“And I believe it is true that you had reason to feel anger against the woman who was killed.” A look of alarm sprang up in Fleetwood’s eyes.
“Who told you that?” “You considered that Mrs. Doyle had interfered between you and a young woman.” “I know who told you that–that lying French hussy. She’s a liar through and through, that girl.” “But this particular story happens to be true.” “It’s a dirty lie!” “You say that although you don’t know what it is yet.” The shot told. The man flushed and gulped.
“It is true, is it not, that you were going to marry the girl Marie, and that she broke it off when she discovered that you were a married man already.” “What business was it of hers?” “You mean, what business was it of Mrs. Doyle’s? Well, you know, bigamy is bigamy.” “It wasn’t like that. I married one of the locals out here. It didn’t answer. She went back to her people. I’ve not seen her for half a dozen years.” “Still you were married to her.” The man was silent. Race went on.
“Mrs. Doyle, or Miss Ridgeway as she then was, found out all this?” “Yes, she did, curse her. Nosing about where no one ever asked her to. I’d have treated Marie right. I’d have done anything for her. And she’d never have known about the other, if it hadn’t been for that meddlesome young lady, and I felt bitter about it when I saw her on this boat, all dressed up in pearls and diamonds and lording it all over the place with never a thought that she’d broken up a man’s life for him! I felt bitter all right. But if you think I’m a dirty murderer if you think I went and shot her with a gun, well, that’s a damned lie! I never touched her. And that’s God’s truth.” He stopped. The sweat was rolling down his face.
“Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and two?” “In my bunk asleepand my mate will tell you so.” “We shall see,” said Race. He dismissed him with a curt nod. “That’ll do.” “Eh bien?” said Poirot as the door closed behind Fleetwood.
Race shrugged his shoulders.
“He tells quite a straight story. He’s nervous, of course, but not unduly so.
We’ll have to investigate his alibi–though I don’t suppose it will be decisive. His mate was probably asleep and this fellow could have slipped in and out ffhe wanted to. It depends whether any one else saw him.” “Yes, one must inquire as to that.” “The next thing, I think,” said Race, “is whether any one heard anything which might give us a clue to the time of the crime. Bessner places it as having occurred between twelve and two. It seems reasonable to hope that some one among the passengers may have heard the shot–even if they did not recognise it for what it was. I didn’t hear anything of the kind myself. What about you?” Poirot shook his head.
“Me, I slept absolutely like the log. I heard nothing–but nothing at all. I might have been drugged I slept so soundly.” “A pity,” said Race. “Well, let’s hope we have a bit of luck with the people who have cabins on the starboard side. Fanthorp we’ve done. The Allertons come next. I’ll send the steward to fetch them.” Mrs. Allerton came in briskly. She was wearing a soft grey striped silk dress.
Her face looked distressed.
“It’s too horrible,” she said as she accepted the chair that Poirot placed for her. “I can hardly believe it. That lovely creature with everything to live for–dead.
I almost feel I can’t believe it.” “I know how you feel, Madame,” said Poirot sympathetically.
“I’m glad you are on board,” said Mrs. Allerton simply. “You’ll be able to find Out who did it. I’m so glad it isn’t that poor tragic girl.” “You mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who told you she did not do it?” “Cornelia Robson,” said Mrs. Allerton with a faint smile. “You know, She’s simply thrilled by it all. It’s probably the only exciting thing that has ever happened to her and probably the only exciting thing that ever will happen to her.