“Mrs. Otterbourne?” Pennington sounded quite astounded. “Well, you do surprise me. Mrs. Otterbourne.” He shook his head. “I can’t see that at all.” He lowered his voice. “Strikes me, gentlemen, we’ve got a homicidal maniac aboard. We ought to organize a defence system.”
“Mr. Pennington,” said Race, “how long have you been in this room?”
“Why, let me see.” Mr. Pennington gently rubbed his chin. “I should say a matter of twenty minutes or so.”
“And you haven’t left it?”
“Why no—certainly not.”
He looked inquiringly at the two men.
“You see, Mr. Pennington,” said Race, “Mrs. Otterbourne was shot with your revolver.”
Twenty-Five
Mr. Pennington was shocked. Mr. Pennington could hardly believe it.
“Why, gentlemen,” he said, “this is a very serious matter. Very serious indeed.”
“Extremely serious for you, Mr. Pennington.”
“For me?” Pennington’s eyebrows
rose in startled surprise. “But, my dear sir, I was sitting quietly writing in here when that shot was fired.”
“You have, perhaps, a witness to prove that?”
Pennington shook his head.
“Why, no—I wouldn’t say that. But it’s clearly impossible that I should have gone to the deck above, shot this poor woman (and why should I shoot her anyway?) and come down again with no one seeing me. There are always plenty of people on the deck lounge this time of day.”
“How do you account for your pistol being used?”
“Well—I’m afraid I may be to blame there. Quite soon after getting aboard there was a conversation in the saloon one evening, I remember, about firearms, and I mentioned then that I always carried a revolver with me when I travel.”
“Who was there?”
“Well, I can’t remember exactly. Most people, I think. Quite a crowd, anyway.”
He shook his head gently.
“Why, yes,” he said. “I am certainly to blame there.”
He went on: “First Linnet, then Linnet’s maid, and now Mrs. Otterbourne. There seems no reason in it all!”
“There was reason,” said Race.
“There was?”
“Yes. Mrs. Otterbourne was on the point of telling us that she had seen a certain person go into Louise’s cabin. Before she could name that person she was shot dead.”
Andrew Pennington passed a fine silk handkerchief over his brow.
“All this is terrible,” he murmured.
Poirot said: “Monsieur Pennington, I would like to discuss certain aspects of the case with you. Will you come to my cabin in half an hour’s time?”
“I should be delighted.”