Rosalie caught her breath sharply. Poirot was watching her narrowly. He saw alarm and something more—consternation—show for a minute or two in her eyes.
“Madame Doyle’s maid has been killed,” he told them bluntly.
“Killed?” cried Jacqueline. “Killed, do you say?”
“Yes, that is what I said.” Though his answer was nominally to her, it was Rosalie whom he watched. It was Rosalie to whom he spoke as he went on: “You see, this maid she saw something she was not intended to see. And so—she was silenced, in case she should not hold her tongue.”
“What was it she saw?”
Again it was Jacqueline who asked, and again Poirot’s answer was to Rosalie. It was an odd little three-cornered scene.
“There is, I think, very little doubt what it was she saw,” said Poirot. “She saw someone enter and leave Linnet Doyle’s cabin on that fatal night.”
His ears were quick. He heard the sharp intake of breath and saw the eyelids flicker. Rosalie Otterbourne had reacted just as he intended she should.
“Did she say who it was she saw?” Rosalie asked.
Gently—regretfully—Poirot shook his head.
Footsteps pattered up the deck. It was Cornelia Robson, her eyes wide and startled.
“Oh, Jacqueline,” she cried, “something awful has happened! Another dreadful thing!”
Jacqueline turned to her. The two moved a few steps forward. Almost unconsciously Poirot and Rosalie Otterbourne moved in the other direction.
Rosalie said sharply: “Why do you look at me? What have you got in your mind?”
“That is two questions you ask me. I will ask you only one in return. Why do you not tell me all the truth, Mademoiselle?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I told you—everything—this morning.”
“No, there were things you did not tell me. You did not tell me that you carry about in your handbag a small-calibre pistol with a pearl handle. You did not tell me all that you saw last night.”
She flushed. Then she said sharply: “It’s quite untrue. I haven’t got a revolver.”
“I did not say a revolver. I said a small pistol that you carry about in your handbag.”
She wheeled round, darted into her cabin and out again and thrust her grey leather handbag into his hands.
“You’re talking nonsense. Look for yourself if you like.”
Poirot opened the bag. There was no pistol inside.
He handed the bag back to her, meeting her scornful triumphant glance.
“No,” he said pleasantly. “It is not there.”
“You see. You’re not always right, Monsieur Poirot. And you’re wrong about that other ridiculous thing you said.”
“No, I do not think so.”
“You’re infuriating!” She stamped an angry foot.
“You get an idea into your head, and you go on and on and on about it.”
“Because I want you to tell me the truth.”
“What is the truth? You seem to know it better than I do.”