“Yes. Andrew Pennington, I notice, carries a very fine silk handkerchief.”
“Ferguson?” suggested Race.
“Possibly. As a gesture. But then it ought to be a bandana.”
“Used it instead of a glove, I suppose, to hold the pistol and obviate fingerprints.” Race added, with slight facetiousness, “‘The Clue of the Blushing Handkerchief.’”
“Ah, yes. Quite a jeune fille colour, is it not?” He laid it down and returned to the stole, once more examining the powder marks.
“All the same,” he murmured, “it is odd….”
“What’s that?”
Poirot said gently: “Cette pauvre Madame Doyle. Lying there so peacefully…with the little hole in her head. You remember how she looked?”
Race looked at him curiously. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got an idea you’re trying to tell me something—but I haven’t the faintest idea what it is.”
Nineteen
There was a tap on the door.
“Come in,” Race called.
A steward entered.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Poirot, “but Mr. Doyle is asking for you.”
“I will come.”
Poirot rose. He went out of the room and up the companion-way to the promenade deck and along it to Dr. Bessner’s cabin.
Simon, his face flushed and feverish, was propped up with pillows. He looked embarrassed.
“Awfully good of you to come along, Monsieur Poirot. Look here, there’s something I want to ask you.”
“Yes?”
Simon got still redder in the face.
“It’s—it’s about Jackie. I want to see her. Do you think—would you mind—would she mind, d’you think, if you asked her to come along here? You know I’ve been lying here thinking…That wretched kid—she is only a kid after all—and I treated her damn’ badly—and—” He stammered to silence.
Poirot looked at him with interest.
“You desire to see Mademoiselle Jacqueline? I will fetch her.”
“Thanks. Awfully good of you.”
Poirot went on his quest. He found Jacqueline de Bellefort sitting huddled up in a corner of the observation saloon. There was an open book on her lap but she was not reading.
Poirot said gently: “Will you come with me, Mademoiselle? Monsieur Doyle wants to see you.”
She started up. Her face flushed—then paled. She looked bewildered.
“Simon? He wants to see me—to see me?”
He found her incredulity moving.
“Will you come, Mademoiselle?”