Agatha Christie - Death On The Nile

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.

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."