CHAPTER 12
Hercule Poirot was just wiping the lather from his freshly shaved face when there was a quick tap on the door and hard on top of it Colonel Race entered unceremoniously.
He closed the door behind him.
He said:
"Your instinct was quite correct. It's happened." Poirot straightened up and asked sharply: "What has happened?"
"Linnet Doyle's dead--shot through the head last night."
Poirot was silent for a minute, two memories vividly before him--a girl in a garden at Assuan saying in a hard breathless voice, "I'd like to put my dear little pistol against her head and just press the trigger,"---and another more recent memory, the same voice saying, "One feels one can't go on--the kind of day when something breaks, "---and that strange momentary flash of appeal in her eyes. What had been the matter with him not to respond to that appeal? He had been blind, deaf, stupid with his need for sleep ....
Race went on:
"I've got some slight official standing--they sent for me. Put it in my hands.
The boat's due to start in half an hour but it will be delayed till I give the word.
There's a possibility, of course, that the murderer came from the shore."
Poirot shook his head.
Race acquiesced in the gesture.
"I agree. One can pretty well rule that out. Well, man, it's up to you. This is your show."
Poirot had been attiring himself with a neat-fingered celerity. He said now: "I am at your disposal."
The two men stepped out on the deck.
Race said:
"Bessner should be there by now. I sent the steward for him."
There were four cabins de luxe with bathrooms on the boat. Of the two on the port side one was occupied by Dr. Bessner, the other by Andrew Pennington. On the starboard side the first was occupied by Miss Van Schuyler, and the one next to it by Linnet Doyle. Her husband's dressing cabin was next door.
A white-faced steward was standing outside the door of Linnet Doyle's cabin.
He opened the door for them and they passed inside. Dr. Bessner was bending over the bed. He looked up and grunted as the other two entered.
"What can you tell us, doctor, about this business?" asked Race.
Bessner rubbed his unshaven jaw meditatively.
"Ach! She was shot--shot at close quarters, seehere just above the ear--this is where the bullet entered. A very little bullet--I should say a .22. The pistol it was held close against her head---see there is blackening here, the skin is scorched."
Again in a sick wave of memory Poirot thought of those words uttered at Assuan.
Bessner went on.
"She was asleep--there was no strugglethe murderer crept up in the dark and shot her as she lay there."
"Ah! non!" Poirot cried out. His sense of psychology was outraged. Jacqueline de Bellefort creeping into a darkened cabin, pistol in hand no, it did not "fit," that picture.
Bessner stared at him through his thick lenses.
"But that is what happened, I tell you."
"Yes, yes. I did not mean what you thought. I was not contradicting you." Bessner gave a satisfied grunt.
Poirot came up and stood beside him. Linnet Doyle was lying on her side.
Her attitude was natural and peaceful. But above the ear was a tiny hole with an incrustation of dried blood round it.
Poirot shook his head sadly.
Then his gaze fell on the white painted wall just in front of him and he drew in his breath sharply.
Its white neatness was marred by a big wavering letter J scrawled in some brownish-red medium.
Poirot stared at it, then he leaned over the dead girl and very gently picked up her right hand. One finger of it was stained a brownish-red. "Nom d'un nom d'un nom!" ejaculated Hercule Poirot.
"Eh? What is that?" Dr. Bessner looked up.
"Ach! That." Race said:
"Well, I'm damned. What do you make of that, Poirot?"
Poirot swayed a little on his toes.
"You ask me what I make of it. Eh bien, it is very simple, is it not? Mrs. Doyle is dying, she wishes to indicate her murderer, and so she writes with her finger dipped in her own blood the initial letter of her murderer's name. Oh yes, it is astonishingly simple."
"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.
Th
e 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.
Race said: "Sit down, Bessner, and let's have the whole story of what happened last night." They listened in silence to the doctor's rumbling voice.
"Clear enough," said Race, when he had finished. "The girl worked herself up, helped by a drink or two, and finally took a pot shot at the man with a .22 pistol. Then she went along to Linnet Doyle's cabin and shot her as well." But Dr. Bessner was shaking his head.
"No, no. I do not think so. I do not think that was possible. For one thing she would not write her own initial on the wall it would be ridiculous, Night wahr?" "She might," Race declared, "if she were as blindly mad and jealous as she sounds, she might want to--wellsign her name to the crime, so to speak." Poirot shook his head.
"No, no, I do not think she would be as--as crude as that." "Then there's only one reason for that J. It was put there by some one else deliberately to throw suspicion on her." The doctor said: "Yes, and the criminal was unlucky--because you see, it is not only unlikely that the young Fr/iulein did the murder--it is also I think impossible." "How's that?" Bessner explained Jacqueline's hysterics and the circumstances which had led Miss Bowers to take charge of her.
"And I think--I am sure that Miss Bowers stayed with her all night." Race said: "If that's so, it's going to simplify matters very much." Poirot asked: "Who discovered the crime?" "Mrs. Doyle's maid, Louise Bourget. She went to call her mistress as usual, found her dead, and came out and flopped into the steward's arms in a dead faint.
He went to the manager, who came to me. I got hold of Bessner and then came for yotl." Poirot nodded.
Race said: "Doyle's got to know. You say he's asleep still." The doctor said: "Yes, he's still asleep in my cabin. I gave him a strong opiate last night." Race turned to Poirot.
"Well," he said, "I don't think we need detain the doctor any longer, eh?
Thank you, doctor." Bessner rose.
"I will have my breakfast, yes. And then I will go back to my cabin and see if Mr.
Doyle is ready to wake." "Thanks.'
Bessner went out. The two men looked at each other.
"Well, what about it, P0irot?" Race said. "You're the man in charge. I'll take my orders from you. You say what's to be done."
Poirot bowed.
"Eh bien," he said, "we must hold the court of inquiry. First of all, I think we must verify the story of the affair last night. That is to say, we must question
Fanthorp and Miss Robson who were the actual witnesses of what occurred. The disappearance of the pistol is very significant."
Race rang a bell and sent a message by the steward.
Poirot sighed and shook his head.
"It is bad, this," he murmured. "It is bad."
"Have you any ideas?" asked Race curiously.
"My ideas conflict. They are not well arranged---they are not orderly. There is, you see, the big fact that this girl hated Linnet Doyle and wanted to kill her."
"You think she's capable of it?"
"I think so--yes." Poirot sounded doubtful.
"But not in this way? That's what's worrying you, isn't it? Not to creep into her cabin in the dark and shoot her while she was sleeping. It's the cold-bloodedness that strikes you as not ringing true?"
"in a sense, yes."
"You think that this girl, Jacqueline de Bellefort, is incapable of a premedi tated cold-blooded murder."
Poirot said slowly:
"I am not sure, you see. She would have the brains--yes. But I doubt fi, physically, she could bring herself to do the act " Race nodded.
"Yes, I see Well, according to Bessner's story, it would also have been physically impossible.
"If that is true it clears the ground considerably. Let us hope it is true." He paused and then added simply: "I shall be glad if it is so, for I have for that little one much sympathy." The door opened and Fanthorp and Cornelia came in. Bessner followed them. Cornelia gasped out: "Isn't this just awful? Poor, poor Mrs. Doyle. And she was so lovely too. It must have been a realfiend who could hurt her! And poor Mr. Doyle, he'll just go half crazy when he knows! Why even last night he was so frightfully worried lest she should hear about his accident." "That is just what we want you to tell us about, Miss Robson," said Race. "We want to know exactly what happened last night." Cornelia began a little confusedly, but a question or two from Poirot helped matters.
"Ah, yes, I understand. After the bridge, Madame Doyle went to her cabin. Did she really go to her cabin, I wonder?" "She did," said Race. "I actually saw her. I said good-night to her at the door." "And the time?" "Mercy, I couldn't say," said Cornelia.
"It was twenty past eleven," said Race.
"Bien. Then at twenty past eleven, Madame Doyle was alive and well. At that moment there was in the saloon--who?" Fanthorp answered.
"Doyle was there. And Miss de Bellefort. Myself and Miss Robson." "That's so," agreed Cornelia. "Mr. Pennington had a drink and then went off to bed." "That as how much later?" "Oh, about three or four minutes." "Before half-past eleven, then?" "Oh, yes." "So that there were left in the saloon you, Miss Robson, Miss de Bellefort, Mr. Doyle and Mr. Fanthorp. What were you all doing?" "Mr. Fanthorp was reading a book. I'd got some embroidery. Miss de Bellefort was--she was--" Fanthorp came to the rescue.
"She was drinking pretty heavily." "Yes," agreed Cornelia. "She was talking to me mostly and asking me about things at home. And she kept saying thingsto me mostly, but I think they were kind of meant for Mr. Doyle. He was getting kind of mad at her but he didn't say anything. I think he thought if he kept quiet she might simmer down." "But she didn't?" Cornelia shook her head.
"I tried to go once or twice, but she made me stop and I was getting very uncomfortable. And then Mr. Fanthorp got up and went out--"- "It was a LITTLE embarrassing," said Fanthorp. "I thought I'd make an unobtrusive exit. Miss de Bellefort was clearly working up for a scene." "And then she pulled out the pistol," went on Cornelia. "And Mr. Doyle jumped up to try and get it away from her, and it went offand shot him through the leg, and then she began to sob and cry--and I was scared to death and ran out after Mr. Fanthorp and he came back with me, and Mr. Doyle said not to make a fuss, and one of the Nubian boys heard the noise of the shot and came along, but Mr.
Fanthorp told him it was all right and then we got Jacqueline away to her cabin and Mr.
Fanthorp stayed with her while I got Miss Bowers." Cornelia paused breathless.
"What time was this?" asked Race.
Cornelia said again: "Mercy, I don't know," but Fanthorp answered promptly: "It must have been about twenty minutes past twelve. I know that it was actually half-past twelve when I finally got to my cabin." "Now let me be quite sure on one or two points," said Poirot. "After Mrs.
Doyle left the saloon did any of you four leave it?" "No." "You are quite certain Miss de Bellefort did not leave the saloon at all?" Fanthorp answered promptly: "Positive. Neither Doyle, Miss de Bellefort, Miss Robson, nor myself left the saloon." "Good. That establishes the fact that Miss de Bellefort could not possibly have shot Mrs. Doyle before--let us say--twenty past twelve. Now, Miss Robson, you went to fetch Miss Bowers. Was Miss de Bellefort alone in her cabin during that period?" "No, Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her." "Good. So far, Miss de Bellefort has a perfect alibi. Miss Bowers is the next person to interview, but before I send for her I should like to have your opinion on one or two points. Mr. Doyle, you say, was very anxious that Miss de Bellefort should
not be left alone. Was he afraid, do you think, that she was contemplating some further rash act?"
"That is my opinion," said Fanthorp.
"He was definitely afraid she might attack Mrs. Doyle?" "No." Fanthorp shook his head. "I don't think that was his idea at all. I think he was afraid she might-er-do something rash to herself." "Suicide?" "Yes. You see, she seemed completely sobered and heartroken at what she had done. She was full of self-reproach. She kept saying she would be better dead." Cornelia said timidly: "I think he was rather upset about her. He spoke quite nicely. He said it was all his fault--that he'd treated her badly. He--he was really very nice." Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
Agatha Christie - Death On The Nile Page 13