Fifteen

Hercule Poirot’s observation had not been at fault. There were no pearls on the table by LinnetDoyle’s bed.

Louise Bourget was bidden to make a search among Linnet’s belongings¹. According to her, allwas in order. Only the pearls had disappeared.

As they emerged from the cabin a steward² was waiting to tell them that breakfast had beenserved in the smoking room. As they passed along the deck, Race paused to look over the rail.

“Aha! I see you have had an idea, my friend.”

“Yes. It suddenly came to me, when Fanthorp mentioned thinking he had heard a splash. It’sperfectly possible that after the murder, the murderer threw the pistol overboard.”

Poirot said slowly: “You really think that is possible, my friend?” Race shrugged⁴ his shoulders.

“It’s a suggestion. After all, the pistol wasn’t anywhere in the cabin. First thing I looked for.”

“All the same,” said Poirot, “it is incredible that it should have been thrown overboard.”

Race asked: “Where is it then?”

Poirot replied thoughtfully, “If it is not in Madame Doyle’s cabin, there is, logically, only oneother place where it could be.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Mademoiselle de Bellefort’s cabin.”

Race said thoughtfully: “Yes. I see—”

He stopped suddenly.

“She’s out of her cabin. Shall we go and have a look now?”

Poirot shook his head. “No, my friend, that would be precipitate⁵. It may not yet have been putthere.”

“What about an immediate⁶ search of the whole boat.”

“That way we should show our hand. We must work with great care. It is very delicate, ourposition, at the moment. Let us discuss the situation as we eat.”

Race agreed. They went into the smoking room.

“Well,” said Race as he poured himself out a cup of coffee, “we’ve got two definite leads.

There’s the disappearance⁷ of the pearls. And there’s the man Fleetwood. As regards the pearls,robbery seems indicated, but—I don’t know whether you’ll agree with me—”

Poirot said quickly: “But it was an odd moment to choose?”

“Exactly. To steal the pearls at such a moment invites a close search of everybody on board.

How then could the thief hope to get away with his booty?”

“He might have gone ashore⁸ and dumped it.”

“The company always has a watchman on the bank.”

“Then that is not feasible. Was the murder committed to divert attention from the robbery? No,that does not make sense; it is profoundly unsatisfactory. But supposing that Madame Doyle wokeup and caught the thief in the act?”

“And therefore the thief shot her? But she was shot whilst she slept.”

“So that does not make sense…You know, I have a little idea about those pearls—and yet—no—it is impossible. Because if my idea was right the pearls would not have disappeared. Tell me,what did you think of the maid?”

“I wondered,” said Race slowly, “if she knew more than she said.”

“Ah, you too had that impression?”

“Definitely not a nice girl,” said Race.

Hercule Poirot nodded. “Yes, I would not trust her.”

“You think she had something to do with the murder?”

“No. I would not say that.”

“With the theft of the pearls, then?”

“That is more probable. She had only been with Madame Doyle a very short time. She may be amember of a gang that specializes in jewel robberies. In such a case there is often a maid withexcellent references. Unfortunately we are not in a position to seek information on these points.

And yet that explanation does not quite satisfy me…Those pearls—ah, sacré, my little idea oughtto be right. And yet nobody would be so imbecile—” He broke off.

“What about the man Fleetwood?”

“We must question him. It may be that we have there the solution. If Louise Bourget’s story istrue, he had a definite motive⁹ for revenge. He could have overheard the scene between Jacquelineand Monsieur Doyle, and when they had left the saloon he could have darted¹⁰ in and secured thegun. Yes, it is all quite possible. And that letter J scrawled¹¹ in blood. That, too, would accord with asimple, rather crude nature.”

“In fact, he’s just the person we are looking for?”

“Yes—only—” Poirot rubbed his nose. He said with a slight grimace¹²: “See you, I recognize myown weaknesses. It has been said of me that I like to make a case difficult. This solution that youput to me—it is too simple, too easy. I cannot feel that it really happened. And yet, that may be thesheer prejudice on my part.”

“Well, we’d better have the fellow here.”

Race rang the bell and gave the order. Then he asked, “Any other—possibilities?”

“Plenty, my friend. There is, for example, the American trustee.”

“Pennington?”

“Yes, Pennington. There was a curious little scene in here the other day.” He narrated¹³ thehappenings to Race. “You see—it is significant. Madame, she wanted to read all the papers beforesigning. So he makes the excuse of another day. And then, the husband, he makes a verysignificant remark.”

“What was that?”

“He says—‘I never read anything. I sign where I am told to sign.’ You perceive the significanceof that. Pennington did. I saw it in his eye. He looked at Doyle as though an entirely¹⁴ new idea hadcome into his head. Just imagine, my friend, that you have been left trustee to the daughter of anintensely wealthy man. You use, perhaps, that money to speculate with. I know it is so in alldetective novels—but you read of it too in the newspapers. It happens, my friend, it happens.”

“I don’t dispute it,” said Race.

“There is, perhaps, still time to make good by speculating wildly. Your ward³ is not yet of age.

And then—she marries! The control passes from your hands into hers at a moment’s notice! Adisaster! But there is still a chance. She is on a honeymoon¹⁵. She will perhaps be careless aboutbusiness. A casual paper, slipped in among others, signed without reading…But Linnet Doyle wasnot like that. Honeymoon or no honeymoon, she is a business woman. And then her husbandmakes a remark, and a new idea comes to that desperate man who is seeking a way out from ruin.

If Linnet Doyle were to die, her fortune would pass to her husband—and he would be easy to dealwith; he would be a child in the hands of an astute¹⁶ man like Andrew Pennington. Mon cherColonel, I tell you I saw the thought pass through Andrew Pennington’s head. ‘If only it wereDoyle I had got to deal with…’ That is what he was thinking.”

“Quite possible, I dare say,” said Race dryly, “but you’ve no evidence.”

“Alas, no.”

“Then there’s young Ferguson,” said Race. “He talks bitterly enough. Not that I go by talk. Still,he might be the fellow whose father was ruined by old Ridgeway. It’s a little far-fetched but it’spossible. People do brood over bygone wrongs sometimes.” He paused a minute and then said:

“And there’s my fellow.”

“Yes, there is ‘your fellow’ as you call him.”

“He’s a killer,” said Race. “We know that. On the other hand, I can’t see any way in which hecould have come up against Linnet Doyle. Their orbits don’t touch.”

Poirot said slowly: “Unless, accidentally, she had become possessed¹⁷ of evidence showing hisidentity.”

“That’s possible, but it seems highly unlikely.”

There was a knock at the door. “Ah, here’s our would-be bigamist.”

Fleetwood was a big, truculent-looking man. He looked suspiciously from one to the other ofthem as he entered the room. Poirot recognized him as the man he had seen talking to LouiseBourget.

Fleetwood asked suspiciously: “You wanted to see me?”

“We did,” said Race. “You probably know that a murder was committed on this boat lastnight?”

Fleetwood nodded.

“And I believe it is true that you had reason to feel anger against the woman who was killed.”

A look of alarm sprang up in Fleetwood’s eyes.

“Who told you that?”

“You considered that Mrs. Doyle had interfered¹⁸ between you and a young woman.”

“I know who told you that—that lying French hussy. She’s a liar¹⁹ through and through, thatgirl.”

“But this particular story happens to be true.”

“It’s a dirty lie!”

“You say that, although you don’t know what it is yet.”

The shot told. The man flushed and gulped²⁰.

“It is true, is it not, that you were going to marry the girl Marie, and that she broke it off whenshe discovered that you were a married man already?”

“What business was it of hers?”

“You mean, what business was it of Mrs. Doyle’s? Well, you know, bigamy is bigamy.”

“It wasn’t like that. I married one of the locals out here. It didn’t answer. She went back to herpeople. I’ve not seen her for a half a dozen years.”

“Still you were married to her.”

The man was silent. Race went on: “Mrs. Doyle, or Miss Ridgeway as she then was, found outall this?”

“Yes, she did, curse her! Nosing about where no one ever asked her to. I’d have treated Marieright. I’d have done anything for her. And she’d never have known about the other, if it hadn’tbeen for that meddlesome²¹ young lady of hers. Yes, I’ll say it, I did have a grudge²² against the lady,and I felt bitter about it when I saw her on this boat, all dressed up in pearls and diamonds andlording it all over the place, with never a thought that she’d broken up a man’s life for him! I feltbitter all right, but if you think I’m a dirty murderer—if you think I went and shot her with a gun,well, that’s a damned lie! I never touched her. And that’s God’s truth.”

He stopped. The sweat was rolling down his face.

“Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and two?”

“In my bunk²³ asleep—and my mate will tell you so.”

“We shall see,” said Race. He dismissed him with a curt²⁴ nod. “That’ll do.”

“Eh bien?” inquired Poirot as the door closed behind Fleetwood.

Race shrugged his shoulders. “He tells quite a straight story. He’s nervous, of course, but notunduly so. We’ll have to investigate his alibi—though I don’t suppose it will be decisive. His matewas probably asleep, and this fellow could have slipped in and out if he wanted to. It dependswhether anyone else saw him.”

“Yes, one must inquire as to that.”

“The next thing, I think,” said Race, “is whether anyone heard anything which might give a clueas to the time of the crime. Bessner places it as having occurred between twelve and two. It seemsreasonable to hope that someone among the passengers may have heard the shot—even if they didnot recognize it for what it was. I didn’t hear anything of the kind myself. What about you?”

Poirot shook his head.

“Me, I slept absolutely like the log. I heard nothing—but nothing at all. I might have beendrugged, I slept so soundly.”

“A pity,” said Race. “Well, let’s hope we have a bit of luck with the people who have cabins onthe starboard side. Fanthorp we’ve done. The Allertons come next. I’ll send the steward to fetchthem.”

Mrs. Allerton came in briskly. She was wearing a soft grey striped silk dress. Her face lookeddistressed.

“It’s too horrible,” she said as she accepted the chair that Poirot placed for her. “I can hardlybelieve it. That lovely creature, with everything to live for—dead. I almost feel I can’t believe it.”

“I know how you feel, Madame,” said Poirot sympathetically.

“I’m glad you are on board,” said Mrs. Allerton simply. “You’ll be able to find out who did it.

I’m so glad it isn’t that poor tragic²⁵ girl.”

“You mean Mademoiselle de Bellefort. Who told you she did not do it?”

“Cornelia Robson,” replied Mrs. Allerton, with a faint smile. “You know, she’s simply thrilledby it all. It’s probably the only exciting thing that has ever happened to her, and probably the onlyexciting thing that ever will happen to her. But she’s so nice that she’s terribly ashamed ofenjoying it. She thinks it’s awful of her.”

Mrs. Allerton gave a look at Poirot and then added: “But I mustn’t chatter²⁶. You want to ask mequestions.”

“If you please. You went to bed at what time, Madame?”

“Just after half past ten.”

“And you went to sleep at once?”

“Yes. I was sleepy.”

“And did you hear anything—anything at all—during the night?”

Mrs. Allerton wrinkled her brows.

“Yes, I think I heard a splash and someone running—or was it the other way about? I’m ratherhazy. I just had a vague idea that someone had fallen overboard at sea—a dream, you know—andthen I woke up and listened, but it was all quite quiet.”

“Do you know what time that was?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But I don’t think it was very long after I went to sleep. I mean it waswithin the first hour or so.”

“Alas, Madame, that is not very definite.”

“No, I know it isn’t. But it’s no good trying to guess, is it, when I haven’t really the vaguestidea?”

“And that is all you can tell us, Madame?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Had you ever actually met Madame Doyle before?”

“No, Tim had met her. And I’d heard a good deal about her—through a cousin of ours, JoannaSouthwood, but I’d never spoken to her till we met at Assuan.”

“I have one other question, Madame, if you will pardon me for asking.”

Mrs. Allerton murmured with a faint smile, “I should love to be asked an indiscreet question.”

“It is this. Did you, or your family, ever suffer any financial loss through the operations ofMadame Doyle’s father, Melhuish Ridgeway?”

Mrs. Allerton looked thoroughly²⁷ astonished.

“Oh, no! The family finances have never suffered except by dwindling…you know, everythingpaying less interest than it used to. There’s never been anything melodramatic about our poverty.

My husband left very little money, but what he left I still have, though it doesn’t yield as much asit used to yield.”

“I thank you, Madame. Perhaps you will ask your son to come to us.”

Tim said lightly, when his mother came: “Ordeal over? My turn now! What sort of things didthey ask you?”

“Only whether I heard anything last night,” said Mrs. Allerton. “And unluckily I didn’t hearanything at all. I can’t think why not. After all, Linnet’s cabin is only one away from mine. Ishould think I’d have been bound to hear the shot. Go along, Tim; they’re waiting for you.”

To Tim Allerton Poirot repeated his previous questions.

Tim answered: “I went to bed early, half-past ten or so. I read for a bit. Put out my light justafter eleven.”

“Did you hear anything after that?”

“Heard a man’s voice saying good night, I think, not far away.”

“That was me saying good night to Mrs. Doyle,” said Race.

“Yes. After that I went to sleep. Then, later, I heard a kind of hullabaloo going on, somebodycalling Fanthorp, I remember.”

“Mademoiselle Robson when she ran out from the observation saloon.”

“Yes, I suppose that was it. And then a lot of different voices. And then somebody runningalong the deck. And then a splash. And then I heard old Bessner booming out something about‘Careful now’ and ‘Not too quick.’”

“You heard a splash.”

“Well, something of that kind.”

“You are sure it was not a shot you heard?”

“Yes, I suppose it might have been…I did hear a cork²⁸ pop. Perhaps that was the shot. I mayhave imagined the splash from connecting the idea of the cork with liquid pouring into a glass…Iknow my foggy idea was that there was some kind of party on, and I wished they’d all go to bedand shut up.”

“Anything more after that?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders. “After that—oblivion.”

“You heard nothing more?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Allerton.”

Tim got up and left the cabin.

 

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