“Is there any rule against throwing things overboard?” “No, of course not. Then you did?” “No, I didn’t. I never left my cabin, I tell you.” “Then if any one says that they saw you–” She interrupted him.
“Who says they saw me?” “Miss Van Schuyler.” “Miss Van Schiyler?” She sounded genuinely astonished.
“Yes. Miss Van Schuyler says she looked out of her cabin and saw you throw something over the side.” Rosalie said clearly: “That’s a damned lie.” Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, she asked: “What time was this?” It was Poirot who answered.
“It was ten minutes past one, Mademoiselle.” She nodded her head thoughtfully.
“Did she see anything else?” Poirot looked at her curiously. He stroked his chin.
“See–no. But she heard something.” “What did she hear?” “Some one moving about in Mrs. Doyle’s cabin.” “I see,” muttered Rosalie.
She was pale noweadly pale.
“And you persist in saying that you threw nothing overboard, Mademoiselle?” “Why on earth should I run about throwing things overboard in the middle of the night?” “There might be a reason–an innocent reason.” “Innocent?” said the girl sharply.
“That is what I said. You see, Mademoiselle, something was thrown overboard last night–something that was not innocent.” Race silently held out the bundle of stained velvet—opening it to display its contents.
Rosalie Otterbourne shrank back.
“Was that what–she was killed with?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“And you think that I–I did it? What utter nonsense! Why on earth should I want to kill Linnet Doyle? I don’t even know her!” She laughed and stood up scornfully. “The whole thing is too ridiculous.”
“Remember, Miss Otterbourne,” said Race, “that Miss Van Schuyler is prepared to swear she saw your face quite clearly in the moonlight.”
Rosalie laughed again.
“That old cat. She’s probably half-blind anyway. It wasn’t me she saw.”
She paused.
“Can I go now?”
Race nodded and Rosalie Otterbourne left the room.
The eyes of the two men met. Race lighted a cigarette.
“Well, that’s that. Flat contradiction. Which of ’em do we believe?”
Poirot shook his head.
“I have a little idea that neither of them was being quite frank.”
“That’s the worst of our job,” said Race despondently. “So many People keep back the truth for positively futile reasons. What’s our next move? Get on with the questioning of the passengers?”
“I think so. It is always well to proceed with order/md method.”
Race nodded.
Mrs. Otterbourne, dressed in floating batik material, succeeded her daughter.
She corroborated Rosalie’s statement that they had both gone to bed before eleven o’clock. She herself had heard nothing of interest during the night. She could not say whether Rosalie had left their cabin or not. On the subject of the crime she was inclined to hold forth.
“The crime passionel!” she exclaimed. “The primitive instinct–to kill! So closely allied to the sex instinct. That girl, Jacqueline, half Latin, hot-blooded obeying the deepest instincts of her being, stealing forth, revolver in hand”
“But Jacqueline de Bellefort did not shoot Mrs. Doyle. That we know for certain. It is proved,” explained Poirot.
“Her husband, then,” said Mrs. Otterbourne rallying from the blow. “The blood lust and the sex instinct–a sexual crime. There are many well-known instances.”
“Mr. Doyle was shot through the leg and he was quite unable to movethe bone was fractured,” explained Colonel Race. “He spent the night with Dr.
Bessner.”
Mrs. Otterbourne was even more disappointed. She searched her mind hopefully.
“Of course,” she said. “How foolish of me. Miss Bowers!”
“Miss Bowers?”
“Yes. Naturally. It’s so clear psychologically. Repression! The repressed virgin! Maddened by the sight of these two–a young husband and wife passionately in love with each other-of course it was her! She’s just the type— sexually unattractiveinnately respectable. In my book, The Barren Vine–” Colonel Race interposed tactfully:
“Your suggestions have been most helpful, Mrs. Otterbourne. We must get on with our job now. Thank you so much.”
He escorted her gallantly to the door and came back wiping his brow.
“What a poisonous woman! Whew! Why didn’t somebody murder her!” “It may yet happen,” Poirot consoled him.
“There might be some sense in that. Whom have we got left? Pennington– we’ll keep him for the end I think-Richetti–Ferguson.’ Signor Richetti was very volublevery agitated.