Andrew Pennington shook his head.
“Nothing whatever of that kind.”
“And you went to bed at what time?”
“Must have been some time after eleven.”
He leant forward.
“I don’t suppose it’s news to you to know that there’s plenty of rumours going about the boat. That half-French girl—Jacqueline de Bellefort—there was something fishy there, you know. Linnet didn’t tell me anything, but naturally I wasn’t born blind and deaf. There’d been some affair between her and Simon, some time, hadn’t there—Cherchez la femme—that’s a pretty good sound rule, and I should say you wouldn’t have to cherchez far.”
“You mean that in your belief Jacqueline de Bellefort shot Madame Doyle?” Poirot asked.
“That’s what it looks like to me. Of course I don’t know anything….”
“Unfortunately we do know something!”
“Eh?” Mr. Pennington looked startled.
“We know that it is quite impossible for Mademoiselle de Bellefort to have shot Madame Doyle.”
He explained carefully the circumstances. Pennington seemed reluctant to accept them.
“I agree it looks all right on the face of it—but this hospital nurse woman, I’ll bet she didn’t stay awake all night. She dozed off and the girl slipped out and in again.”
“Hardly likely, Monsieur Pennington. She had administered a strong opiate, remember. And anyway a nurse is in the habit of sleeping lightly and waking when her patient wakes.”
“It all sounds rather fishy to me,” declared Pennington.
Race said in a gently authoritative manner: “I think you must take it from me, Mr. Pennington, that we have examined all the possibilities very carefully. The result is quite definite—Jacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Mrs. Doyle. So we are forced to look elsewhere. That is where we hope you may be able to help us.”
“I?” Pennington gave a nervous start.
“Yes. You were an intimate friend of the dead woman. You know the circumstances of her life, in all probability, much better than her husband does, since he only made her acquaintance a few months ago. You would know, for instance, of anyone who had a grudge against her. You would know, perhaps, whether there was anyone who had a motive for desiring her death.”
Andrew Pennington passed his tongue over rather dry-looking lips.
“I assure you, I have no idea…You see Linnet was brought up in England. I know very little of her surroundings and associations.”
“And yet,” mused Poirot, “there was someone on board who was interested in Madame’s removal. She had a near escape before, you remember, at this very place, when that boulder crashed down—ah! but you were not there, perhaps?”
“No. I was inside the temple at the time. I heard about it afterwards, of course. A very near escape. But possibly an accident, don’t you think?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“One thought so at the time. Now—one wonders.”
“Yes—yes, of course.” Pennington wiped his face with a fine silk handkerchief.
Colonel Race went on: “Mr. Doyle happened to mention someone being on board who bore a grudge—not against her personally, but against her family. Do you know who that could be?”
Pennington looked genuinely astonished.
“No, I’ve no idea.”
“She didn’t mention the matter to you?”
“No.”