“But what a horror–what an infamy–a woman so young and so beautiful indeed an inhuman crime–!” Signor Richettfs hands flew expressively up in the air.
His answers were prompt. He had gone to bed early–very early. In fact immediately after dinner. He had read for a while a very interesting pamphlet lately published—Pr’ihistorische Forschung in Kleinasien–throwing an entirely new light on the painted pottery of the Anatolian foothills.
He had put out his light some time before eleven. No, he had not heard any shot. Not any sound like the pop of a cork. The only thing he had heard–but that was later–in the middle of the night–was a splash–a big splash–just near his porthole.
“Your cabin is on the lower deck-on the starboard side, is it not?” “Yes, yes, that is so. And I hear the big splash.” His arms flew up once more to describe the bigness of the splash.
“Can you tell me at all what time that was?” Signor Richetti reflected.
“It was one, two, three hours after I go to sleep. Perhaps two hours.” “About ten minutes past one, for instance?” “It might very well be, yes. Ah! but what a terrible crimehow inhuman So charming a woman . . .” Exit Signor Richetti–still gesticulating freely.
Race looked at Poirot. Poirot raised his eyebrows expressively. Then shrugged his shoulders. They passed on to Mr. Ferguson.
Ferguson was difficult. He sprawled insolently in a chair.
“Grand to-do about this business!” he sneered. “What’s it really matter? Lot of superfluous women in the world!” Race said coldly: “Can we have an account of your movements last night, Mr. Ferguson?” “Don’t see why you should. But I don’t mind. I mooched around a good bit.
Went ashore with Miss Robson. When she went back to the boat I mooched around by myself for a while. Came back and turned in round about midnight.” “Your cabin is on the lower deck-starboard side?” “Yes. I’m not up among the nobs.” “Did you hear a shot? It might only have sounded like the popping of a cork.” Ferguson considered.
“Yes, I think I did hear something like a cork …. Can’t remember when–before I went to sleep. But there were still a lot of people about then-commotion, running about on the deck above.” “That was probably the shot fired by Miss de Bellefort. You didn’t hear another?” Ferguson shook his head.
“Nor a splash?” “A splash? Yes, I believe I did hear a splash. But there was so much row going on I can’t be sure about it.” “Did you leave your cabin during the night?” Ferguson grinned.
“No, I didn’t. And I didn’t participate in the good work, worse luck.”
“Come, come, Mr. Ferguson, don’t behave childishly.” The young man reacted angrily.
“Why shouldn’t I say what I think? I believe in violence.” “But you don’t practise what you preach?” murmured Poirot. “I wonder.” He leaned forward.
“It was the man, Fleetwood, was it not, who told you that Linnet Doyle was one of the richest women in England?” “What’s Fleetwood got to do with this?” “Fleetwood, my friend, had an excellent motive for killing Linnet Doyle. He had a special grudge against her.” Mr. Ferguson came up out of his seat like a Jack-inthe-Box.
“So that’s your dirty game, is it?” he demanded wrathfully. “Put it on to a poor devil like Fleetwood who can’t defend himself–who’s got no money to hire lawyers. But I tell you this–ff you try and saddle Fleetwood with this business you’ll have me to deal with.” “And who exactly are you?” asked Poirot sweetly.
Mr. Ferguson got rather red.
“I can stick by my friends anyway,” he said gruffly.
“Well, Mr. Ferguson, I think that’s all we need for the present,” said Race.
As the door closed behind Ferguson he remarked unexpectedly: “Rather a likeable young cub, really.” “You don’t think he is the man you are after?” asked Poirot.
“I hardly think so. I suppose he is on board. The information was very precise.
Oh, well, one job at a time. Let’s have a go at Pennington.”
CHAPTER 17
Andrew Pennington displayed all the conventional reactions of grief and shock. He was, as usual, carefully dressed. He had changed into a black tie. His long clean-shaven face bore a bewildered expression.