rise in temperature is a nasty sign and -"
She shook her head, adjusted her cuffs once more, and moved briskly away.
Jacqueline turned and walked gropingly, blinded by tears, toward her cabin. A hand below her elbow steadied and guided her. She looked up through the tears to find Poirot by her side. She leaned on him a little and he guided her through the cabin door.
She sank down on the bed and the tears came more freely, punctuated by great shuddering sobs.
"He'll die! He'll die! I know he'll die... And I shall have killed him. Yes, I shall have killed him..."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head a little, sadly.
"Mademoiselle, what is done, is done. One cannot take back the accomplished action. It is too late to regret."
She cried out more vehemently: "I shall have killed him! And I love him so... I love him so."
Poirot sighed. "Too much..."
It had been his thought long ago in the restaurant of M. Blondin. It was his thought again now.
He said, hesitating a little: "Do not, at all events, go by what Miss Bowers says. Hospital nurses, me, I find them always gloomy! The night nurse, always, she is astonished to find her patient alive in the evening; the day nurse, always, she is surprised to find him alive in the morning! They know too much, you see, of the possibilities that may arise. When one is motoring one might easily say to oneself, 'If a car came out from that crossroad - or if that lorry backed suddenly - or if the wheel came off the car that is approaching me - or if a dog jumped off the hedge onto my driving arm - eh bien, I should probably be killed!' But one assumes, and usually rightly, that none of these things will happen, and that one will get to one's journey's end. But if, of course, one has been in an accident, or seen one or more accidents, then one is inclined to take the opposite point of view."
Jacqueline asked, half smiling through her tears, "Are you trying to console me, Monsieur Poirot?"
"The Bon Dieu knows what I am trying to do! You should not have come on this journey."
"No - I wish I hadn't. It's been - so awful. But - it will be soon over now."
"Mais oui - mais oui."
"And Simon will go to the hospital, and they'll give the proper treatment and everything will be all right."
"You speak like the child! 'And they lived happily ever afterward.' That is it, is it not?"
She flushed suddenly scarlet.
"Monsieur Poirot, I never meant - never -"
"It is too soon to think of such a thing! That is the proper hypocritical thing to say, is it not? But you are partly a Latin, Mademoiselle Jacqueline. You should be able to admit facts even if they do not sound very decorous. Le roi est mort - vive le roi! The sun has gone and the moon rises. That is so, is it not?"
"You don't understand. He's just sorry for me - awfully sorry for me, because he knows how terrible it is for me to know I've hurt him so badly."
"Ah, well," said Poirot. "The pure pity, it is a very lofty sentiment."
He looked at her half mockingly, half with some other emotion.
He murmured softly under his breath words in French:
"La vie est vaine.
Un peu damour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis bonjour
La vie est brève
Un peu d'espoir,
Un peu de rкve,
Et puis bonsoir."
He went out again onto the deck. Colonel Race was striding along the deck and hailed him at once.
"Poirot. Good man! I want you. I've got an idea."
Thrusting his arm through Poirot's he walked him up the deck.
"Just a chance remark of Doyle's. I hardly noticed it at the time. Something about a telegram."
"Tiens - c'est vrai."
"Nothing in it, perhaps, but one can't leave any avenue unexplored. Damn it all, man, two murders, and we're still in the dark."
Poirot shook his head. "No, not in the dark. In the light."
Race looked at him curiously. "You have an idea?"
"It is more than an idea now. I am sure."
"Since - when?"
"Since the death of the maid, Louise Bourget."
"Damned if I see it!"
"My friend, it is so clear - so clear. Only there are difficulties - embarrassments - impediments! See you, around a person like Linnet Doyle there is so much - so many conflicting hates and jealousies and envies and meannesses. It is like a cloud of flies, buzzing, buzzing..."
"But you think you know?" The other looked at him curiously. "You wouldn't say so unless you were sure. Can't say I've any real light, myself. I've suspicions, of course..."
Poirot stopped. He laid an impressive hand on Race's arm.
"You are a great man, mon Colonel... You do not say 'Tell me. What is it that you think?' You know that if I could speak now I would. But there is much to be cleared away first. But think, think for a moment along the lines that I shall indicate. There are certain points... There is the statement of Mademoiselle de Bellefort that someone overheard our conversation that night in the garden at Assuan. There is the statement of Monsieur Tim Allerton as to what he heard and did on the night of the crime. There are Louise Bourget's significant answers to our questions this morning. There is the fact that Madame Allerton drinks water, that her son drinks whisky and soda and that I drink wine. Add to that the fact of two bottles of nail polish and the proverb I quoted. And finally we come to the crux of the whole business, the fact that the pistol was wrapped up in a cheap handkerchief and a velvet stole and thrown overboard..." Race was silent a minute or two then he shook his head.
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