Death on the Nile - by Agatha Christie

Twenty-Two

 

Colonel Race swore hastily.

“This damned case gets more and more involved.” He picked up the pearls. “I suppose you’ve not 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 deliberately have an imitation made 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 the boat—their wonderful sheen and lustre. 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 the imitation string after the real ones had been stolen by someone else. Second, that the whole kleptomaniac story is a fabrication. Either Miss Bowers is a thief, and quickly invented the story and allayed 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 American family.”

“Yes,” Poirot murmured. “It is difficult to say. But I will point out to you one thing—to make a perfect and exact copy of the pearls, clasp and all, good enough to stand a chance of deceiving Madame 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 the real 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 contained various archaeological works in different languages, a varied assortment of clothing, hair lotions of a highly scented kind and two personal letters—one from an archaeological expedition in Syria, and one from, apparently, 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’s Erewhon and a cheap edition of Pepys’ Diary. His personal possessions were not many. Most of what outer clothing there was was torn and dirty; the underclothing, on the other hand, was of really good quality. The handkerchiefs were expensive linen 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 thoughtfully at 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 the other passengers, but Race had sent word that she was to be taken to join the others. A cabin steward met them.

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

Race glanced inside the cabin. It was empty.

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

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

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

There were evidences here of an Anglo-Catholic turn of mind—an exquisite little triptych, and a big rosary of intricately carved wood. Besides personal clothing, there was a half completed manuscript, a good deal annotated and scribbled over, and a good collection of books, most of them recently published. There were also a quantity of letters thrown carelessly into a drawer. Poirot, never in the least scrupulous about reading other people’s correspondence, glanced through them. He noted that amongst them there were no letters from Joanna Southwood. He picked up a tube 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 exquisitely neat, and a faint old-fashioned smell of lavender hung about it. The two men’s search was soon over. Race remarked as they left it: “Nice woman, that.”

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

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

“You think it is likely?”

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

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 with him. 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, deftly, Poirot went about his search. He went down on his knees and scrutinized the floor inch by inch. He examined the bed. He went rapidly through the wardrobe and chest of drawers. He went through the wardrobe trunk and the two costly suitcases. He looked through the expensive gold-fitted dressing-case. Finally he turned his attention to the washstand. There were various creams, powders, face lotions. But the only thing that seemed to interest Poirot were two little bottles labelled Nailex. He picked them up at last and brought them to the dressing table. One, which bore the inscription Nailex Rose, was empty but for a drop or two of dark red fluid at the bottom. The other, the same size, but labelled Nailex Cardinal, was nearly full. Poirot uncorked first the empty, then the full one, and sniffed them both delicately.

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

“Get anything?” asked Race.

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

“Only the bottle of nail polish?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “I must ask the maid. There is something—yes—a little curious there.”

“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, a certain number of private letters and papers all perfectly in order.

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

Poirot demurred. “It might be. Once, on the Orient Express, I investigated a murder. There was a little matter of a scarlet 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 find nothing 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 with no 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 feverish and very much worse than earlier in the day. Poirot appreciated Bessner’s anxiety to get him as swiftly as possible to hospital and skilled appliances. The little Belgian explained what the two of them were doing, and Simon nodded approval. On learning that the pearls had been restored by Miss Bowers, but proved to be merely imitation, he expressed the most complete astonishment.

“You are quite sure, Monsieur Doyle, that your wife did not have an imitation string which she brought 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. They were 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 know when 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 them requiring 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 first thing.”

“That is so, yes.”

Poirot lifted a heavy Colt revolver out of the top drawer of the chest of drawers, looked at it and put 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.” Race paused and then said: “You know, I’ve thought of a possible answer to your point about the pistol being 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 was that second person? What interest had they in endeavouring to shield Jacqueline de Bellefort by taking away the pistol? What was the second person doing there? The only other person we know of who went into the cabin was Mademoiselle Van Schuyler. Was it conceivably Mademoiselle Van 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 the whole 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 a possible solution. But it is always—bon Dieu! It is clumsy. And you still have not appreciated one point about the stole—”

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

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

“Why is that, Monsieur Doyle?”

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

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

Simon flushed with slight embarrassment.

“You see, Monsieur Poirot, it’s difficult for me to say…I—I—well, you see, I hadn’t known Linnet 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 awfully generous 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 them to Mademoiselle de Bellefort?”

“What d’you mean?” Simon flushed brick-red, tried to sit up and, wincing, fell back. “What are you getting at? That Jackie stole the pearls? She didn’t. I’ll swear she didn’t. Jackie’s as straight as a die. The mere 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. “That suggestion of mine, it has indeed stirred up the nest of hornets.”

Simon repeated doggedly, unmoved by Poirot’s lighter note, “Jackie’s straight!”

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

He had wondered which of the three statements he had heard that night was the true one. It seemed 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 stewards coming along with their report as to the searching of the passengers.”

A steward and stewardess appeared in the doorway. The former spoke 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—something of 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 stew at Wadi Halfa just 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, Miss Rosalie 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 going through 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 ample opportunity to get a replica made.”

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

“Nonsense,” replied Race, irritably. “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 on board.” 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 cabin and passed inside.

Louise Bourget, whose trade it was to keep other people’s belongings in order, had taken a holiday where her own were concerned. Odds and ends littered the top of the chest of drawers; a suitcase gaped 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 the suitcase.

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

He closed the suitcase and bent over the line of shoes. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”

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