“See—no,” he replied, “but she heard something.”
“What did she hear?”
“Someone moving about in Madame Doyle’s cabin.”
“I see,” muttered Rosalie.
She was pale now—deadly pale.
“And you persist in saying that you threw nothing overboard, Mademoiselle?”
“What on earth should I run about throwing things overboard for in the middle of the night?”
“There might be a reason—an innocent reason.”
“Innocent?” repeated the girl sharply.
“That’s what I said. You see, Mademoiselle, something was thrown overboard last night—something that was not innocent.”
Race silently held out the bundle of stained velvet, opening it to display its contents.
Rosalie Otterbourne shrank back. “Was that—what—she was killed with?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“And you think that I—I did it? What utter nonsense! Why on earth should I want to kill Linnet Doyle? I don’t even know her!”
She laughed and stood up scornfully. “The whole thing is too ridiculous.”
“Remember, Miss Otterbourne,” said Race, “that Miss Van Schuyler is prepared to swear she saw your face quite clearly in the moonlight.”
Rosalie laughed again. “That old cat? She’s probably half blind anyway. It wasn’t me she saw.” She paused. “Can I go now?”
Race nodded and Rosalie Otterbourne left the room.
The eyes of the two men met. Race lighted a cigarette.
“Well, that’s that. Flat contradiction. Which of ’em do we be
lieve?”
Poirot shook his head. “I have a little idea that neither of them was being quite frank.”
“That’s the worst of our job,” said Race despondently. “So many people keep back the truth for positively futile reasons. What’s our next move? Get on with the questioning of the passengers?”
“I think so. It is always well to proceed with order and method.”
Race nodded.
Mrs. Otterbourne, dressed in floating batik material, succeeded her daughter. She corroborated Rosalie’s statement that they had both gone to bed before eleven o’clock. She herself had heard nothing of interest during the night. She could not say whether Rosalie had left their cabin or not. On the subject of the crime she was inclined to hold forth.
“The crime passionel!” she exclaimed. “The primitive instinct—to kill! So closely allied to the sex instinct. That girl, Jacqueline, half Latin, hot-blooded, obeying the deepest instincts of her being, stealing forth, revolver in hand—”
“But Jacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Madame Doyle. That we know for certain. It is proved,” explained Poirot.
“Her husband, then,” said Mrs. Otterbourne, rallying from the blow. “The blood lust and the sex instinct—a sexual crime. There are many well-known instances.”
“Mr. Doyle was shot through the leg and he was quite unable to move—the bone was fractured,” explained Colonel Race. “He spent the night with Dr. Bessner.”