Death on the Nile - Agatha Christie [54]
“There, there. We know that you did not kill Madame Doyle. It is proved—yes, proved, mon enfant. It was not you.”
Jackie sat up suddenly, her wet handkerchief clasped in her hand.
“But who did?”
“That,” said Poirot, “is just the question we are asking ourselves. You cannot help us there, my child?”
Jacqueline shook her head.
“I don’t know…I can’t imagine…No, I haven’t the faintest idea.” She frowned deeply. “No,” she said at last. “I can’t think of anyone who wanted her dead.” Her voice faltered a little. “Except me.”
Race said: “Excuse me a minute—just thought of something.” He hurried out of the room.
Jacqueline de Bellefort sat with her head downcast, nervously twisting her fingers. She broke out suddenly: “Death’s horrible—horrible! I—hate the thought of it.”
Poirot said: “Yes. It is not pleasant to think, is it, that now, at this very moment, someone is rejoicing at the successful carrying out of his or her plan.”
“Don’t—don’t!” cried Jackie. “It sounds horrible, the way you put it.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “It is true.”
Jackie said in a low voice: “I—I wanted her dead—and she is dead…And, what is worse…she died—just like I said.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle. She was shot through the head.”
She cried out: “Then I was right, that night at the Cataract Hotel. There was someone listening!”
“Ah!” Poirot nodded his head. “I wondered if you would remember that. Yes, it is altogether too much of a coincidence—that Madame Doyle should be killed in just the way you described.”
Jackie shuddered.
“That man that night—who can he have been?”
Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said in quite a different tone of voice: “You are sure it was a man, Mademoiselle?”
Jackie looked at him in surprise.
“Yes, of course. At least—”
“Well, Mademoiselle?”
She frowned, half closing her eyes in an effort to remember. She said slowly: “I thought it was a man….”
“But now you are not so sure?”
Jackie said slowly: “No, I can’t be certain. I just assumed it was a man—but it was really just a—a figure—a shadow….”
She paused and then, as Poirot did not speak, she added: “You think it must have been a woman? But surely none of the women on this boat can have wanted to kill Linnet?”
Poirot merely moved his head from side to side.
The door opened and Bessner appeared.
“Will you come and speak with Mr. Doyle, please, Monsieur Poirot? He would like to see you.”
Jackie sprang up. She caught Bessner by the arm.
“How is he? Is he—all right?”
“Naturally he is not all right,” replied Dr. Bessner reproachfully. “The bone is fractured, you understand.”
“But he’s not going to die?” cried Jackie.
“Ach, who said anything about dying? We will get him to civilization and there we will have an X-ray and proper treatment.”
“Oh!” The girl’s hands came together in convulsive pressure. She sank down again on a chair.
Poirot stepped out on to the deck with the doctor and at that moment Race joined them. They went up to the promenade deck and along to Bessner’s cabin.
Simon Doyle was lying propped with cushions and pillows, an improvised cage over his leg. His face was ghastly in colour, the ravages of pain with shock on top of it. But the predominant expression on his face was bewilderment—the sick bewilderment of a child.
He muttered: “Please come in. The doctor’s told me—told me—about Linnet…I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it’s true.”
“I know. It’s a bad knock,” said Race.
Simon stammered: “You know—Jackie didn’t do it. I’m certain Jackie didn’t do it! It looks black against her, I dare say, but she didn’t do it. She—she was a bit tight last night, and all worked up, and that’s why she went for me. But she wouldn’t—she wouldn’t do murder… not cold-blooded murder….”
Poirot said gently: “Do not distress yourself, Monsieur Doyle. Whoever shot your wife, it was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort.”
Simon looked at him doubtfully.
“Is that on the square?”
“But since it was not Mademoiselle de Bellefort,” continued Poirot, “can you give us any idea of who it might have been?”
Simon shook his head. The look of bewilderment