Poirot said: “You want me to tell what it was you saw? If I am right, will you admit that I am right? I will tell you my little idea. I think that when you came round the stern of the boat you stopped involuntarily because you saw a man come out of a cabin about halfway down the deck—Linnet Doyle’s cabin, as you realized next day. You saw him come out, close the door behind him, and walk away from you down the deck and—perhaps—enter one of the two end cabins. Now, then, am I right, Mademoiselle?”
She did not answer.
Poirot said: “Perhaps you think it is wiser not to speak. Perhaps you are afraid that, if you do, you too will be killed.”
For a moment he thought she had risen to the easy bait, that the accusation against her courage would succeed where more subtle arguments would have failed.
Her lips opened—trembled—then, “I saw no one,” said Rosalie Otterbourne.
Twenty-Four
Miss Bowers came out of Dr. Bessner’s cabin, smoothing her cuffs over her wrists.
Jacqueline left Cornelia abruptly and accosted the hospital nurse.
“How is he?” she demanded.
Poirot came up in time to hear the answer. Miss Bowers was looking rather worried.
“Things aren’t going too badly,” she said.
Jacqueline cried: “You mean, he’s worse?”
“Well, I must say I shall be relieved when we get in and can get a proper X-ray done and the whole thing cleaned up under an anaesthetic. When do you think we shall get to S
hellal, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Miss Bowers pursed her lips and shook her head.
“It’s very fortunate. We are doing all we can, but there’s always such a danger of septicæmia.”
Jacqueline caught Miss Bowers’ arm and shook it.
“Is he going to die? Is he going to die?”
“Dear me, no, Miss de Bellefort. That is, I hope not, I’m sure. The wound in itself isn’t dangerous, but there’s no doubt it ought to be X-rayed as soon as possible. And then, of course poor Mr. Doyle ought to have been kept absolutely quiet today. He’s had far too much worry and excitement. No wonder his temperature is rising. What with the shock of his wife’s death, and one thing and another—”
Jacqueline relinquished her grasp of the nurse’s arm and turned away. She stood leaning over the side, her back to the other two.
“What I say is, we’ve got to hope for the best always,” said Miss Bowers. “Of course Mr. Doyle has a very strong constitution—one can see that—probably never had a day’s illness in his life. So that’s in his favour. But there’s no denying that this rise in temperature is a nasty sign and—”
She shook her head, adjusted her cuffs once more, and moved briskly away.
Jacqueline turned and walked gropingly, blinded by tears, towards her cabin. A hand below her elbow steadied and guided her. She looked up through the tears to find Poirot by her side. She leaned on him a little and he guided her through the cabin door.
She sank down on the bed and the tears came more freely, punctuated by great shuddering sobs.
“He’ll die! He’ll die! I know he’ll die…And I shall have killed him. Yes, I shall have killed him….”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head a little, sadly. “Mademoiselle, what is done is done. One cannot take back the accomplished action. It is too late to regret.”
She cried out more vehemently: “I shall have killed him! And I love him so…I love him so.”
Poirot sighed. “Too much….”
It had been his thought long ago in the restaurant of M. Blondin. It was his thought again now.