Poirot murmured: “Jacqueline de Bellefort.”
His eyes went again to the J on the wall.
Race said abruptly: “If there is nothing more we can do here for the moment, let’s go below. The management has put the smoking room at our disposal. We must get the details of what happened last night.”
They left the cabin. Race locked the door and took the key with him.
“We can come back later,” he said. “The first thing to do is to get all the facts clear.”
They went down to the deck below, where they found the manager of the Karnak waiting uneasily in the doorway of the smoking room. The poor man was terribly upset and worried over the whole business, and was eager to leave everything in Colonel Race’s hands.
“I feel I can’t do better than leave it to you, sir, seeing your official position. I’d had orders to put myself at your disposal in the—er—other matter. If you will take charge, I’ll see that everything is done as you wish.”
“Good man! To begin with I’d like this room kept clear for me and Monsieur Poirot during this inquiry.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“That’s all at present. Go on with your own work. I know where to find you.”
Looking slightly relieved, the manager left the room.
Race said, “Sit down, Bessner, and let’s have the whole story of what happened last night.”
They listened in silence to the doctor’s rumbling voice.
“Clear enough,” said Race, when he had finished. “The girl worked herself up, helped by a drink or two, and finally took a pot shot at the man with a twenty-two pistol. Then she went along to Linnet Doyle’s cabin and shot her as well.”
But Dr. Bessner was shaking his head.
“No, no, I do not think so. I do not think that was possible. For one thing she would not write her own initial on the wall; it would be ridiculous, nicht wahr?”
“She might,” Race declared, “if she were as blindly mad and jealous as she sounds; she might want to—well—sign her name to the crime, so to speak.”
Poirot shook his head. “No, no, I do not think she would be as—as crude as that.”
“Then there’s only one reason for that J. It was put there by someone else deliberately to throw suspicion on her.”
Bessner nodded. “Yes, and the criminal was unlucky, because, you see, it is not only unlikely that the young Fräulein did the murder; it is also I think impossible.”
“How’s that?”
Bessner explained Jacqueline’s hysterics and the circumstances which had led Miss Bowers to take charge of her.
“And I think—I am sure—that Miss Bowers stayed with her all night.”
Race said: “If that’s so, it’s going to simplify matters very much.”
“Who discovered the crime?” Poirot asked.
“Mrs. Doyle’s maid, Louise Bourget. She went to call her mistress as usual, found her dead, and came out and flopped into the steward’s arms in a dead faint. He went to the manager, who came to me. I got hold of Bessner and then came for you.”
Poirot nodded.
Race said: “Doyle’s got to know. You say he’s asleep still?”
Bessner nodded. “Yes, he’s still asleep in my cabin. I gave him a strong opiate last night.”
Race turned to Poirot.