Bessner had not closed the door. Only the curtain hung across the open doorway. Mrs. Otterbourne
swept it to one side and entered like a tornado. Her face was suffused with colour, her gait slightly unsteady, her command of words not quite under her control.
“Mr. Doyle,” she said dramatically, “I know who killed your wife!”
“What?”
Simon stared at her. So did the other two.
Mrs. Otterbourne swept all three of them with a triumphant glance. She was happy—superbly happy.
“Yes,” she said. “My theories are completely vindicated. The deep, primeval, primordial urges—it may appear impossible—fantastic—but it is the truth!”
Race said sharply: “Do I understand that you have evidence in your possession to show who killed Mrs. Doyle?”
Mrs. Otterbourne sat down in a chair and leaned forward, nodding her head vigorously.
“Certainly I have. You will agree, will you not, that whoever killed Louise Bourget also killed Linnet Doyle—that the two crimes were committed by one and the same hand?”
“Yes, yes,” said Simon impatiently. “Of course. That stands to reason. Go on.”
“Then my assertion holds. I know who killed Louise Bourget; therefore I know who killed Linnet Doyle.”
“You mean, you have a theory as to who killed Louise Bourget,” suggested Race sceptically.
Mrs. Otterbourne turned on him like a tiger.
“No, I have exact knowledge. I saw the person with my own eyes.”
Simon, fevered, shouted out: “For God’s sake, start at the beginning. You know the person who killed Louise Bourget, you say.”
Mrs. Otterbourne nodded.
“I will tell you exactly what occurred.”
Yes, she was very happy—no doubt of it! This was her moment, her triumph! What of it if her books were failing to sell, if the stupid public that once had bought them and devoured them voraciously now turned to newer favourites? Salome Otterbourne would once again be notorious. Her name would be in all the papers. She would be principal witness for the prosecution at the trial.
She took a deep breath and opened her mouth.
“It was when I went down to lunch. I hardly felt like eating—all the horror of the recent tragedy—Well, I needn’t go into that. Halfway down I remembered that I had—er—left something in my cabin. I told Rosalie to go on without me. She did.”
Mrs. Otterbourne paused a minute.
The curtain across the door moved slightly as though lifted by the wind, but none of the three men noticed it.
“I—er—” Mrs. Otterbourne paused. Thin ice to skate over here, but it must be done somehow. “I—er—had an arrangement with one of the—er—personnel of the ship. He was to—er—get me something I needed, but I did not wish my daughter to know of it. She is inclined to be tiresome in certain ways—”
Not too good, this, but she could think of something that sounded better before it came to telling the story in court.
Race’s eyebrows lifted as his eyes asked a question of Poirot.
Poirot gave an infinitesimal nod. His lips formed the word: “Drink.”
The curtain across the door moved again. Between it and the door itself something showed with a faint steel-blue gleam.
Mrs. Otterbourne continued: “The arrangement was that I should go round to the stern on the deck below this, and there I should find the man waiting for me. As I went along the deck a cabin door opened and somebody looked out. It was this girl—Louise Bourget, or whatever her name is. She seemed to be expecting someone. When she saw it was me, she looked disappointed and went abruptly inside again. I didn’t think anything of it, of course. I went along just as I had said I would and got the—the stuff from the man. I paid him and—er—just had a word with him. Then I started back. Just as I came around the corner I saw someone knock on the maid’s door and go into the cabin.”
Race said, “And that person was—?”