"The final drama was perfectly planned and timed. There was a sleeping draught for me, in case I might put an inconvenient finger in the pie. There was the selection of Mademoiselle Robson as a witness - the working up of the scene, Mademoiselle de Bellefort's exaggerated remorse and hysterics. She made a good deal of noise, in case the shot should be heard. En vérité, it was an extraordinarily clever idea. Jacqueline says she has shot Doyle; Mademoiselle Robson says so; Fanthorp says so - and when Simon's leg is examined he has been shot. It looks unanswerable! For both of them there is a perfect alibi - at the cost, it is true, of a certain amount of pain and risk to Simon Doyle, but it is necessary that his wound should definitely disable him.
"And then the plan goes wrong. Louise Bourget has been wakeful. She has come up the stairway and she has seen Simon Doyle run along to his wife's cabin and come back. Easy enough to piece together what has happened the following day. And so she makes her greedy bid for hush money, and in so doing signs her death warrant."
"But Mr Doyle couldn't have killed her?" Cornelia objected.
"No, the other partner did that murder. As soon as he can, Simon Doyle asks to see Jacqueline. He even asks me to leave them alone together. He tells her then of the new danger. They must act at once. He knows where Bessner's scalpels are kept. After the crime the scalpel is wiped and returned, and then, very late and rather out of breath, Jacqueline de Bellefort hurries in to lunch.
"And still all is not well, for Madame Otterbourne has seen Jacqueline go into Louise Bourget's cabin. And she comes hot foot to tell Simon about it. Jacqueline is the murderess. Do you remember how Simon shouted at the poor woman? Nerves, we thought. But the door was open and he was trying to convey the danger to his accomplice. She heard and she acted - acted like lightning. She remembered Pennington had talked about a revolver. She got hold of it, crept up outside the door, listened and, at the critical moment, fired. She boasted once that she was a good shot, and her boast was not an idle one.
"I remarked after that third crime that there were three ways the murderer could have gone. I meant that he could have gone aft (in which case Tim Allerton was the criminal) he could have gone over the side (very improbable) or he could have gone into a cabin. Jacqueline's cabin was just two away from Dr Bessner's. She had only to throw down the revolver, bolt into the cabin, ruffle her hair and fling herself down on the bunk. It was risky, but it was the only possible chance."
There was a silence, then Race asked, "What happened to the first bullet fired at Doyle by the girl?"
"I think it went into the table. There is a recently made hole there. I think Doyle had time to dig it out with a penknife and fling it through the window. He had, of course, a spare cartridge, so that it would appear that only two shots had been fired."
Cornelia sighed. "They thought of everything," she said. "It's - horrible!"
Poirot was silent. But it was not a modest silence. His eyes seemed to be saying: "You are wrong. They didn't allow for Hercule Poirot."
Aloud he said, "And now, Doctor, we will go and have a word with your patient."
Chapter 29
It was very much later that evening that Hercule Poirot came and knocked on the door of a cabin.
A voice said "Come in" and he entered.
Jacqueline de Bellefort was sitting in a chair. In another chair, close against the wall, sat the big stewardess.
Jacqueline's eyes surveyed Poirot thoughtfully. She made a gesture toward the stewardess.
"Can she go?"
Poirot nodded to the woman and she went out. Poirot drew up her chair and sat down near Jacqueline. Neither of them spoke. Poirot's face was unhappy. In the end it was the girl who spoke first.
"Well," she said, "it is all over! You were too clever for us, Monsieur Poirot."
Poirot sighed. He spread out his hands. He seemed strangely dumb.
"All the same," said Jacqueline reflectively, "I can't really see that you had much proof. You were quite right, of course, but if we'd bluffed you out -"
"In no other way, Mademoiselle, could the thing have happened."
"That's proof enough for a logical mind, but I don't believe it would have convinced a jury. Oh, well - it can't be helped. You sprang it all on Simon, and he went down like a ninepin. He just lost his head utterly, poor lamb, and admitted everything."
She shook her head. "He's a bad loser."
"But you, Mademoiselle, are a good loser."
She laughed suddenly - a queer, gay, defiant little laugh.
"Oh, yes, I'm a good loser all right." She looked at him.
She said suddenly and impulsively: "Don't mind so much, Monsieur Poirot! About me, I mean. You do mind, don't you?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"But it wouldn't have occurred to you to let me off?"
Hercule Poirot said quietly, "No."
She nodded her head in quiet agreement.
"No, it's no use being sentimental. I might do it again... I'm not a safe person any longer. I can feel that myself..."
She went on broodingly: "It's so dreadfully easy - killing people. And you begin to feel that it doesn't matter! It's dangerous - that."
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