第27章

As the door closed behind him, Race gave a deep sigh.

“We got more than I thought we should. Admission of fraud. Admission of attempted murder. Further than that it’s impossible to go. A man will confess, more or less, to attempted murder, but you won’t get him to confess to the real thing.”

“Sometimes it can be done,” said Poirot. His eyes were dreamy—catlike.

Race looked at him curiously.

“Got a plan?”

Poirot nodded. Then he said, ticking off the items on his fingers: “The garden at Assuan. Mr. Allerton’s statement. The two bottles of nail polish. My bottle of wine. The velvet stole. The stained handkerchief. The pistol that was left on the scene of the crime. The death of Louise. The death of Madame Otterbourne. Yes, it’s all there. Pennington didn’t do it, Race!”

“What?” Race was startled.

“Pennington didn’t do it. He had the motive, yes. He had the will to do it, yes. He got as far as attempting to do it. Mais c’est tout. For this crime, something was wanted that Pennington hadn’t got! This is a crime that needed audacity, swift and faultless execution, courage, indifference to danger, and a resourceful, calculating brain. Pennington hasn’t got those attributes. He couldn’t do a crime unless he knew it to be safe. This crime wasn’t safe! It hung on a razor edge. It needed boldness. Pennington isn’t bold. He’s only astute.”

Race looked at him with the respect one able man gives to another.

“You’ve got it all well taped,” he said.

“I think so, yes. There are one or two things—that telegram for instance, that Linnet Doyle read. I should like to get that cleared up.”

“By Jove, we forgot to ask Doyle. He was telling us when poor old Ma Otterbourne came along. We’ll ask him again.”

“Presently. First, I have someone else to whom I wish to speak.”

“Who’s that?”

“Tim Allerton.”

Race raised his eyebrows.

“Allerton? Well, we’ll get him here.”

He pressed a bell and sent the steward with a message.

Tim Allerton entered with a questioning look.

“Steward said you wanted to see me?”

“That is right, Monsieur Allerton. Sit down.”

Tim sat. His face was attentive but very slightly bored.

“Anything I can do?” His tone was polite but not enthusiastic.

Poirot said: “In a sense, perhaps. What I really require is for you to listen.”

Tim’s eyebrows rose in polite surprise.

“Certainly. I’m the world’s best listener. Can be relied on to say ‘Ooer!’ at the right moments.”

“That is very satisfactory. ‘Oo-er!’ will be very expressive. Eh bien, let us commence. When I met you and your mother at Assuan, Monsieur Allerton, I was attracted to your company very strongly. To begin with, I thought your mother was one of the most charming people I had ever met—”

The weary face flickered for a moment; a shade of expression came into it.

“She is—unique,” he said.

“But the second thing that interested me was your mention of a certain lady.”

“Really?”

“Yes, a Mademoiselle Joanna Southwood. You see, I had recently been hearing that name.”

He paused and went on: “For the last three years there have been certain jewel robberies that have been worrying Scotland Yard a good deal. They are what may be described as Society robberies. The method is usually the same—the substitution of an imitation piece of jewellery for an original. My friend, Chief Inspector Japp, came to the conclusion that the robberies were not the work of one person, but of two people working in with each other very cleverly. He was convinced, from the considerable inside knowledge displayed, that the robberies were the work of people in a good social position. And finally his attention became riveted on Mademoiselle Joanna Southwood.

“Every one of the victims had been either a friend or acquaintance of hers, and in each case she had either handled or been lent the piece of jewellery in question. Also, her style of living was far in excess of her income. On the other hand it was quite clear that the actual robbery—that is to say the substitution—had not been accomplished by her. In some cases she had been out of England during the period when the jewellery must have been replaced.

“So gradually a little picture grew up in Chief Inspector Japp’s mind. Mademoiselle Southwood was at one time associated with a Guild of Modern Jewellery. He suspected that she handled the jewels in question, made accurate drawings of them, got them copied by some humble but dishonest working jeweller and that the third part of the operation was the successful substitution by another person—somebody who could have been proved never to have handled the jewels and never to have had anything to do with copies or imitations of precious stones. Of the identity of this other person Japp was ignorant.

“Certain things that fell from you in conversation interested me. A ring that disappeared when you were in Majorca, the fact that you had been in a house party where one of these fake substitutions had occurred, your close association with Mademoiselle Southwood. There was also the fact that you obviously resented my presence and tried to get your mother to be less friendly towards me. That might, of course, have been just personal dislike, but I thought not. You were too anxious to try and hide your distaste under a genial manner.

“Eh bien! after the murder of Linnet Doyle, it is discovered that her pearls are missing. You comprehend, at once I think of you! But I am not quite satisfied. For if you are working, as I suspect, with Mademoiselle Southwood (who was an intimate friend of Madame Doyle’s), then substitution would be the method employed—not barefaced theft. But then, the pearls quite unexpectedly are returned, and what do I discover? That they are not genuine, but imitation.

“I know then who the real thief is. It was the imitation string which was stolen and returned—an imitation which you had previously substituted for the real necklace.”

He looked at the young man in front of him. Tim was white under his tan. He was not so good a fighter as Pennington; his stamina was bad. He said, with an effort to sustain his mocking manner: “Indeed? And if so, what did I do with them?”

“That I know also.”

The young man’s face changed—broke up.

Poirot went on slowly: “There is only one place where they can be. I have reflected, and my reason tells me that that is so. Those pearls, Monsieur Allerton, are concealed in a rosary that hangs in your cabin. The beads of it are very elaborately carved. I think you had it made specially. Those beads unscrew, though you would never think so to look at them. Inside each is a pearl, stuck with Seccotine. Most police searchers respect religious symbols unless there is something obviously queer about them. You counted on that. I endeavoured to find out how Mademoiselle Southwood sent the imitation necklace out to you. She must have done so, since you came here from Majorca on hearing that Madame Doyle would be here for her honeymoon. My theory is that it was sent in a book—a square hole being cut out of the pages in the middle. A book goes with the ends open and is practically never opened in the post.”

There was a pause—a long pause. Then Tim said quietly: “You win! It’s been a good game, but it’s over at last. There’s nothing for it now, I suppose, but to take my medicine.”

Poirot nodded gently.

“Do you realize that you were seen that night?”

“Seen?” Tim started.

“Yes, on the night that Linnet Doyle died, someone saw you leave her cabin just after one in the morning.”

Tim said: “Look here—you aren’t thinking…it wasn’t I who killed her! I’ll swear that! I’ve been in the most awful stew. To have chosen that night of all others…God, it’s been awful!”

Poirot said: “Yes, you must have had uneasy moments. But, now that the truth has come out, you may be able to help us. Was Madame Doyle alive or dead when you stole the pearls?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said hoarsely. “Honest to God, Monsieur Poirot, I don’t know! I’d found out where she put them at night—on the little table by the bed. I crept in, felt very softly on the table and grabbed ’em, put down the others and crept out again. I assumed, of course, that she was asleep.”

“Did you hear her breathing? Surely you would have listened for that?”

Tim thought earnestly.

“It was very still—very still indeed. No, I can’t remember actually hearing her breathe.”

“Was there any smell of smoke lingering in the air, as there would have been if a firearm had been discharged recently?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t remember it.”

Poirot sighed.

“Then we are no further.”

Tim asked curiously, “Who was it saw me?”

“Rosalie Otterbourne. She came round from the other side of the boat and saw you leave Linnet Doyle’s cabin and go to your own.”

“So it was she who told you.”

Poirot said gently, “Excuse me; she did not tell me.”

“But then, how do you know?”

“Because I am Hercule Poirot I do not need to be told. When I taxed her with it, do you know what she said? She said: ‘I saw nobody.’ And she lied.”

“But why?”

Poirot said in a detached voice: “Perhaps because she thought the man she saw was the murderer. It looked like that, you know.”

“That seems to me all the more reason for telling you.”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “She did not think so, it seems.”

Tim said, a queer note in his voice: “She’s an extraordinary sort of a girl. She must have been through a pretty rough time with that mother of hers.”

“Yes, life has not been easy for her.”

“Poor kid,” Tim muttered. Then he looked towards Race.

“Well, sir, where do we go from here? I admit taking the pearls from Linnet’s cabin and you’ll find them just where you say they are. I’m guilty all right. But as far as Miss Southwood is concerned, I’m not admitting anything. You’ve no evidence whatever against her. How I got hold of the fake necklace is my own business.”

Poirot murmured: “A very correct attitude.”

Tim said with a flash of humour: “Always the gentleman!” He added: “Perhaps you can imagine how annoying it was to me to find my mother cottoning on to you! I’m not a sufficiently hardened criminal to enjoy sitting cheek by jowl with a successful detective just before bringing off a rather risky coup! Some people might get a kick out of it. I didn’t. Frankly, it gave me cold feet.”

“But it did not deter you from making your attempt?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders.

“I couldn’t funk it to that extent. The exchange had to be made sometime and I’d got a unique opportunity on this boat—a cabin only two doors off, and Linnet herself so preoccupied with her own troubles that she wasn’t likely to detect the change.”

“I wonder if that was so—”

Tim looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

Poirot pressed the bell. “I am going to ask Miss Otterbourne if she will come here for a minute.”

Tim frowned but said nothing. A steward came, received the order and went away with the message.

Rosalie came after a few minutes. Her eyes, reddened with recent weeping, widened a little at seeing Tim, but her old attitude of suspicion and defiance seemed entirely absent. She sat down and with a new docility looked from Race to Poirot.

“We’re very sorry to bother you, Miss Otterbourne,” said Race gently. He was slightly annoyed with Poirot.

“It doesn’t matter,” the girl said in a low voice.

Poirot said: “It is necessary to clear up one or two points. When I asked you whether you saw anyone on the starboard deck at one-ten this morning, your answer was that you saw nobody. Fortunately I have been able to arrive at the truth without your help. Monsieur Allerton has admitted that he was in Linnet Doyle’s cabin last night.”

She flashed a swift glance at Tim. Tim, his face grim and set, gave a curt nod.

“The time is correct, Monsieur Allerton?”

Allerton replied, “Quite correct.”

Rosalie was staring at him. Her lips trembled—fell apart….

“But you didn’t—you didn’t—”

He said quickly: “No, I didn’t kill her. I’m a thief, not a murderer. It’s all going to come out, so you might as well know. I was after her pearls.”

Poirot said, “Mr. Allerton’s story is that he went to her cabin last night and exchanged a string of fake pearls for the real ones.”

“Did you?” asked Rosalie. Her eyes, grave, sad, childlike, questioned his.

“Yes,” said Tim.