Rosalie said sharply:
“Why do you look at me? What have you got in your mind?” “That is two questions you ask me. I will ask you only one in return. Why do you not tell me all the truth, Mademoiselle?” “I don’t know what you mean. I told you–everything–this morning.” “No, there were things you did not tell me. You did not tell me that you carry about in your handbag a small calibre pistol with a pearl handle. You did not tell me all that you saw last night.” She flushed. Then she said sharply: “It’s quite untrue. I haven’t got a revolver.” “I did not say a revolver. I said a small pistol that you carry about in your handbag.” She wheeled round, darted into her cabin and out again and thrust her grey leather handbag into his hands.
“You’re talking nonsense. Look for yourself if you like.” Poirot opened the bag. There wis no pistol inside.
He handed the bag back to her, meeting her scornful triumphant glance.
“No,” he said pleasantly. “It is not there.” “You see. You’re not always right, M. Poirot. And you’re wrong about that other ridiculous thing you said.” “No, I do not think so.” “You’re infuriating.” She stamped an angry foot. “You get an idea into your head and you go on and on and on about it.” “Because I want you to tell me the truth.” “What is the truth? You seem to-know it better than I do.” Poirot said: “You want me to tell you what it was you saw? If I am right, will you admit that I am right? I will tell you my little idea. I think that when you came round the stern of the boat you stopped involuntarily because you saw a man come out of a cabin about half-way down the deck—Linnet Doyle’s cabin as you realised next day–you saw him come out, close the door behind him and walk away from you down the deck and–perhaps—enter one of the two end cabins. Now then, am I right, Mademoiselle?” She did not answer.
Poirot said: “Perhaps you think it wiser not to speak. Perhaps you are afraid that if you do—you too will be killed.” For a moment he thought she had risen to the easy bait–that the accusation against her courage would succeed where more subtle arguments would have failed.
Her lips opened trembled then: “I saw no one,” said Rosalie Otterbourue.
CHAPTER 23
Miss Bowers came out of Dr. Bessner’s cabin, smoothing her cuffs over her wrists.
Jacqueline left Cornelia abruptly and accosted the hospital nurse.
“How is he?” she demanded.
Poirot came up in time to hear the answer.
Miss Bowers was looking rather worried.
“Things aren’t going too badly,” she said.
Jacqueline cried: “You mean, he’s worse?” “Well, I must say I shall be relieved when we get in and can get a proper X-ray done and the whole thing cleaned up under an anaesthetic. When do you think we shall get to Shellal, M. Poirot?” “To-morrow morning.” Miss Bowers pursed her lips and shook her head.
“It’s very unfortunate. We are doing all we can, but there’s always such a danger of septicameia.” Jacqueline caught Miss Bowers’s arm and shook it.
“Is he going to die? Is he going to die?” “Dear me, no, Miss de Bellefort. That is, I hope not, I’m sure. The wound in itself isn’t dangerous. But there’s no doubt it ought to be X-rayed as soon as possible. And then, of course, poor Mr. Doyle ought to have been kept absolutely quiet to-day. He’s had far too much worry and excitement. No. wonder his temperature is rising. What with the shock of his wife’s death, and one thing and another–” Jacqueline relinquished her grasp of the nurse’s arm and turned away. She stood leaning over the side, her back to the other two.
“What I say is, we’ve got to hope for the best always,” said Miss Bowers. “Of course Mr. Doyle has a very strong constitutionne can see that–probably never had a day’s illness in his life–so that’s in his favour. But there’s no denying that this rise in temperature is a nasty sign and—” She shook her head, adjusted her cuffs once more, and moved briskly away.