Death on the Nile - Agatha Christie [104]
“I remarked after that third crime that there were three ways the murderer could have gone. I meant that he could have gone aft (in which case Tim Allerton was the criminal), he could have gone over the side (very improbable) or he could have gone into a cabin. Jacqueline’s cabin was just two away from Dr. Bessner’s. She had only to throw down the revolver, bolt into the cabin, ruffle her hair and fling herself down on the bunk. It was risky, but it was the only possible chance.”
There was a silence, then Race asked: “What happened to the first bullet fired at Doyle by the girl?”
“I think it went into the table. There is a recently made hole there. I think Doyle had time to dig it out with a penknife and fling it through the window. He had, of course, a spare cartridge, so that it would appear that only two shots had been fired.”
Cornelia sighed. “They thought of everything,” she said. “It’s—horrible!”
Poirot was silent. But it was not a modest silence. His eyes seemed to be saying: “You are wrong. They didn’t allow for Hercule Poirot.”
Aloud he said, “And now, Doctor, we will go and have a word with your patient.”
Thirty
It was very much later that evening that Hercule Poirot came and knocked on the door of a cabin.
A voice said “Come in” and he entered.
Jacqueline de Bellefort was sitting in a chair. In another chair, close against the wall, sat the big stewardess.
Jacqueline’s eyes surveyed Poirot thoughtfully. She made a gesture towards the stewardess.
“Can she go?”
Poirot nodded to the woman and she went out. Poirot drew up her chair and sat down near Jacqueline. Neither of them spoke. Poirot’s face was unhappy.
In the end it was the girl who spoke first.
“Well,” she said, “it is all over! You were too clever for us, Monsieur Poirot.”
Poirot sighed. He spread out his hands. He seemed strangely dumb.
“All the same,” said Jacqueline reflectively, “I can’t really see that you had much proof. You were quite right, of course, but if we’d bluffed you out—”
“In no other way, Mademoiselle, could the thing have happened.”
“That’s proof enough for a logical mind, but I don’t believe it would have convinced a jury. Oh, well—it can’t be helped. You sprang it all on Simon, and he went down like a ninepin. He just lost his head utterly, poor lamb, and admitted everything.” She shook her head. “He’s a bad loser.”
“But you, Mademoiselle, are a good loser.”
She laughed suddenly—a queer, gay, defiant little laugh.
“Oh, yes, I’m a good loser all right.” She looked at him.
She said suddenly and impulsively: “Don’t mind so much, Monsieur Poirot! About me, I mean. You do mind, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
“But it wouldn’t have occurred to you to let me off?”
Hercule Poirot said quietly, “No.”
She nodded her head in quiet agreement.
“No, it’s no use being sentimental. I might do it again…I’m not a safe person any longer. I can feel that myself…” She went on broodingly: “It’s so dreadfully easy—killing people. And you begin to feel that it doesn’t matter…that it’s only you that matters! It’s dangerous—that.”
She paused, then said with a little smile: “You did your best for me, you know. That night at Assuan—you told me not to open my heart to evil…Did you realize then what was in my mind?”
He shook his head.
“I only knew that what I said was true.”
“It was true. I could have stopped, then, you know. I nearly did…I could have told Simon that I wouldn’t go on with it…But then perhaps—”
She broke off. She said: “Would you like to hear about it? From the beginning?”
“If you care to tell me, Mademoiselle.”
“I think I want to tell you. It was all very simple really. You see, Simon and I loved each other….”
It was a matter-of-fact statement, yet, underneath the lightness of her tone, there were echoes….
Poirot said simply: “And for you love would have been enough, but not for him.”
“You might put it that