“That’s so,” agreed Cornelia. “Mr. Pennington had a drink and then went off to bed.”
“That was how much later?”
“Oh, about three or four minutes.”
“Before half-past eleven, then?
”
“Oh, yes.”
“So that there were left in the saloon you, Mademoiselle Robson, Mademoiselle de Bellefort, Monsieur Doyle, and Monsieur Fanthorp. What were you all doing?”
“Mr. Fanthorp was reading a book. I’d got some embroidery. Miss de Bellefort was—she was—”
Fanthorp came to the rescue. “She was drinking pretty heavily.”
“Yes,” agreed Cornelia. “She was talking to me mostly and asking me about things at home. And she kept saying things—to me mostly, but I think they were kind of meant for Mr. Doyle. He was getting kind of mad at her, but he didn’t say anything. I think he thought if he kept quiet she might simmer down.
“But she didn’t?”
Cornelia shook her head.
“I tried to go once or twice, but she made me stay, and I was getting very, very uncomfortable. And then Mr. Fanthorp got up and went out—”
“It was a little embarrassing,” said Fanthorp. “I thought I’d make an unobtrusive exit. Miss de Bellefort was clearly working up for a scene.”
“And then she pulled out the pistol,” went on Cornelia, “and Mr. Doyle jumped up to try and get it away from her, and it went off and shot him through the leg; and then she began to sob and cry—and I was scared to death and ran out after Mr. Fanthorp, and he came back with me, and Mr. Doyle said not to make a fuss, and one of the Nubian boys heard the noise of the shot and came along, but Mr. Fanthorp told him it was all right; and then we got Jacqueline away to her cabin, and Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her while I got Miss Bowers.” Cornelia paused breathless.
“What time was this?” asked Race.
Cornelia said again, “Mercy, I don’t know,” but Fanthorp answered promptly:
“It must have been about twenty minutes past twelve. I know that it was actually half-past twelve when I finally got to my cabin.”
“Now let me be quite sure on one or two points,” said Poirot. “After Madame Doyle left the saloon, did any of you four leave it?”
“No.”
“You are quite certain Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not leave the saloon at all?”
Fanthorp answered promptly: “Positive. Neither Doyle, Miss de Bellefort, Miss Robson, nor myself left the saloon.”
“Good. That establishes the fact that Mademoiselle de Bellefort could not possibly have shot Madame Doyle before—let us say—twenty past twelve. Now, Mademoiselle Robson, you went to fetch Mademoiselle Bowers. Was Mademoiselle de Bellefort alone in her cabin during that period?”
“No. Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her.”
“Good! So far, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has a perfect alibi. Mademoiselle Bowers is the next person to interview, but, before I send for her, I should like to have your opinion on one or two points. Monsieur Doyle, you say, was very anxious that Mademoiselle de Bellefort should not be left alone. Was he afraid, do you think, that she was contemplating some further rash act?”
“That is my opinion,” said Fanthorp.
“He was definitely afraid she might attack Madame Doyle?”
“No.” Fanthorp shook his head. “I don’t think that was his idea at all. I think he was afraid she might—er—do something rash to herself.”
“Suicide?”
“Yes. You see, she seemed completely sobered and heartbroken at what she had done. She was full of self-reproach. She kept saying she would be better dead.”