“Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and two?”
“In my bunk asleep—and my mate will tell you so.”
“We shall see,” said Race. He dismissed him with a curt nod.
“That’ll do.”
“Eh bien?” inquired Poirot as the door closed behind Fleetwood.
Race shrugged his shoulders. “He tells quite a straight story. He’s nervous, of course, but not unduly so. We’ll have to investigate his alibi—though I don’t suppose it will be decisive. His mate was probably asleep, and this fellow could have slipped in and out if he wanted to. It depends whether anyone else saw him.”
“Yes, one must inquire as to that.”
“The next thing, I think,” said Race, “is whether anyone heard anything which might give a clue as to the time of the crime. Bessner places it as having occurred between twelve and two. It seems reasonable to hope that someone among the passengers may have heard the shot—even if they did not recognize it for what it was. I didn’t hear anything of the kind myself. What about you?”
Poirot shook his head.
“Me, I slept absolutely like the log. I heard nothing—but nothing at all. I might have been drugged, I slept so soundly.”
“A pity,” said Race. “Well, let’s hope we have a bit of luck with the people who have cabins on the starboard side. Fanthorp we’ve done. The Allertons come next. I’ll send the steward to fetch them.”
Mrs. Allerton came in briskly. She was wearing a soft grey striped silk dress. Her face looked distressed.
“It’s too horrible,” she said as she accepted the chair that Poirot placed for her. “I can hardly believe it. That lovely creature, with everything to live for—dead. I almost feel I can’t believe it.”
“I know how you feel, Madame,” said Poirot sympathetically.
“I’m glad you are on board,” said Mrs. Allerton simply. “You’ll be able to find out who did it. I’m so glad it isn’t that poor tragic girl.”
“You mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who told you she did not do it?”
“Cornelia Robson,” replied Mrs. Allerton, with a faint smile. “You know, she’s simply thrilled by it all. It’s probably the only exciting thing that has ever happened to her, and probably the only exciting thing that ever will happen to her. But she’s so nice that she’s terribly ashamed of enjoying it. She thinks it’s awful of her.”
Mrs. Allerton gave a look at Poirot and then added: “But I mustn’t chatter. You want to ask me questions.”
“If you please. You went to bed at what time, Madame?”
“Just after half past ten.”
“And you went to sleep at once?”
“Yes. I was sleepy.”
“And did you hear anything—anything at all—during the night?”
Mrs. Allerton wrinkled her brows.
“Yes, I think I heard a splash and someone running—or was it the other way about? I’m rather hazy. I just had a vague idea that someone had fallen overboard at sea—a dream, you know—and then I woke up and listened, but it was all quite quiet.”
“Do you know what time that was?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I don’t think it was very long after I went to sleep. I mean it was within the first hour or so.”
“Alas, Madame, that is not very definite.”
“No, I know it isn’t. But it’s no good trying to guess, is it, when I haven’t really the vaguest idea?”
“And that is all you can tell us, Madame?”