“The sort of handkerchief a man like Fleetwood would own.”
“Yes. Andrew Pennington, I notice, carries a very fine silk handkerchief.”
“Fergu’son?” suggested Race.
“Possibly. As a gesture. But then it ought to be a bandana.”
“Used it instead of a glove, I suppose, to hold the pistol and obviate fingerprints,” Race added with slight facetiousness: “The Clue of the Blushing Handkerchief.”
“Ah, yes. Quite ajeunefille colour, is it not?” He laid it down and returned to the stole, once more examining the powder marks.
“All the same,” he murmured, “it is odd ”
“What’s that?”
Poirot said gently:
“Cette pauvre Madame Doyle. Lying there so peacefully With the little hole in her head. You remember how she looked?” Race looked at him curiously.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve got an idea you’re trying to tell me something–but I haven’t the faintest idea what it is.”
CHAPTER 18
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, M. 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? M. 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?” “I–yes, of course I will.” She went with him in a docile fashion like a child—but like a puzzled child.
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.
“Hallo, 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-rays to work, and dig out that tinpot 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 Corneila Robson was leaning over the rail.
She turned her head.