“Not at all—I know perfectly.”
Colonel Race sat up alertly. “You know?”
“Certainly. I did not like this sound of prowling around. I got up and went to the door of my cabin. Miss Otterbourne was leaning over the side. She had just dropped something into the water.”
“Miss Otterbourne?” Race sounded really surprised.
“Yes.”
“You are quite sure it was Miss Otterbourne?”
“I saw her face distinctly.”
“She did not see you?”
“I do not think so.”
Poirot leaned forward.
“And what did her face look like, Mademoiselle?”
“She was in a condition of considerable emotion.”
Race and Poirot exchanged a quick glance.
“And then?” Race prompted.
“Miss Otterbourne went away round the stern of the boat and I returned to bed.”
There was a knock at the door and the manager entered. He carried in his hand a dripping bundle.
“We’ve got it, Colonel.”
Race took the package. He unwrapped fold after fold of sodden velvet. Out of it fell a coarse handkerchief, faintly stained with pink, wrapped round a small pearl-handled pistol.
Race gave Poirot a glance of slightly malicious triumph.
“You see,” he said, “my idea was right. It was thrown overboard.”
He held the pistol out on the palm of his hand.
“What do you say, Monsieur Poirot? Is this the pistol you saw at the Cataract Hotel that night?”
Poirot examined it carefully; then he said quietly: “Yes—that is it. There is the ornamental work on it—and the initials J.B. It is an article de luxe, a very feminine production, but it is none the less a lethal weapon.”
“Twenty-two,” murmured Race. He took out the clip. “Two bullets fired. Yes, there doesn’t seem much doubt about it.”
Miss Van Schuyler coughed significantly.
“And what about my stole?” she demanded.
“Your stole, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, that is my velvet stole you have there.”
Race picked up the dripping folds of material.
“This is yours, Miss Van Schuyler?”