Twenty-Two

Colonel Race swore hastily.

“This damned case gets more and more involved.” He picked up the pearls. “I suppose you’venot made a mistake? They look all right to me.”

“They are a very good imitation—yes.”

“Now where does that lead us? I suppose Linnet Doyle didn’t deliberately¹ have an imitationmade and bring it aboard with her for safety. Many women do.”

“I think, if that were so, her husband would know about it.”

“She may not have told him.”

Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

“No, I do not think that is so. I was admiring Madame Doyle’s pearls the first evening on theboat—their wonderful sheen and lustre². I am sure that she was wearing the genuine ones then.”

“That brings us up against two possibilities. First, that Miss Van Schuyler only stole theimitation string after the real ones had been stolen by someone else. Second, that the wholekleptomaniac story is a fabrication. Either Miss Bowers³ is a thief, and quickly invented the storyand allayed⁴ suspicion by handing over the false pearls, or else that whole party is in it together.

That is to say, they are a gang of clever jewel thieves masquerading as an exclusive Americanfamily.”

“Yes,” Poirot murmured. “It is difficult to say. But I will point out to you one thing—to make aperfect and exact copy of the pearls, clasp and all, good enough to stand a chance of deceivingMadame Doyle, is a highly skilled technical performance. It could not be done in a hurry.

Whoever copied those pearls must have had a good opportunity of studying the original.”

Race rose to his feet.

“Useless to speculate about it any further now. Let’s get on with the job. We’ve got to find thereal pearls. And at the same time we’ll keep our eyes open.”

They disposed of the cabins occupied on the lower deck. That of Signor Richetti containedvarious archaeological works in different languages, a varied⁵ assortment⁶ of clothing, hair lotionsof a highly scented⁸ kind and two personal letters—one from an archaeological expedition in Syria,and one from, apparently⁹, a sister in Rome. His handkerchiefs were all of coloured silk.

They passed on to Ferguson’s cabin.

There was a sprinkling of communistic literature, a good many snapshots, Samuel Butler’sErewhon and a cheap edition of Pepys’ Diary. His personal possessions were not many. Most ofwhat outer clothing there was was torn and dirty; the underclothing, on the other hand, was ofreally good quality. The handkerchiefs were expensive linen¹⁰ ones.

“Some interesting discrepancies,” murmured Poirot.

Race nodded. “Rather odd that there are absolutely no personal papers, letters, etc.”

“Yes; that gives one to think. An odd young man, Monsieur Ferguson.” He looked thoughtfullyat a signet ring he held in his hand, before replacing it in the drawer where he had found it.

They went along to the cabin occupied by Louise Bourget. The maid had her meals after theother passengers, but Race had sent word that she was to be taken to join the others. A cabinsteward met them.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized, “but I’ve not been able to find the young woman anywhere. Ican’t think where she can have got to.”

Race glanced inside the cabin. It was empty.

They went up to the promenade¹³ deck and started on the starboard side. The first cabin was thatoccupied by James Fanthorp. Here all was in meticulous¹⁴ order. Mr. Fanthorp travelled light, butall that he had was of good quality.

“No letters,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “He is careful, our Mr. Fanthorp, to destroy hiscorrespondence.”

They passed on to Tim Allerton’s cabin, next door.

There were evidences here of an Anglo-Catholic turn of mind—an exquisite¹⁵ little triptych, and abig rosary of intricately carved wood. Besides personal clothing, there was a half completedmanuscript, a good deal annotated¹⁶ and scribbled¹⁷ over, and a good collection of books, most ofthem recently published. There were also a quantity of letters thrown carelessly into a drawer.

Poirot, never in the least scrupulous¹⁸ about reading other people’s correspondence, glanced throughthem. He noted¹⁹ that amongst them there were no letters from Joanna Southwood. He picked up atube of Seccotine, fingered it absently for a minute or two, then said: “Let us pass on.”

“No Woolworth handkerchiefs,” reported Race, rapidly replacing the contents of a drawer.

Mrs. Allerton’s cabin was the next. It was exquisitely²⁰ neat, and a faint old-fashioned smell oflavender hung about it. The two men’s search was soon over. Race remarked as they left it: “Nicewoman, that.”

The next cabin was that which had been used as a dressing²¹ room by Simon Doyle. Hisimmediate necessities—pyjamas, toilet things, etc.—had been moved to Bessner’s cabin, but theremainder of his possessions were still there—two good-sized leather suitcases and a kitbag. Therewere also some clothes in the wardrobe.

“We will look carefully here, my friend,” said Poirot, “for it is possible that the thief hid thepearls here.”

“You think it is likely?”

“But yes, indeed. Consider! The thief, whoever he or she may be, must know that sooner orlater a search will be made, and therefore a hiding place in his or her own cabin would beinjudicious in the extreme. The public rooms present other difficulties. But here is a cabinbelonging to a man who cannot possibly visit it himself so that, if the pearls are found here, it tellsus nothing at all.” But the most meticulous search failed to reveal any trace of the missingnecklace.

Poirot murmured “Zut!” to himself and they emerged once more on the deck.

Linnet Doyle’s cabin had been locked after the body was removed, but Race had the key withhim. He unlocked the door and the two men stepped inside.

Except for the removal of the girl’s body, the cabin was exactly as it had been that morning.

“Poirot,” said Race, “if there’s anything to be found here, for God’s sake go ahead and find it.

You can if anyone can—I know that.”

“This time you do not mean the pearls, mon ami?”

“No. The murder’s the main thing. There may be something I overlooked this morning.”

Quietly, deftly²², Poirot went about his search. He went down on his knees and scrutinized²³ thefloor inch by inch. He examined the bed. He went rapidly through the wardrobe and chest ofdrawers. He went through the wardrobe trunk and the two costly²⁴ suitcases. He looked through theexpensive gold-fitted dressing-case. Finally he turned his attention to the washstand. There werevarious creams, powders, face lotions⁷. But the only thing that seemed to interest Poirot were twolittle bottles labelled Nailex. He picked them up at last and brought them to the dressing table.

One, which bore the inscription²⁵ Nailex Rose, was empty but for a drop or two of dark red fluid atthe bottom. The other, the same size, but labelled Nailex Cardinal²⁶, was nearly full. Poirotuncorked first the empty, then the full one, and sniffed²⁷ them both delicately.

An odour of peardrops billowed into the room. With a slight grimace²⁸ he recorked them.

“Get anything?” asked Race.

Poirot replied by a French proverb: “On ne prend pas les mouches avec le vinaigre.” Then hesaid with a sigh: “My friend, we have not been fortunate. The murderer has not been obliging. Hehas not dropped for us the cuff²⁹ link, the cigarette end, the cigar ash—or, in the case of the woman,the handkerchief, the lipstick³⁰, or the hair slide.”

“Only the bottle of nail polish?”

Poirot shrugged³¹ his shoulders. “I must ask the maid. There is something—yes—a little curiousthere.”

“I wonder where the devil the girl’s got to?” said Race.

They left the cabin, locking the door behind them, and passed on to that of Miss Van Schuyler.

Here again were all the appurtenances of wealth—expensive toilet fittings, good luggage, acertain number of private letters and papers all perfectly³² in order.

The next cabin was the double one occupied by Poirot, and beyond it that of Race. “Hardly liketo hide ’em in either of these,” said the Colonel.

Poirot demurred³³. “It might be. Once, on the Orient Express, I investigated a murder. There wasa little matter of a scarlet³⁴ kimono. It had disappeared, and yet it must be on the train. I found it—where do you think? In my own locked suitcase! Ah! It was an impertinence, that!”

“Well, let’s see if anybody has been impertinent with you or me this time.”

But the thief of the pearls had not been impertinent with Hercule Poirot or with Colonel Race.

Rounding the stern they made a very careful search of Miss Bowers’ cabin but could findnothing of a suspicious nature. Her handkerchiefs were of plain linen with an initial.

The Otterbournes’ cabin came next. Here, again, Poirot made a very meticulous search, but withno result.

The next cabin was Bessner’s. Simon Doyle lay with an untasted tray of food beside him.

“Off my feed,” he said apologetically.

He was looking feverish³⁵ and very much worse than earlier in the day. Poirot appreciatedBessner’s anxiety to get him as swiftly as possible to hospital and skilled appliances. The littleBelgian explained what the two of them were doing, and Simon nodded approval. On learning thatthe pearls had been restored by Miss Bowers, but proved to be merely imitation, he expressed themost complete astonishment³⁷.

“You are quite sure, Monsieur Doyle, that your wife did not have an imitation string which shebrought aboard with her instead of the real ones?”

Simon shook his head decisively.

“Oh, no. I’m quite sure of that. Linnet loved those pearls and she wore ’em everywhere. Theywere insured against every possible risk, so I think that made her a bit careless.”

“Then we must continue our search.”

He started opening drawers. Race attacked a suitcase.

Simon stared. “Look here, you surely don’t suspect old Bessner pinched them?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“It might be so. After all, what do we know of Dr. Bessner? Only what he himself gives out.”

“But he couldn’t have hidden them in here without my seeing him.”

“He could not have hidden anything today without your having seen him. But we do not knowwhen the substitution took place. He may have effected the exchange some days ago.”

“I never thought of that.”

But the search was unavailing.

The next cabin was Pennington’s. The two men spent some time in their search. In particular,Poirot and Race examined carefully a case full of legal and business documents, most of themrequiring Linnet’s signature.

Poirot shook his head gloomily. “These seem all square and aboveboard. You agree?”

“Absolutely. Still, the man isn’t a born fool. If there had been a compromising document there—a power of attorney or something of that kind—he’d be pretty sure to have destroyed it firstthing.”

“That is so, yes.”

Poirot lifted a heavy Colt revolver out of the top drawer of the chest of drawers, looked at it andput it back.

“So it seems there are still some people who travel with revolvers,” he murmured.

“Yes, a little suggestive, perhaps. Still, Linnet Doyle wasn’t shot with a thing that size.” Racepaused and then said: “You know, I’ve thought of a possible answer to your point about the pistolbeing thrown overboard. Supposing that the actual murderer did leave it in Linnet Doyle’s cabin,and that someone else—some second person—took it away and threw it into the river?”

“Yes, that is possible. I have thought of it. But it opens up a whole string of questions. Who wasthat second person? What interest had they in endeavouring to shield Jacqueline de Bellefort bytaking away the pistol? What was the second person doing there? The only other person we knowof who went into the cabin was Mademoiselle Van Schuyler. Was it conceivably MademoiselleVan Schuyler who removed it? Why should she wish to shield Jacqueline de Bellefort? And yet—what other reason can there be for the removal of the pistol?”

Race suggested, “She may have recognized the stole as hers, got the wind up, and thrown thewhole bag of tricks over on that account.”

“The stole, perhaps, but would she have got rid of the pistol, too? Still, I agree that it is apossible solution. But it is always—bon Dieu! It is clumsy. And you still have not appreciated onepoint about the stole—”

As they emerged from Pennington’s cabin Poirot suggested that Race should search theremaining cabins, those occupied by Jacqueline, Cornelia, and two empty ones at the end, while hehimself had a few words with Simon Doyle. Accordingly he retraced³⁸ his steps along the deck andre-entered Bessner’s cabin.

Simon said: “Look here, I’ve been thinking. I’m perfectly sure that those pearls were all rightyesterday.”

“Why is that, Monsieur Doyle?”

“Because Linnet”—he winced³⁹ as he uttered his wife’s name—“was passing them through herhands just before dinner and talking about them. She knew something about pearls. I feel certainshe’d have known if they were a fake.”

“They were a very good imitation, though. Tell me, was Madame Doyle in the habit of lettingthose pearls out of her hands? Did she ever lend them to a friend for instance?”

Simon flushed with slight embarrassment⁴⁰.

“You see, Monsieur Poirot, it’s difficult for me to say…I—I—well, you see, I hadn’t knownLinnet very long.”

“Ah, no, it was a quick romance—yours.”

Simon went on. “And so—really—I shouldn’t know a thing like that. But Linnet was awfullygenerous with her things. I should think she might have done.”

“She never, for instance”—Poirot’s voice was very smooth—“she never, for instance, lent themto Mademoiselle de Bellefort?”

“What d’you mean?” Simon flushed brick-red, tried to sit up and, wincing⁴¹, fell back. “What areyou getting at? That Jackie stole the pearls? She didn’t. I’ll swear she didn’t. Jackie’s as straight asa die. The mere³⁶ idea of her being a thief is ridiculous—absolutely ridiculous.”

Poirot looked at him with gently twinkling eyes. “Oh, la! la! la!” he said unexpectedly. “Thatsuggestion of mine, it has indeed stirred up the nest of hornets.”

Simon repeated doggedly⁴², unmoved by Poirot’s lighter⁴³ note, “Jackie’s straight!”

Poirot remembered a girl’s voice by the Nile in Assuan saying, “I love Simon—and he lovesme….”

He had wondered which of the three statements he had heard that night was the true one. Itseemed to him that it had turned out to be Jacqueline who had come closest to the truth.

The door opened and Race came in.

“Nothing,” he said brusquely. “Well, we didn’t expect it. I see the stewards⁴⁴ coming along withtheir report as to the searching of the passengers.”

A steward¹¹ and stewardess⁴⁵ appeared in the doorway⁴⁶. The former spoke⁴⁷ first. “Nothing, sir.”

“Any of the gentlemen make any fuss?”

“Only the Italian gentleman, sir. He carried on a good deal. Said it was a dishonour—somethingof that kind. He’d got a gun on him, too.”

“What kind of a gun?”

“Mauser automatic twenty-five, sir.”

“Italians are pretty hot-tempered,” said Simon. “Richetti got in no end of a stew¹² at Wadi Halfajust because of a mistake over a telegram. He was darned rude to Linnet over it.”

Race turned to the stewardess. She was a big handsome-looking woman.

“Nothing on any of the ladies, sir. They made a good deal of fuss—except for Mrs. Allerton,who was as nice as nice could be. Not a sign of the pearls. By the way, the young lady, MissRosalie Otterbourne, had a little pistol in her handbag.”

“What kind?”

“It was a very small one, sir, with a pearl handle. A kind of toy.”

Race stared. “Devil take this case,” he muttered. “I thought we’d got her cleared of suspicion,and now—Does every girl on this blinking boat carry around pearl-handled toy pistols?”

He shot a question at the stewardess. “Did she show any feeling over your finding it?”

The woman shook her head. “I don’t think she noticed. I had my back turned whilst I was goingthrough the handbag.”

“Still, she must have known you’d come across it. Oh, well, it beats me. What about the maid?”

“We’ve looked all over the boat, sir. We can’t find her anywhere.”

“What’s this?” asked Simon.

“Mrs. Doyle’s maid—Louise Bourget. She’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

Race said thoughtfully: “She might have stolen the pearls. She is the one person who had ampleopportunity to get a replica⁴⁸ made.”

“And then, when she found a search was being instituted, she threw herself overboard?” Simonsuggested.

“Nonsense,” replied Race, irritably⁴⁹. “A woman can’t throw herself overboard in broad daylight,from a boat like this, without somebody realizing the fact. She’s bound to be somewhere onboard.” He addressed the stewardess once more. “When was she last seen?”

“About half an hour before the bell went for lunch, sir.”

“We’ll have a look at her cabin anyway,” said Race. “That may tell us something.”

He led the way to the deck below. Poirot followed him. They unlocked the door of the cabinand passed inside.

Louise Bourget, whose trade it was to keep other people’s belongings⁵⁰ in order, had taken aholiday where her own were concerned. Odds⁵¹ and ends littered the top of the chest of drawers; asuitcase gaped⁵² open, with clothes hanging out of the side of it and preventing it shutting;underclothing hung limply over the sides of the chairs.

As Poirot, with swift neat fingers, opened the drawers of the dressing-chest, Race examined thesuitcase.

Louise’s shoes were lined along by the bed. One of them, a black patent leather, seemed to beresting at an extraordinary angle, almost unsupported. The appearance of it was so odd that itattracted Race’s attention.

He closed the suitcase and bent⁵³ over the line of shoes. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation⁵⁴.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”

Race said grimly: “She hasn’t disappeared. She’s here—under the bed….”

 

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