"Miss Otterbourne?"

Race sounded really surprised.

"Yes."

"You are quite sure it was Miss Otterbourne?" "I saw her face distinctly." "She did not see you?" "I do not think so." Poirot leant forward.

"And what did her face look like, Mademoiselle?" "She was in a condition of considerable emotion." Race and Poirot exchanged a quick glance.

"And then?" Race prompted.

"Miss Otterbourne went away round the stern of the boat and I returned to bed." There was a knock at the door and the manager entered.

He carried in his hand a dripping bundle.

"We've got it, colonel." Race took the package. He unwrapped fold after fold of sodden velvet. Out of it fell a coarse handkerchief faintly stained with pink, wrapped round a small pearl-handled pistol.

Race gave Poirot a glance of slightly malicious triumph.

"You see," he said. "My idea was right. It was thrown overboard." He held the pistol out on the palm of his hand.

,What do you say, M. Poirot? Is this the pistol you saw at the Cataract Hotel that night?" Poirot examined it carefully, then he said quietly.

"Yes-that is it. There is the ornamental work on it-and the initials J.B. It is an article de luxe-a very feminine production but it is none the less a lethal weapon." ".22," murmured Race. He took out the dip. "Two bullets fired. Yes, there doesn't seem much doubt about it." Miss Van Schuyler coughed significantly.

"And what about my stole?" she demanded.

"Your stole, Mademoiselle?" "Yes, that is my velvet stole you have here." Race picked up the dripping folds of material.

"This is yours, Miss Van Schuyler?" "Certainly it's mine!" the old lady snapped. "I missed it last night. I was asking every one if they'd seen it." Poirot questioned Baee with a glance and the latter gave a slight nod of assent.

"Where did you see it last, Miss Van Schuyler?" "I had it in the saloon yesterday evening. When I came to go to bed I could not find it anywhere." Race said quietly: "You realise what it's been used for?" He spread it out, indicating with a finger the scorching and several small holes.

"The murderer wrapped it round the pistol to deaden the noise of the shot." "Impertinence!" snapped Miss Van Schuyler.

The colour rose in her wizened cheeks.

Race said: "I shall be glad, Miss Van Schuyler, if you will tell me the extent of your previous acquaintance with Mrs. Doyle." "There was no previous acquaintance." "But you knew of her?" "i knew who she was, of course."

"But your families were not acquainted?" "As a family we have always prided ourselves on being exclusive, Colonel Race. My dear mother would never have dreamed of calling upon any of the Hartz family who, outside their wealth, were nobodies." "That is all you have to say, Miss Van Schuyler?" "I have nothing to add to what I have told you. Linnet Ridgeway was brought up in England and I never saw her till I came aboard this boat." She rose.

Poirot opened the door for her and she marched out.

The eyes of the two men met.

"That's her story," said Race, "and she's going to stick to it! It may be true. I don't know. But-Rosalie Otterbourne? I hadn't expected that." Poirot shook his head in a perplexed manner. Then he brought down his hand on the table with a sudden bang.

"But it does not make sense," he cried. "Nora d'un nora d'un nom! It does not make sense." Race looked at him.

"What do you mean exactly?" "I mean that up to a point it is all the clear sailing. Some one wished to kill Linnet Doyle. Some one overheard the scene in the saloon last night. Some one sneaked in there and retrieved the pistol-Jacqueline de Bellefort's pistol, remember. Somebody shot Linnet Doyle with that pistol and wrote the letter J on the wall… All so clear, is it not? All pointing to Jacqueline de Bellefort as the murderess. And then what does the murderer do? Leave the pistol-the damning pistol-Jacqueline de Bellefort's pistol for every one to find? No, he or she throws the pistol, that particular damning bit of evidence, overboard. Why, my friend, why?" Race shook his head.

"It's odd." "It is more than odd-it is impossible!" "Not impossible since it happened!" "I do not mean that. I mean that the sequence of events is impossible. Something is wrong."

Colonel Race glanced curiously at his colleague. He respected-he had reason to respect-the brain of Hercule Poirot. Yet for the moment he did not follow the other's process of thought. He asked no question, however. He seldom did ask questions, He proceeded straightforwardly with the matter in hand.

"What's the next thing to be done? Question the Otterbourne girl?" "Yes, that may advance us a little." Rosalie Otterbourne entered ungraciously. She did not look nervous or frightened in any way-merely unwilling and sulky.

"Well?" she said. "What is it?" Race was the spokesman.

"We're investigating Mrs. Doyle's death," he explained.

Rosalie nodded.

"Will you tell me what you did last night?" Rosalie reflected a minute.

"Mother and I went to bed early-before eleven. We didn't hear anything in particular, except a bit of fuss outside Dr. Bessner's cabin. I heard the old man's German voice booming away. Of course, I didn't know what it was all about till this morning." "You didn't hear a shot?" "No." "Did you leave your cabin at all last night?" "No." "You are quite sure of that?" Rosalie stared at him.

"What do you mean? Of course I'm sure of it." "You did not, for instance, go round to the starboard side of the boat and throw something overboard?" The colour rose in her face.

"Is there any rule against throwing things overboard?" "No, of course not. Then you did?" "No, I didn't. I never left my cabin, I tell you." "Then if any one says that they saw you-" She interrupted him.

"Who says they saw me?" "Miss Van Schuyler." "Miss Van Schiyler?" She sounded genuinely astonished.

"Yes. Miss Van Schuyler says she looked out of her cabin and saw you throw something over the side." Rosalie said clearly: "That's a damned lie." Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, she asked: "What time was this?" It was Poirot who answered.

"It was ten minutes past one, Mademoiselle." She nodded her head thoughtfully.

"Did she see anything else?" Poirot looked at her curiously. He stroked his chin.

"See-no. But she heard something." "What did she hear?" "Some one moving about in Mrs. Doyle's cabin." "I see," muttered Rosalie.

She was pale noweadly pale.

"And you persist in saying that you threw nothing overboard, Mademoiselle?" "Why on earth should I run about throwing things overboard in the middle of the night?" "There might be a reason-an innocent reason." "Innocent?" said the girl sharply.

"That is what I said. You see, Mademoiselle, something was thrown overboard last night-something that was not innocent." Race silently held out the bundle of stained velvet--opening it to display its contents.

Rosalie Otterbourne shrank back.

"Was that what-she was killed with?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

"And you think that I-I did it? What utter nonsense! Why on earth should I want to kill Linnet Doyle? I don't even know her!" She laughed and stood up scornfully. "The whole thing is too ridiculous."

"Remember, Miss Otterbourne," said Race, "that Miss Van Schuyler is prepared to swear she saw your face quite clearly in the moonlight."

Rosalie laughed again.

"That old cat. She's probably half-blind anyway. It wasn't me she saw."

She paused.

"Can I go now?"

Race nodded and Rosalie Otterbourne left the room.

The eyes of the two men met. Race lighted a cigarette.

"Well, that's that. Flat contradiction. Which of 'em do we believe?"

Poirot shook his head.