“Ach! but–”
Dr. Bessner was about to break out, but a peremptory gesture from Race silenced him.
“So it strikes you like that?” he said slowly.
Poirot turned round on him, nodding his head.
“Yes, yes. It is, as I say, of an astonishing simplicity! It is so familiar, is it not? It has been done so often, in the pages of the romance of crime! It is now, indeed, a little vieuxjeu! It leads one to suspect that our murderer is–old fashioned!”
Race drew a long breath.
“I see,” he said. “I thought at first–”
He stopped.
Poirot said with a very faint smile:
“That I believed in all the old cliches of melodrama? But pardon, Dr. Bessner, you were about to say–?”
Bessner broke out gutturally:
“What do I say? Pah! I say it i.s absurdit is the nonsense! The poor lady she died instantaneously. To dip her finger in the blood (and as you see, there is hardly any blood) and write the letter J upon the wall. Bahit is the nonsense—the melodramatic nonsense!”
“C’est l’enfantillage,’ agreed Poirot.
“But it was done with a purpose,” suggested Race.
“That–naturally,” said Poirot and his face was grave.
Race said:
“What does J stand for?”
Poirot replied promptly:
“J stands for jaCqueline de Bellefort, a young lady who declared to me less than a week ago that she would like nothing better than to–” he paused and then deliberately quoted, “–to put,my dear little pistol close against her head and then just press with my finger ….
“Gott im Himmel!” said Dr. Bessner.
There was a momentary silence. Then Race drew a deep breath and said: “Which is just what was done here?” Bessner nodded.
“That is so, yes. It was a pistol of very small calibres-as I say probably a .22.
The bullet has got to be extracted, of course, before we can say definitely.” Race nodded in swift comprehension. Then he said: “What about time of death?”
Bessner stroked his jaw again. His finger made a rasping sound.
“I would not care to be too precise. It is now eight o’clock. I will say, with due regard to the temperature last night, that she has been dead certainly six hours and probably not longer than eight.”
“That puts it between midnight and 2 a.m.”
“That is so.”
There was a pause. Race looked round.
“What about her husband? I suppose he sleeps in the cabin next door.” “At the moment,” said Dr. Bessner, “he is asleep in my cabin.” Both men looked very surprised.
Bessner nodded his head several times.
“Ach, so. I see you have not been told about that. Mr. Doyle was shot last night in the saloon.”
“Shot? By whom?”
“By the young lady Jaequeline de Bellefort.” Race asked sharply: “Is he badly hurt?”
“Yes, the bone was splintered. I have done all that is possible at the moment but it is necessary, you understand, that the fracture should be X-rayed as soon as possible and proper treatment given such as is impossible on this boat.” Poirot murmured: “Jacqueline de Bellefort.”
His eyes went again to the J on the wall.
Race said abruptly:
“If there is nothing more we can do here for the moment, let’s go below. The management has put the smoking-room at our disposal. We must get the details of what happened last night.”
They left the cabin. Race locked the door and took the key with him.
“We can come back later,” he said. “The first thing to do is to get all the facts clear.”
They went down to the deck below where they found the manager of the Karnak waiting uneasily in the doorway of the smoking-room.
The poor man was terribly upset and worried over the whole business, and was eager to leave eyerything in Colonel Race’s hands,
“I feel I can’t do better than leave it to you, sir, seeing your official position.
I’d had orders to put myself at your disposal in the ct—other matter. If you will take charge, I’ll see that everything is done as you wish.” “Good man. To begin with I’d like this room kept clear for me and for M.
Poirot during the inquiry.” “Certainly, sir.” “That’s all at present. Go on with your own work. I know where to find you.” Looking slightly relieved the manager left the room.