"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 asked:
"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 a convulsive pressure. She sank down again on a chair.
Poirot stepped out onto 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 daresay, 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.