“But now you are not so sure?”
Jackie said slowly: “No, I can’t be certain. I just assumed it was a man—but it was really just a—a figure—a shadow….”
She paused and then, as Poirot did not speak, she added: “You think it must have been a woman? But surely none of the women on this boat can have wanted to kill Linnet?”
Poirot merely moved his head from side to side.
The door opened and Bessner appeared.
“Will you come and speak with Mr. Doyle, please, Monsieur Poirot? He would like to see you.”
Jackie sprang up. She caught Bessner by the arm.
“How is he? Is he—all right?”
“Naturally he is not all right,” replied Dr. Bessner reproachfully. “The bone is fractured, you understand.”
“But he’s not going to die?” cried Jackie.
“Ach, who said anything about dying? We will get him to civilization and there we will have an X-ray and proper treatment.”
“Oh!” The girl’s hands came together in convulsive pressure. She sank down again on a chair.
Poirot stepped out on to the deck with the doctor and at that moment Race joined them. They went up to the promenade deck and along to Bessner’s cabin.
Simon Doyle was lying propped with cushions and pillows, an improvised cage over his leg. His face was ghastly in colour, the ravages of pain with shock on top of it. But the predominant expression on his face was bewilderment—the sick bewilderment of a child.
He muttered: “Please come in. The doctor’s told me—told me—about Linnet…I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it’s true.”
“I know. It’s a bad knock,” said Race.
Simon stammered: “You know—Jackie didn’t do it. I’m certain Jackie didn’t do it! It looks black against her, I dare say, but she didn’t do it. She—she was a bit tight last night, and all worked up, and that’s why she went for me. But she wouldn’t—she wouldn’t do murder… not cold-blooded murder….”
Poirot said gently: “Do not distress yourself, Monsieur Doyle. Whoever shot your wife, it was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort.”
Simon looked at him doubtfully.
“Is that on the square?”
“But since it was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort,” continued Poirot, “can you give us any idea of who it might have been?”
Simon shook his head. The look of bewilderment increased.
“It’s crazy—impossible. Apart from Jackie nobody could have wanted to do her in.”
“Reflect, Monsieur Doyle. Had she no enemies? Is there no one who had a grudge against her?”
Again Simon shook his head with the same hopeless gesture.
“It sounds absolutely fantastic. There’s Windlesham, of course. She more or less chucked him to marry me—but I can’t see a polite stick like Windlesham committing murder, and anyway he’s miles away. Same thing with old Sir George Wode. He’d got a down on Linnet over the house—disliked the way she was pulling it about; but he’s miles away in London, and anyway to think of murder in such a connection would be fantastic.”
“Listen, Monsieur Doyle.” Poirot spoke very earnestly. “On the first day we came
on board the Karnak I was impressed by a little conversation which I had with Madame your wife. She was very upset—very distraught. She said—mark this well—that everybody hated her. She said she felt afraid—unsafe—as though everyone round her were an enemy.”
“She was pretty upset at finding Jackie aboard. So was I,” said Simon.
“That is true, but it does not quite explain those words. When she said she was surrounded by enemies, she was almost certainly exaggerating, but all the same she did mean more than one person.”