Agatha Christie - Death On The Nile

by Death on the Nile (lit)

  "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 of transatlantic sailing are the Normandie. The Normandie, I remember, sailed two days after the Carmanic."

  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 over on the Normandie and not by the Carmanic, as you said. In that case, you received Mrs. Doyle's letter before you left New York. It's no good denying it, for it's the easiest thing in the world to check up the steamship companies."

  Andrew Pennington felt absent-mindedly for a chair and sat down. His face was impassive a poker face. Behind that mask his agile brain looked ahead to the next move.

  "I'll have to hand it you, gentlemen. You've been too smart for me. But I had my reasons for acting as I did."

  "No doubt."

  Race's tone was curt.

  "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 in England. It worried me. I couldn't do much about it by letter.

  The only thing was to come over and 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 accusation 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 deception about not having received the letter." "Well, I ask you--" Pennington spread out his hands. "You can'tbutt in on a honeymoon couple without more or less coming down to brass tacks and giving your reasons. I thought it best to make the meeting accidental. Besides, I didn't know anything about the husband. He might have 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.

  "M. 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 quandary--that you came over post haste 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 Mrs. Doyle's signature to certain documents--and failed. That on the journey up the Nile, when walking along the clifftop at Abu Simbel, you dislodged a boulder which fell and only very narrowly missed 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 Mrs. Doyle out of the way at the moment when her death would be almost certainly ascribed to the action of another person--we not only believe, but know, that it was your revolver which killed a woman who was about to reveal to us the name of the person whom she had reason to believe killed both Linnet Doyle and the maid Louise--" "Hell!" The £orcible ejaculation broke forth and interrupted Poirot's stream of eloquence. "What are you getting at? Are you crazy? What motive had I to kill Linnet? I wouldn't get her money--that goes to her husband. Why don't you pick on him. He's the one to benefit--not me." Race said coldly: "Doyle nevcz left the lounge on the night of the tragedy till he was shot at and wounded in the leg. The impossibility of his walking a step aider that is attested to by a doctor and a nurse both independent and reliable witnesses. Simon Doyle could not have killed his wife. He could not have killed Louise Bourget. He most definitely did not kill Mrs. Otterbourne! You know that as well as we do." "I know he didn't kill her." Pennington sounded a little calmer. "All I say is, why pick on me when 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. Mrs. Doyle was a keen woman of business, fully conversant of her own affairs and very quick to spot any irregularity. As soon as she took up the control of her property which she would have done on her return to England her suspicions were bound to be aroused. But now that she is dead and that her husband, as you have just pointed out, inherits, the whole thing is different. Simon Doyle knows nothing whatever of his {vife's affairs except that she was a rich woman. He is of a simple trusting disposition. You will find it easy to place complicated statements before him, to involve the real issue in a net of figures, and to delay settlement with pleas of legal formalities and the recent depression. I think that it makes a very considerable difference to you whether you deal with the husband or the wife.'

  Pennington shrugged his shoulders.

  "Your ideas arc--fantastic." "Time will show." "What did you say?"

  "I said, 'Time will show!' This is a mtter of three deaths--three murders. The law will demand the most searching investigation into the condition of Mrs.

  Doyle's estate."

  He saw the sudden sag in the other's shoulders and knew that he had won. Jim

  Fanthorp's suspicions were well founded.

  Poirot went on:

  "You've played---and lost. Useless to go on bluffing."

  Pennington muttered:

  "You don't understand--it's all square enough really. It's been this damned slumpWall Street's been crazy. But I'd staged a comeback. With luck everything will be O.K. by the middle of June."

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

  "I suppose," mused Poirot, "that the boulder was a sudden temptation. You thought nobody saw you."

  "That was an accident--I swear it was an accident." The man leaned 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 wreck of a man but his fighting spirit 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'you hear? You can't pin that on me either--and you never will."

  He went out.

  CHAPTER 26

  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 Mrs.

  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. Mats c'est tout. Something was wanted for this crime that Pennington hasn'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 some one 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, Mr. 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: "Ina 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, 'OO-er!' 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, M. 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?" "Yesa Miss 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 au imitation piece ofjewellery 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 tlae work of people in a good social position. And finally his attention became riveted on Miss 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 even 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 fnind. Miss 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 had 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 Miss Southwood. There was also the fact that you obviously resented my presence and tried to get your mother to be less friendly towards me. at 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 quile satisfied.

  For if you are working, as I suspect, with Miss Southwood (who was an intimate friend of Mrs. Doyle's) then substitution would be the method employed--not barefaced theft. But then, the pearls quite unexpectedly are returned ad 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 sid 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, Mr. Allerton, are concealed in a rosary that hangs in your cabin. The beads of it are very elaborately carved. I thinl 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 Miss Southwood sent the imitation necklace out to you. She must have done so, since you came here from Majorca on hearing that Mrs. 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 mid6tle. A book goes with the ends open and is practically never opened in the post."

  There was a pausea 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 realise that you were seen last night?" "Seen?" Tim started.

  "Yes, on the night that Linnet Doyle died, some one 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 haveehosen 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 Mrs. Doyle alive or dead when you stole the pearls?" Tim said hoarsely: "I don't know. Honest to God, M. Poirot, I don't know! I'd found out where she put them at nightn 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.