Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot 17)

Ferguson considered. “Yes, I think I did hear something like a cork…Can’t remember when—before I went to sleep. But there was still a lot of people about then—commotion, running about on the deck above.”

“That was probably the shot fired by Miss de Bellefort. You didn’t hear another?”

Ferguson shook his head.

“Nor a splash?”

“A splash? Yes, I believe I did hear a splash. But there was so much row going on I can’t be sure about it.”

“Did you leave your cabin during the night?”

Ferguson grinned. “No, I didn’t. And I didn’t participate in the good work, worse luck.”

“Come, come, Mr. Ferguson, don’t behave childishly.”

The young man reacted angrily.

“Why shouldn’t I say what I think? I believe in violence.”

“But you don’t practice what you preach?” murmured Poirot. “I wonder.”

He leaned forward.

“It was the man, Fleetwood, was it not, who told you that Linnet Doyle was one of the richest women in England?”

“What’s Fleetwood got to do with this?”

“Fleetwood, my friend, had an excellent motive for killing Linnet Doyle. He had a special grudge against her.”

Mr. Ferguson came up out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box.

“So that’s your dirty game, is it?” he demanded wrathfully. “Put it on to a poor devil like Fleetwood, who can’t defend himself, who’s got no money to hire lawyers. But I tell you this—if you try and saddle Fleetwood with this business you’ll have me to deal with.”

“And who exactly are you?” asked Poirot sweetly.

Mr. Ferguson got rather red.

“I can stick by my friends anyway,” he said gruffly.

“Well, Mr. Ferguson, I think that’s all we need for the present,” said Race.

As the door closed behind Ferguson he remarked unexpectedly: “Rather a likeable young cub, really.”

“You don’t think he is the man you are after?” asked Poirot.

“I hardly think so. I suppose he is on board. The information was very precise. Oh, well, one job at a time. Let’s have a go at Pennington.”

Eighteen

Andrew Pennington displayed all the conventional reactions of grief and shock. He was, as usual, carefully dressed. He had changed into a black tie. His long clean-shaven face bore a bewildered expression.

“Gentlemen,” he said sadly, “this business has got me right down! Little Linnet—why, I remember her as the cutest little thing you can imagine. How proud of her Melhuish Ridgeway used to be, too! Well, there’s no point in going into that. Just tell me what I can do; that’s all I ask.”

Race said: “To begin with, Mr. Pennington, did you hear anything last night?”

“No, sir, I can’t say I did. I have the cabin right next to Dr. Bessner’s number forty—forty-one, and I heard a certain commotion going on in there round about midnight or so. Of course I didn’t know what it was at the time.”

“You heard nothing else? No shots?”