Rosalie Otterbourne entered ungraciously. She did not look nervous or frightened in any way—merely unwilling and sulky.
“Well,” she asked, “what is it?”
Race was the spokesman.
“We’re investigating Mrs. Doyle’s death,” he explained.
Rosalie nodded.
“Will you tell me what you did last night?”
Rosalie reflected a minute.
“Mother and I went to bed early—before eleven. We didn’t hear anything in particular, except a bit of fuss outside Dr. Bessner’s cabin. I heard the old man’s German voice booming away. Of course I didn’t know what it was all about till this morning.”
“You didn’t hear a shot?”
“No.”
“Did you leave your cabin at all last night?”
“No.”
“You are quite sure of that?”
Rosalie stared at him.
“What do you mean? Of course I’m sure of it.”
“You did not, for instance, go round to the starboard side of the boat and throw something overboard?”
The colour rose in her face.
“Is there any rule against throwing things overboard?”
“No, of course not. Then you did?”
“No, I didn’t. I never left my cabin, I tell you.”
“Then if anyone says that they saw you—?”
She interrupted him. “Who says they saw me?”
“Miss Van Schuyler.”
“Miss Van Schuyler?” She sounded genuinely astonished.
“Yes. Miss Van Schuyler says she looked out of her cabin and saw you throw something over the side.”
Rosalie said clearly, “That’s a damned lie.” Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, she asked: “What time was this?”
It was Poirot who answered.
“It was ten minutes past one, Mademoiselle.”
She nodded her head thoughtfully. “Did she see anything else?”
Poirot looked at her curiously. He stroked his chin.