“People say love justifies everything, but that is not true…Women who care for men as Jacqueline cares for Simon Doyle are very dangerous. It is what I said when I saw her first. ‘She cares too much, that little one!’ It is true.”
Cornelia Robson came up beside him.
“Oh,” she said, “we’re nearly in.” She paused a minute or two, then added, “I’ve been with her.”
“With Mademoiselle de Bellefort?”
“Yes. I felt it was kind of awful for her boxed up with that stewardess. Cousin Marie’s very angry, though, I’m afraid.”
Miss Van Schuyler was progressing slowly down the deck towards them. Her eyes were venomous.
“Cornelia,” she snapped, “you’ve behaved outrageously. I shall send you straight home.”
Cornelia took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Cousin Marie, but I’m not going home. I’m going to get married.”
“So you’ve seen sense at last,” snapped the old lady.
Ferguson came striding round the corner of the deck. He said: “Cornelia, what’s this I hear? It’s not true!”
“It’s quite true,” said Cornelia. “I’m going to marry Dr. Bessner. He asked me last night.”
“And why are you going to marry him?” asked Ferguson furiously. “Simply because he’s rich?”
“No, I’m not,” said Cornelia indignantly. “I like him. He’s kind, and he knows a lot. And I’ve always been interested in sick folks and clinics, and I shall have just a wonderful life with him.”
&nbs
p; “Do you mean to say,” asked Mr. Ferguson incredulously, “that you’d rather marry that disgusting old man than Me?”
“Yes, I would. You’re not reliable! You wouldn’t be at all a comfortable sort of person to live with. And he’s not old. He’s not fifty yet.”
“He’s got a stomach,” said Mr. Ferguson venomously.
“Well, I’ve got round shoulders,” retorted Cornelia. “What one looks like doesn’t matter. He says I really could help him in his work, and he’s going to teach me all about neurosis.”
She moved away.
Ferguson said to Poirot: “Do you think she really means that?”
“Certainly.”
“She prefers that pompous old bore to me?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“The girl’s mad,” declared Ferguson.
Poirot’s eyes twinkled.
“She is a woman of an original mind,” he said. “It is probably the first time you have met one.”
The boat drew in to the landing stage. A cordon had been drawn round the passengers. They had been asked to wait before disembarking.
Richetti, dark-faced and sullen, was marched ashore by two engineers.
Then, after a certain amount of delay, a stretcher was brought. Simon Doyle was carried along the deck to the gangway.
He looked a different man—cringing, frightened, all his boyish insouciance vanished.