Twenty-Six

Race found him still sitting there.

“Well, Poirot, what about it? Pennington’s due in ten minutes. I’m leaving this in your hands.”

Poirot rose quickly to his feet. “First, get hold of young Fanthorp.”

“Fanthorp?” Race looked surprised.

“Yes. Bring him to my cabin.”

Race nodded and went off. Poirot went along to his cabin. Race arrived with young Fanthorp aminute or two afterward¹.

Poirot indicated chairs and offered cigarettes.

“Now, Monsieur Fanthorp,” he said, “to our business! I perceive that you wear the same tie thatmy friend Hastings wears.”

Jim Fanthorp looked down at his neckwear with some bewilderment.

“It’s an O.E. tie,” he said.

“Exactly. You must understand that, though I am a foreigner, I know something of the Englishpoint of view. I know, for instance, that there are ‘things which are done’ and ‘things which arenot done.’”

Jim Fanthorp grinned.

“We don’t say that sort of thing much nowadays, sir.”

“Perhaps not, but the custom, it still remains². The Old School Tie is the Old School Tie, andthere are certain things (I know this from experience) that the Old School Tie does not do! One ofthose things, Monsieur Fanthorp, is to butt³ into a private conversation unasked when one does notknow the people who are conducting it.”

Fanthorp stared.

Poirot went on: “But the other day, Monsieur Fanthorp, that is exactly what you did do. Certainpersons were quietly transacting⁴ some private business in the observation saloon. You strollednear them, obviously in order to overhear what it was that was in progress, and presently youactually turned round and congratulated a lady—Madame Simon Doyle—on the soundness of herbusiness methods.”

Jim Fanthorp’s face got very red. Poirot swept on, not waiting for a comment.

“Now that, Monsieur Fanthorp, was not at all the behaviour of one who wears a tie similar tothat worn by my friend Hastings! Hastings is all delicacy⁵, would die of shame before he did such athing! Therefore, taking that action of yours in conjunction with the fact that you are a very youngman to be able to afford an expensive holiday, that you are a member of a country solicitor⁶’s firm,and therefore probably not extravagantly⁷ well off, and that you show no signs of recent illnesssuch as might necessitate⁸ a prolonged visit abroad, I ask myself—and am now asking you—whatis the reason for your presence on this boat?”

Jim Fanthorp jerked his head back.

“I decline to give you any information whatever, Monsieur Poirot. I really think you must bemad.”

“I am not mad. I am very, very sane⁹. Where is your firm? In Northampton; that is not very farfrom Wode Hall. What conversation did you try to overhear? One concerning legal documents.

What was the object of your remark—a remark which you uttered with obvious embarrassmentand malaise? Your object was to prevent Madame Doyle from signing any document unread.”

He paused.

“On this boat we have had a murder, and following that murder two other murders in rapidsuccession. If I further give you the information that the weapon which killed MadameOtterbourne was a revolver owned by Monsieur Andrew Pennington, then perhaps you will realizethat it is actually your duty to tell us all you can.”

Jim Fanthorp was silent for some minutes. At last he said: “You have rather an odd way ofgoing about things, Monsieur Poirot, but I appreciate the points you have made. The trouble is thatI have no exact information to lay before you.”

“You mean that it is a case, merely, of suspicion.”

“Yes.”

“And therefore you think it injudicious to speak? That may be true, legally speaking. But this isnot a court of law. Colonel Race and myself are endeavouring to track down a murderer. Anythingthat can help us to do so may be valuable.”

Again Jim Fanthorp reflected. Then he said: “Very well. What is it you want to know?”

“Why did you come on this trip?”

“My uncle, Mr. Carmichael, Mrs. Doyle’s English solicitor, sent me. He handled a good manyof her affairs. In this way, he was often in correspondence with Mr. Andrew Pennington, who wasMrs. Doyle’s American trustee. Several small incidents (I cannot enumerate¹⁰ them all) made myuncle suspicious that all was not quite as it should be.”

“In plain language,” said Race, “your uncle suspected that Pennington was a crook¹¹?”

Jim Fanthorp nodded, a faint smile on his face.

“You put it rather more bluntly than I should, but the main idea is correct. Various excusesmade by Pennington, certain plausible¹² explanations of the disposal of funds, aroused my uncle’sdistrust.

“While these suspicions of his were still nebulous, Miss Ridgeway married unexpectedly andwent off on her honeymoon¹³ to Egypt. Her marriage relieved my uncle’s mind, as he knew that onher return to England the estate would have to be formally settled and handed over.

“However, in a letter she wrote him from Cairo, she mentioned casually¹⁴ that she hadunexpectedly run across Andrew Pennington. My uncle’s suspicions became acute. He felt surethat Pennington, perhaps by now in a desperate position, was going to try and obtain signaturesfrom her which would cover his own defalcations. Since my uncle had no definite evidence to laybefore her, he was in a most difficult position. The only thing he could think of was to send me outhere, travelling by air, with instruction to discover what was in the wind. I was to keep my eyesopen and act summarily if necessary—a most unpleasant mission, I can assure you. As a matter offact, on the occasion you mention I had to behave more or less as a cad! It was awkward, but onthe whole I was satisfied with the result.”

“You mean you put Madame Doyle on her guard?” asked Race.

“Not so much that, but I think I put the wind up Pennington. I felt convinced he wouldn’t tryanymore funny business for some time, and by then I hoped to have got intimate enough with Mr.

and Mrs. Doyle to convey some kind of a warning. As a matter of fact I hoped to do so throughDoyle. Mrs. Doyle was so attached to Mr. Pennington that it would have been a bit awkward tosuggest things to her about him. It would have been easier for me to approach the husband.”

Race nodded.

Poirot asked: “Will you give me a candid¹⁵ opinion on one point, Monsieur Fanthorp? If you wereengaged in putting a swindle over, would you choose Madame Doyle or Monsieur Doyle as avictim?”

Fanthorp smiled faintly.

“Mr. Doyle, every time. Linnet Doyle was very shrewd in business matters. Her husband, Ishould fancy, is one of those trustful fellows who know nothing of business and are always readyto ‘sign on the dotted line’ as he himself put it.”

“I agree,” said Poirot. He looked at Race. “And there’s your motive¹⁶.”

Jim Fanthorp said: “But this is all pure conjecture¹⁷. It isn’t evidence.”

Poirot replied, easily: “Ah, bah! we will get evidence!”

“How?”

“Possibly from Mr. Pennington himself.”

Fanthorp looked doubtful.

“I wonder. I very much wonder.”

Race glanced at his watch. “He’s about due now.”

Jim Fanthorp was quick to take the hint. He left them.

Two minutes later Andrew Pennington made his appearance. His manner was all smilingurbanity. Only the taut¹⁸ line of his jaw¹⁹ and the wariness²⁰ of his eyes betrayed the fact that athoroughly experienced fighter was on his guard.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “here I am.”

He sat down and looked at them inquiringly.

“We asked you to come here, Monsieur Pennington,” began Poirot, “because it is fairly obviousthat you have a very special and immediate²¹ interest in the case.”

Pennington raised his eyebrows²² slightly.

“Is that so?”

Poirot said gently: “Surely. You have known Linnet Ridgeway, I understand, since she wasquite a child.”

“Oh! that—” His face altered, became less alert. “I beg pardon, I didn’t quite get you. Yes, as Itold you this morning, I’ve known Linnet since she was a cute little thing in pinafores.”

“You were on terms of close intimacy²³ with her father?”

“That’s so. Melhuish Ridgeway and I were very close—very close.”

“You were so intimately associated that on his death he appointed you business guardian²⁵ to hisdaughter and trustee to the vast fortune she inherited?”

“Why, roughly, that is so.” The wariness was back again. The note was more cautious. “I wasnot the only trustee, naturally; others were associated with me.”

“Who have since died?”

“Two of them are dead. The other, Mr. Sterndale Rockford, is alive.”

“Your partner?”

“Yes.”

“Mademoiselle Ridgeway, I understand, was not yet of age when she married?”

“She would have been twenty-one next July.”

“And in the normal course of events she would have come into control of her fortune then?”

“Yes.”

“But her marriage precipitated²⁶ matters?”

Pennington’s jaw hardened. He shot out his chin at them aggressively.

“You’ll pardon me, gentlemen, but what exact business is all this of yours?”

“If you dislike answering the question—”

“There’s no dislike about it. I don’t mind what you ask me. But I don’t see the relevance²⁷ of allthis.”

“Oh, but surely, Monsieur Pennington”—Poirot leaned forward, his eyes green and catlike—“there is the question of motive. In considering that, financial considerations must always betaken into account.”

Pennington said sullenly²⁸: “By Ridgeway’s will, Linnet got control of her dough²⁹ when she wastwenty-one or when she married.”

“No conditions of any kind?”

“No conditions.”

“And it is a matter, I am credibly³⁰ assured, of millions.”

“Millions it is.”

Poirot said softly: “Your responsibility, Mr. Pennington, and that of your partner, has been avery grave one.”

Pennington replied curtly³²: “We’re used to responsibility. Doesn’t worry us any.”

“I wonder.”

Something in his tone flicked³³ the other man on the raw. He asked angrily: “What the devil doyou mean?”

Poirot replied with an air of engaging frankness: “I was wondering, Mr. Pennington, whetherLinnet Ridgeway’s sudden marriage caused any—consternation, in your office?”

“Consternation?”

“That was the word I used.”

“What the hell are you driving at?”

“Something quite simple. Are Linnet Doyle’s affairs in the perfect order they should be?”

Pennington rose to his feet.

“That’s enough. I’m through.” He made for the door.

“But you will answer my question first?”

Pennington snapped: “They’re in perfect order.”

“You were not so alarmed when the news of Linnet Ridgeway’s marriage reached you that yourushed over to Europe by the first boat and staged an apparently³⁴ fortuitous meeting in Egypt?”

Pennington came back towards them. He had himself under control once more.

“What you are saying is absolute balderdash! I didn’t even know that Linnet was married till Imet her in Cairo. I was utterly³⁵ astonished. Her letter must have missed me by a day in New York.

It was forwarded and I got it about a week later.”

“You came over by the Carmanic, I think you said.”

“That’s right.”

“And the letter reached New York after the Carmanic sailed?”

“How many times have I got to repeat it?”

“It is strange,” said Poirot.

“What’s strange?”

“That on your luggage there are no labels of the Carmanic. The only recent labels oftransatlantic sailing are the Normandie. The Normandie, I remember, sailed two days after theCarmanic.”

For a moment the other was at a loss. His eyes wavered.

Colonel Race weighed in with telling effect.

“Come now, Mr. Pennington,” he said. “We’ve several reasons for believing that you came overon the Normandie and not by the Carmanic, as you said. In that case, you received Mrs. Doyle’sletter before you left New York. It’s no good denying it, for it’s the easiest thing in the world tocheck up the steamship³⁶ companies.”

Andrew Pennington felt absentmindedly for a chair and sat down. His face was impassive—apoker face. Behind that mask his agile³⁷ brain looked ahead to the next move.

“I’ll have to hand it to you, gentlemen. You’ve been too smart for me. But I had my reasons foracting as I did.”

“No doubt.” Race’s tone was curt³¹.

“If I give them to you, it must be understood I do so in confidence.”

“I think you can trust us to behave fittingly. Naturally I cannot give assurances blindly.”

“Well—” Pennington sighed. “I’ll come clean. There was some monkey business going on inEngland. It worried me. I couldn’t do much about it by letter. The only thing was to come overand see for myself.”

“What do you mean by monkey business?”

“I’d good reason to believe that Linnet was being swindled.”

“By whom?”

“Her British lawyer. Now that’s not the kind of accusation³⁸ you can fling around anyhow. I madeup my mind to come over right away and see into matters myself.”

“That does great credit to your vigilance, I am sure. But why the little deception³⁹ about nothaving received the letter?”

“Well, I ask you—” Pennington spread out his hands. “You can’t butt in on a honeymooncouple without more or less coming down to brass⁴⁰ tacks⁴¹ and giving your reasons. I thought it bestto make the meeting accidental. Besides, I didn’t know anything about the husband. He mighthave been mixed up in the racket for all I knew.”

“In fact all your actions were actuated by pure disinterestedness,” said Colonel Race dryly.

“You’ve said it, Colonel.”

There was a pause. Race glanced at Poirot. The little man leant forward.

“Monsieur Pennington, we do not believe a word of your story.”

“The hell you don’t! And what the hell do you believe?”

“We believe that Linnet Ridgeway’s unexpected marriage put you in a financial quandary⁴². Thatyou came over posthaste to try and find some way out of the mess you were in—that is to say,some way of gaining time. That, with that end in view, you endeavoured to obtain MadameDoyle’s signature to certain documents and failed. That on the journey up the Nile, when walkingalong the cliff top at Abu Simbel, you dislodged a boulder⁴³ which fell and only very narrowlymissed its object—”

“You’re crazy.”

“We believe that the same kind of circumstances occurred on the return journey. That is to say,an opportunity presented itself of putting Madame Doyle out of the way at a moment when herdeath would be almost certainly ascribed to the action of another person. We not only believe, butknow, that it was your revolver which killed a woman who was about to reveal to us the name ofthe person who she had reason to believe killed both Linnet Doyle and the maid Louise—”

“Hell!” The forcible ejaculation broke forth⁴⁴ and interrupted Poirot’s stream of eloquence⁴⁵.

“What are you getting at? Are you crazy? What motive had I to kill Linnet? I wouldn’t get hermoney; that goes to her husband. Why don’t you pick on him? He’s the one to benefit—not me.”

Race said coldly: “Doyle never left the lounge on the night of the tragedy till he was shot at andwounded in the leg. The impossibility of his walking a step after that is attested⁴⁶ to by a doctor anda nurse—both independent and reliable witnesses. Simon Doyle could not have killed his wife. Hecould not have killed Louise Bourget. He most definitely did not kill Mrs. Otterbourne. You knowthat as well as we do.”

“I know he didn’t kill her.” Pennington sounded a little calmer. “All I say is, why pick on mewhen I don’t benefit by her death?”

“But, my dear sir,” Poirot’s voice came soft as a purring cat, “that is rather a matter of opinion.

Madame Doyle was a keen woman of business, fully⁴⁷ conversant⁴⁸ with her own affairs and veryquick to spot any irregularity. As soon as she took up the control of her property, which she wouldhave done on her return to England, her suspicions were bound to be aroused. But now that she isdead and that her husband, as you have just pointed²⁴ out, inherits, the whole thing is different.

Simon Doyle knows nothing whatever of his wife’s affairs except that she was a rich woman. Heis of a simple, trusting disposition⁴⁹. You will find it easy to place complicated statements beforehim, to involve the real issue in a net of figures, and to delay settlement with pleas of legalformalities and the recent depression. I think that it makes a very considerable difference to youwhether you deal with the husband or the wife.”

Pennington shrugged⁵⁰ his shoulders.

“Your ideas are—fantastic.”

“Time will show.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Time will show!’ This is a matter of three deaths—three murders. The law will demandthe most searching investigation⁵¹ into the condition of Madame Doyle’s estate.”

He saw the sudden sag⁵² in the other’s shoulders and knew that he had won. Jim Fanthorp’ssuspicions were well founded.

Poirot went on: “You’ve played—and lost. Useless to go on bluffing⁵³.”

“You don’t understand,” Pennington muttered. “It’s all square enough really. It’s been thisdamned slump—Wall Street’s been crazy. But I’d staged a comeback. With luck everything willbe O.K. by the middle of June.”

With shaking hands he took a cigarette, tried to light it, failed.

“I suppose,” mused⁵⁴ Poirot, “that the boulder was a sudden temptation. You thought nobody sawyou.”

“That was an accident. I swear it was an accident!” The man leant forward, his face working,his eyes terrified. “I stumbled and fell against it. I swear it was an accident….”

The two men said nothing.

Pennington suddenly pulled himself together. He was still a wreck⁵⁵ of a man, but his fightingspirit had returned in a certain measure. He moved towards the door.

“You can’t pin that on me, gentlemen. It was an accident. And it wasn’t I who shot her. D’youhear? You can’t pin that on me either—and you never will.”

He went out.

 

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