“I’d better get Bessner d0wn,” he said.
The stout doctor’s examination did not take long. Accompanied by a good many Achs and Sos, he went to work.
“She has been dead not more than an hour,” he announced. “Death, it was very quick–at once.” “And what weapon do you think was used?” “Ach, it is interesting, that. It was something very sharp, very thin, very delicate. I could show you the kind of thing.” Back again in his cabin he opened a case and extracted a long delicate surgical knife.
“It was something like that, my friend—it was not a common table knife.” “I suppose,” said Race smoothly, “that none of your own knives arc missing, doctor?” Bessner stared at him, then his face grew red with indignation.
“What is that you say? Do you think I–I, Carl Bessner who so well known is all over Austria–I with my clinics–my highly-born patients–I have killed a miserable littlefemme de chambre,t Ah, but it is ridiculous–absurd, what you say!
None of my knives are missing–not one, I tell you. They are all here, correct, in their places. You can see for yourself. And this insult to my profession I will not forget.” Dr. Bessner closed his case with a snap, flung it down and stamped out on to the deck.
“Whew!” said Simon. “You’ve put the old boy’s back up.” Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “It is regrettable.” “You’re on the wrong tack. Old Bessner’s one of the best even though he is a kind of Boche.” Dr. Bessner reappeared suddenly.
“Will ou be so kind as to leave me now my cabin? I have to do the dressing of my patient’s leg.”
Miss Bowers had entered with him and stood, brisk and professional, waiting for the others to go.
Race and Poirot crept out meekly. Race muttered something and went off.
Poirot turned to his left.
He heard scraps of girlish conversation, a little laugh. JacqUeline and Rosalie were together in the latter’s cabin.
The door was open and the two girls were standing near it. As his shadow fell on them they looked up. He saw Rosalie Otterbourne smile at him for the first time–a shy welcoming smilea little uncertain in its lines as of one who doe a new and unfamiliar thing.
“You talk the scandal, Mademoiselles?” he accused them.
“No, indeed,” said Rosalie. “As a matter of fact we were just comparing lipsticks.”
Poirot smiled.
“Les chiffons d’aujourd’hui,” he murmured.
But there was something a little mechanical about his smile and Jacqueline de Bellefort, quicker and more observant than Rosalie, saw it. She dropped the lipstick she was holding and came out upon the deck.
“Has something–what has happenel now?”
“It is as you guess Mademoiselle, something has happened.” “What?” Rosalie came out too.
“Another death,” said Poirot.
Rosalie caught her breath sharply. Poirot was watching her narrowly. He saw alarm and something more consternation–show for a minute or two in her eyes.
“Mrs. Doyle’s maid has been killed,” he said bluntly.
“Killed?” cried Jacqueline. “Killed, do you say?”
“Yes, that is what I said.” Though his answer was nominally to her it was Rosalie whom he watched. It was to Rosalie to whom he spoke as he went on. “You see, this maid she saw something she was not intended to see. And so–she was silenced in case she should not hold her tongue.”
“What was it she saw?”
Again it was Jacqueline who asked, and again Poirot’s answer was to Rosalie. It was an odd little three-cornered scene.
“There is, I think, very little doubt what it was she saw,” said Poirot. “She saw some one enter and leave Linnet Doyle’s cabin on that fatal night.”
His ears were quick. He heard the sharp intake of breath and saw the eyelids flicker. Rosalie Otterbourne had reacted just as he had intended she should.
“Did she say who it was she saw?” Rosalie asked.
Gently–regreffully–Poirot shook his head.
Footsteps pattered up the deck. It was Cornelia Robson, her eyes wide and startled.
“Oh, Jacqueline,” she cried. “Something awful has happened. Another dreadful thing.”
Jacqueline turned to her. The two’ moved a few steps forward. Almost unconsciously Poirot and Rosalie Otterbourne moved in the other direction.