“It is more than an idea now. I am sure.”
“Since—when?”
“Since the death of the maid, Louise Bourget.”
“Damned if I see it!”
“My friend, it is so clear—so clear. Only there are difficulties—embarrassments—impediments! See you, around a person like Linnet Doyle there is so much—so many conflicting hates and jealousies and envies and meannesses. It is like a cloud of flies, buzzing, buzzing….”
“But you think you know?” The other looked at him curiously. “You wouldn’t say so unless you were sure. Can’t say I’ve any real light, myself. I’ve suspicions, of course….”
Poirot stopped. He laid an impressive hand on Race’s arm.
“You are a great man, mon Colonel… You do not say: ‘Tell me. What is it that you think?’ You know that if I could speak now I would. But there is much to be cleared away first. But think, think for a moment along the lines that I shall indicate. There are certain points…There is the statement of Mademoiselle de Bellefort that someone overheard our conversation that night in the garden at Assuan. There is the statement of Monsieur Tim Allerton as to what he heard and did on the night of the crime. There are Louise Bourget’s significant answers to our questions this morning. There is the fact that Madame Allerton drinks water, that her son drinks whisky and soda and that I drink wine. Add to that the fact of two bottles of nail polish and the proverb I quoted. And finally we come to the crux of the whole business, the fact that the pistol was wrapped up in a cheap handkerchief and a velvet stole and thrown overboard….”
Race was silent a minute or two, then he shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I don’t see it. Mind, I’ve got a faint idea what you’re driving at, but as far as I can see, it doesn’t work.”
“But yes…but yes. You are seeing only half the truth. And remember this—we must start again from the beginning, since our first conception was entirely wrong.”
Race made a slight grimace.
“I’m used to that. It often seems to me that’s all detective work is, wiping out your false starts and beginning again.”
“Yes, it is very true, that. And it is just what some people will not do. They conceive a certain theory, and everything has to fit into that theory. If one little fact will not fit it, they throw it aside. But it is always the facts that will not fit in that are significant. All along I have realized the significance of that pistol being removed from the scene of the crime. I knew that it meant something, but what that something was I only realized one little half hour ago.”
“And I still don’t see it!”
“But you will! Only reflect along the lines I indicated. And now let us clear up this matter of a telegram. That is, if the Herr Doktor will admit us.”
Dr. Bessner was still in a very bad humour. In answer to their knock he disclosed a scowling face.
“What is it? Once more you wish to see my patient? But I tell you it is not wise. He has fever. He has had more than enough excitement today.”
“Just one question,” said Race. “Nothing more, I assure you.”
With an unwilling grunt the doctor moved aside and the two men entered the cabin. Dr. Bessner, growling to himself, pushed past them.
“I return in three minutes,” he said. “And then—positively—you go!”
They heard him stumping down the deck.
Simon Doyle looked from one to the other of them inquiringly.
“Yes,” he said, “what is it?”
“A very little thing,” Race replied. “Just now, when the stewards were reporting to me, they mentioned that Signor Richetti had been particularly troublesome. You said that that didn’t surprise you, as you knew he had a bad temper, and that he had been rude to your wife over some matter of a telegram. Now can you tell me about the incident?”
“Easily. It was at Wadi Halfa. We’d just come back from the Second Cataract. Linnet thought she saw a telegram for her sticking up on the board. She’d forgotten, you see, that she wasn’t called Ridgeway any longer, and Richetti and Ridgeway do look rather alike when written in an atrocious handwriting. So she tore it open, couldn’t make head or tail of it, and was puzzling over it when this fellow Richetti came along, fairly tore it out of her hand and gibbered with rage. She went after him to apologize and he was frightfully rude to her about it.”
Race drew a deep breath. “And do you know at all, Mr. Doyle, what was in that telegram?”
“Yes. Linnet read part of it out aloud. It said—”
He paused. There was a commotion outside. A high-pitched voice was rapidly approaching.
“Where are Monsieur Poirot and Colonel Race? I must see them immediately! It is most important. I have vital information. I—Are they with Mr. Doyle?”