第19章

There was a tap on the door.

“Come in,” Race called.

A steward entered.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Poirot, “but Mr. Doyle is asking for you.”

“I will come.”

Poirot rose. He went out of the room and up the companion-way to the promenade deck and along it to Dr. Bessner’s cabin.

Simon, his face flushed and feverish, was propped up with pillows. He looked embarrassed.

“Awfully good of you to come along, Monsieur Poirot. Look here, there’s something I want to ask you.”

“Yes?”

Simon got still redder in the face.

“It’s—it’s about Jackie. I want to see her. Do you think—would you mind—would she mind, d’you think, if you asked her to come along here? You know I’ve been lying here thinking…That wretched kid—she is only a kid after all—and I treated her damn’ badly—and—” He stammered to silence.

Poirot looked at him with interest.

“You desire to see Mademoiselle Jacqueline? I will fetch her.”

“Thanks. Awfully good of you.”

Poirot went on his quest. He found Jacqueline de Bellefort sitting huddled up in a corner of the observation saloon. There was an open book on her lap but she was not reading.

Poirot said gently: “Will you come with me, Mademoiselle? Monsieur Doyle wants to see you.”

She started up. Her face flushed—then paled. She looked bewildered.

“Simon? He wants to see me—to see me?”

He found her incredulity moving.

“Will you come, Mademoiselle?”

She went with him in a docile fashion, like a child, but like a puzzled child.

“I—yes, of course I will.”

Poirot passed into the cabin.

“Here is Mademoiselle.”

She stepped in after him, wavered, stood still…standing there mute and dumb, her eyes fixed on Simon’s face.

“Hullo, Jackie.” He, too, was embarrassed. He went on: “Awfully good of you to come. I wanted to say—I mean—what I mean is—”

She interrupted him then. Her words came out in a rush—breathless, desperate.

“Simon—I didn’t kill Linnet. You know I didn’t do that…I—I—was mad last night. Oh, can you ever forgive me?”

Words came more easily to him now.

“Of course. That’s all right! Absolutely all right! That’s what I wanted to say. Thought you might be worrying a bit, you know….”

“Worrying? A bit? Oh! Simon!”

“That’s what I wanted to see you about. It’s quite all right, see, old girl? You just got a bit rattled last night—a shade tight. All perfectly natural.”

“Oh, Simon! I might have killed you!”

“Not you. Not with a rotten little peashooter like that….”

“And your leg! Perhaps you’ll never walk again….”

“Now, look here, Jackie, don’t be maudlin. As soon as we get to Assuan they’re going to put the X-ray to work, and dig out that tin-pot bullet, and everything will be as right as rain.”

Jacqueline gulped twice, then she rushed forward and knelt down by Simon’s bed, burying her face and sobbing. Simon patted her awkwardly on the head. His eyes met Poirot’s and, with a reluctant sigh, the latter left the cabin.

He heard broken murmurs as he went:

“How could I be such a devil? Oh, Simon!…I’m so dreadfully sorry.”

Outside Cornelia Robson was leaning over the rail. She turned her head.

“Oh, it’s you, Monsieur Poirot. It seems so awful somehow that it should be such a lovely day.”

Poirot looked up at the sky.

“When the sun shines you cannot see the moon,” he said. “But when the sun is gone—ah, when the sun is gone.”

Cornelia’s mouth fell open.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was saying, Mademoiselle, that when the sun has gone down, we shall see the moon. That is so, is it not?”

“Why—why, yes—certainly.”

She looked at him doubtfully.

Poirot laughed gently.

“I utter the imbecilities,” he said. “Take no notice.”

He strolled gently towards the stern of the boat. As he passed the next cabin he paused for a minute. He caught fragments of speech from within.

“Utterly ungrateful—after all I’ve done for you—no consideration for your wretched mother—no idea of what I suffer….”

Poirot’s lips stiffened as he pressed them together. He raised a hand and knocked.

“Is Mademoiselle Rosalie there?”

Rosalie appeared in the doorway. Poirot was shocked at her appearance. There were dark circles under her eyes and drawn lines round her mouth.

“What’s the matter?” she said ungraciously. “What do you want?”

“The pleasure of a few minutes’ conversation with you, Mademoiselle. Will you come?”

Her mouth went sulky at once. She shot him a suspicious look.

“Why should I?”

“I entreat you, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh, I suppose—”

She stepped out on the deck, closing the door behind her.

“Well?”

Poirot took her gently by the arm and drew her along the deck, still in the direction of the stern. They passed the bathrooms and round the corner. They had the stern part of the deck to themselves. The Nile flowed away behind them.

Poirot rested his elbows on the rail. Rosalie stood up straight and stiff.

“Well?” she asked again, and her voice held the same ungracious tone.

Poirot spoke slowly, choosing his words. “I could ask you certain questions, Mademoiselle, but I do not think for one moment that you would consent to answer them.”

“Seems rather a waste to bring me along here then.”

Poirot drew a finger slowly along the wooden rail.

“You are accustomed, Mademoiselle, to carrying your own burdens…But you can do that too long. The strain becomes too great. For you, Mademoiselle, the strain is becoming too great.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Rosalie.

“I am talking about facts, Mademoiselle—plain ugly facts. Let us call the spade the spade and say it in one little short sentence. Your mother drinks, Mademoiselle.”

Rosalie did not answer. Her mouth opened; then she closed it again. For once she seemed at a loss.

“There is no need for you to talk, Mademoiselle. I will do all the talking. I was interested at Assuan in the relations existing between you. I saw at once that, in spite of your carefully studied unfilial remarks, you were in reality passionately protecting her from something. I very soon knew what that something was. I knew it long before I encountered your mother one morning in an unmistakable state of intoxication. Moreover, her case, I could see, was one of secret bouts of drinking—by far the most difficult kind of case with which to deal. You were coping with it manfully. Nevertheless, she had all the secret drunkard’s cunning. She managed to get hold of a secret supply of spirits and to keep it successfully hidden from you. I should not be surprised if you discovered its hiding place only yesterday. Accordingly, last night, as soon as your mother was really soundly asleep, you stole out with the contents of the cache, went round to the other side of the boat (since your own side was up against the bank) and cast it overboard into the Nile.”

He paused.

“I am right, am I not?”

“Yes—you’re quite right.” Rosalie spoke with sudden passion. “I was a fool not to say so, I suppose! But I didn’t want everyone to know. It would go all over the boat. And it seemed so—so silly—I mean—that I—”

Poirot finished the sentence for her.

“So silly that you should be suspected of committing a murder?”

Rosalie nodded.

Then she burst out again: “I’ve tried so hard to—keep everyone from knowing…It isn’t really her fault. She got discouraged. Her books didn’t sell anymore. People are tired of all that cheap sex stuff…It hurt her—it hurt her dreadfully. And so she began to—to drink. For a long time I didn’t know why she was so queer. Then, when I found out, I tried to—to stop it. She’d be all right for a bit, and then, suddenly, she’d start, and there would be dreadful quarrels and rows with people. It was awful.” She shuddered. “I had always to be on the watch—to get her away….”

“And then—she began to dislike me for it. She—she’s turned right against me. I think she almost hates me sometimes.”

“Pauvre petite,” said Poirot.

She turned on him vehemently.

“Don’t be sorry for me. Don’t be kind. It’s easier if you’re not.” She sighed—a long heartrending sigh. “I’m so tired…I’m so deadly, deadly tired.”

“I know,” said Poirot.

“People think I’m awful. Stuck-up and cross and bad-tempered. I can’t help it. I’ve forgotten how to be—to be nice.”

“That is what I said to you; you have carried your burden by yourself too long.”

Rosalie said slowly. “It’s a relief—to talk about it. You—you’ve always been kind to me, Monsieur Poirot. I’m afraid I’ve been rude to you often.”

“La politesse, it is not necessary between friends.”

The suspicion came back to her face suddenly.

“Are you—are you going to tell everyone? I suppose you must, because of those damned bottles I threw overboard.”

“No, no, it is not necessary. Just tell me what I want to know. At what time was this? Ten minutes past one?”

“About that, I should think. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Now tell me, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Van Schuyler saw you, did you see her?”

Rosalie shook her head.

“No, I didn’t.”

“She says that she looked out of the door of her cabin.”

“I don’t think I should have seen her. I just looked along the deck and then out to the river.”

Poirot nodded.

“And did you see anyone—anyone at all, when you looked down the deck?”

There was a pause—quite a long pause. Rosalie was frowning. She seemed to be thinking earnestly.

At last she shook her head quite decisively.

“No,” she said. “I saw nobody.”

Hercule Poirot slowly nodded his head. But his eyes were grave.