"No," he said, "I don't see it. Mind, I've got a faint idea what you're driving at, but as far as I can see, it doesn't work."
"But yes - but yes. You are seeing only half the truth. And remember this - we must start again from the beginning, since our first conception was entirely wrong."
Race made a slight grimace.
"I'm used to that. It often seems to me that's all detective work is, wiping out your false starts and beginning again."
"Yes, it is very true, that. And it is just what some people will not do. They conceive a certain theory, and everything has to fit into that theory. If one little fact will not fit it, they throw it aside. But it is always the facts that will not fit in that are significant. All along I have realized the significance of that pistol being removed from the scene of the crime. I knew that it meant something, but what that something was I only realized one little half hour ago."
"And I still don't see it!"
"But you will! Only reflect along the lines I indicated. And now let us clear up this matter of a telegram. That is, if the Herr Doktor will admit us." Dr Bessner was still in a very bad humour. In answer to their knock he disclosed a scowling face.
"What is it? Once more you wish to see my patient? But I tell you it is not wise. He has fever. He has had more than enough excitement today."
"Just one question," said Race. "Nothing more, I assure you."
With an unwilling grunt the doctor moved aside and the two men entered the cabin. Dr Bessner, growling to himself, pushed past them.
"I return in three minutes," he said. "And then - positively-you go!"
They heard him stumping down the deck.
Simon Doyle looked from one to the other of them inquiringly.
"Yes," he said, "What is it?"
"A very little thing," Race replied. "Just now, when the stewards were reporting to me, they mentioned that Signor Richetti had been particularly troublesome. You said that that didn't surprise you, as you knew he had a bad temper, and that he had been rude to your wife over some matter of a telegram. Now can you tell me about that incident?"
"Easily. It was at Wвdi Halfa. We'd just come back from the Second Cataract. Linnet thought she saw a telegram for her sticking up on the board. She'd forgotten, you see, that she wasn't called Ridgeway any longer, and Richetti and Ridgeway do look rather alike when written in an atrocious handwriting. So she tore it open, couldn't make head or tail of it, and was puzzling over it when this fellow Richetti came along, fairly tore it out of her hand and gibbered with rage. She went after him to apologize and he was frightfully rude to her about it."
Race drew a deep breath.
"And do you know at all, Mr Doyle, what was in that telegram?"
"Yes, Linnet read part of it out aloud. It said -"
He paused. There was a commotion outside. A high-pitched voice was rapidly approaching.
"Where are Monsieur Poirot and Colonel Race? I must see them immediately! It is most important. I have vital information. I - Are they with Mr Doyle?"
Bessner had not closed the door. Only the curtain hung across the open doorway. Mrs Otterbourne swept it to one side and entered like a tornado. Her face was suffused with colour, her gait slightly unsteady, her command of words not quite under her control.
"Mr Doyle," she said dramatically, "I know who killed your wife!"
"What?"
Simon stared at her. So did the other two.
Mrs Otterbourne swept all three of them with a triumphant glance. She was happy - superbly happy.
"Yes," she said. "My theories are completely vindicated. The deep, primeval, primordial urges - it may appear impossible - fantastic - but it is the truth!"
Race said sharply, "Do I understand that you have evidence in your possession to show who killed Mrs Doyle?"
Mrs Otterbourne sat down in a chair and leaned forward, nodding her head vigorously.
"Certainly I have. You will agree, will you not, that whoever killed Louise Bourget also killed Linnet Doyle - that the two crimes were committed by one and the same hand?"
"Yes, yes," said Simon impatiently. "Of course. That stands to reason. Go on."
"Then my assertion holds. I know who killed Louise Bourget; therefore I know who killed Linnet Doyle."
"You mean, you have a theory as to who killed Louise Bourget," suggested Race sceptically.
Mrs Otterbourne turned on him like a tiger.
"No, I have exact knowledge. I saw the person with my own eyes."
Simon, fevered, shouted out: "For God's sake, start at the beginning. You know the person who killed Louise Bourget, you say."
Mrs Otterbourne nodded.
"I will tell you exactly what occurred."
Yes, she was very happy - no doubt of it! This was her moment, her triumph! What of it if her books were failing to sell, if the stupid public that once had bought them and devoured them voraciously now turned to newer favourites? Salome Otterbourne would once again be notorious. Her name would be in all the papers. She would be principal witness for the prosecution at the trial.
She took a deep breath and opened her mouth.
"It was when I went down to lunch. I hardly felt like eating - all the horror of the recent tragedy - Well, I needn't go into that. Half way down I remember that I had - er - left something in my cabin. I told Rosalie to go on without me. She did."
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