“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.
There was a pause. Colonel Race shifted restlessly.
Poirot said in a curious voice: “That, as I say, is Monsieur Allerton’s story, partially confirmed by your evidence. That is to say, there is evidence that he did visit Linnet Doyle’s cabin last night, but there is no evidence to show why he did so.”
Tim stared at him. “But you know!”
“What do I know?”
“Well—you know I’ve got the pearls.”
“Mais oui—mais oui! I know you have the pearls, but I do not know when you got them. It may have been before last night…You said just now that Linnet Doyle would not have noticed the substitution. I am not so sure of that. Supposing she did notice it…Supposing, even, she knew who did it…Supposing that last night she threatened to expose the whole business, and that you knew she meant to do so…and supposing that you overheard the scene in the saloon between Jacqueline de Bellefort and Simon Doyle and, as soon as the saloon was empty, you slipped in and secured the pistol, and then, an hour later, when the boat had quieted down, you crept along to Linnet Doyle’s cabin and made quite sure that no exposure would come….”
“My God!” said Tim. Out of his ashen face, two tortured, agonized eyes gazed dumbly at Hercule Poirot.
The latter went on: “But somebody else saw you—the girl Louise. The next day she came to you and blackmailed you. You must pay her handsomely or she would tell what she knew. You realized that to submit to blackmail would be the beginning of the end. You pretended to agree, made an appointment to come to her cabin just before lunch with the money. Then, when she was counting the notes, you stabbed her.
“But again luck was against you. Somebody saw you go to her cabin”—he half turned to Rosalie—“your mother. Once again you had to act—dangerously, foolhardily—but it was the only chance. You had heard Pennington talk about his revolver. You rushed into his cabin, got hold of it, listened outside Dr. Bessner’s cabin door, and shot Madame Otterbourne before she could reveal your name.”
“No-o!” cried Rosalie. “He didn’t! He didn’t!”
“After that, you did the only thing you could do—rushed round the stern. And when I rushed after you, you had turned and pretended to be coming in the opposite direction. You had handled the revolver in gloves; those gloves were in your pocket when I asked for them….”
Tim said, “Before God, I swear it isn’t true—not a word of it.” But his voice, ill-assured and trembling, failed to convince.
It was then that Rosalie Otterbourne surprised them.
“Of course it isn’t true! And Monsieur Poirot knows it isn’t! He’s saying it for some reason of his own.”
Poirot looked at her. A faint smile came to his lips. He spread out his hands in token surrender.
“Mademoiselle is too clever…But you agree—it was a good case?”
“What the devil—” Tim began with rising anger, but Poirot held up a hand.
“There is a very good case against you, Monsieur Allerton. I wanted you to realize that. Now I will tell you something more pleasant. I have not yet examined that rosary in your cabin. It may be that, when I do, I shall find nothing there. And then, since Mademoiselle Otterbourne sticks to it that she saw no one on the deck last night, eh bien! there is no case against you at all. The pearls were taken by a kleptomaniac who has since returned them. They are in a little box on the table by the door, if you would like to examine them with Mademoiselle.”
Tim got up. He stood for a moment unable to speak. When he did, his words seemed inadequate, but it is possible that they satisfied his listeners.
“Thanks!” he said. “You won’t have to give me another chance!”
He held the door open for the girl; she passed out and, picking up the little cardboard box, he followed her.
Side by side they went. Tim opened the box, took out the sham string of pearls and hurled it far from him into the Nile.
“There!” he said. “That’s gone. When I return the box to Poirot the real string will be in it. What a damned fool I’ve been!”
Rosalie said in a low voice: “Why did you come to do it in the first place?”
“How did I come to start, do you mean? Oh, I don’t know. Boredom—laziness—the fun of the thing. Such a much more attractive way of earning a living than just pegging away at a job. Sounds pretty sordid to you, I expect, but you know there was an attraction about it—mainly the risk, I suppose.”
“I think I understand.”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t ever do it.”
Rosalie considered for a moment or two, her grave young head bent.
“No,” she said simply. “I wouldn’t.”
He said: “Oh, my dear—you’re so lovely…so utterly lovely. Why wouldn’t you say you’d seen me last night?”
“I thought—they might suspect you,” Rosalie said.
“Did you suspect me?”
“No. I couldn’t believe that you’d kill anyone.”
“No. I’m not the strong stuff murderers are made of. I’m only a miserable sneak-thief.”
She put out a timid hand and touched his arm.
“Don’t say that.”
He caught her hand in his.
“Rosalie, would you—you know what I mean? Or would you always despise me and throw it in my teeth?”
She smiled faintly. “There are things you could throw in my teeth, too….”
“Rosalie—darling….”
But she held back a minute longer.
“This—Joanna?”
Tim gave a sudden shout.
“Joanna? You’re as bad as Mother. I don’t care a damn about Joanna. She’s got a face like a horse and a predatory eye. A most unattractive female.”
Presently Rosalie said: “Your mother need never know about you.”
“I’m not sure,” Tim said thoughtfully. “I think I shall tell her. Mother’s got plenty of stuffing, you know. She can stand up to things. Yes, I think I shall shatter her maternal illusions about me. She’ll be so relieved to know that my relations with Joanna were purely of a business nature that she’ll forgive me everything else.”
They had come to Mrs. Allerton’s cabin and Tim knocked firmly on the door. It opened and Mrs. Allerton stood on the threshold.
“Rosalie and I—” began Tim. He paused.
“Oh, my dears,” said Mrs. Allerton. She folded Rosalie in her arms. “My dear, dear child. I always hoped—but Tim was so tiresome—and pretended he didn’t like you. But of course I saw through that!”
Rosalie said in a broken voice: “You’ve been so sweet to me—always. I used to wish—to wish—”
She broke off and sobbed happily on Mrs. Allerton’s shoulder.
Twenty-Eight
As the door closed behind Tim and Rosalie, Poirot looked somewhat apologetically at Colonel Race. The Colonel was looking rather grim.
“You will consent to my little arrangement, yes?” Poirot pleaded. “It is irregular—I know it is irregular, yes—but I have a high regard for human happiness.”
“You’ve none for mine,” said Race.
“That jeune fille. I have a tenderness
towards her, and she loves that young man. It will be an excellent match; she has the stiffening he needs; the mother likes her; everything thoroughly suitable.”
“In fact the marriage has been arranged by heaven and Hercule Poirot. All I have to do is to compound a felony.”
“But, mon ami, I told you, it was all conjecture on my part.”
Race grinned suddenly.
“It’s all right by me,” he said. “I’m not a damned policeman, thank God! I dare say the young fool will go straight enough now. The girl’s straight all right. No, what I’m complaining of is your treatment of me! I’m a patient man, but there are limits to patience! Do you know who committed the three murders on this boat or don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Then why all this beating about the bush?”
“You think that I am just amusing myself with side issues? And it annoys you? But it is not that. Once I went professionally to an archæological expedition—and I learnt something there. In the course of an excavation, when something comes up out of the ground, everything is cleared away very carefully all around it. You take away the loose earth, and you scrape here and there with a knife until finally your object is there, all alone, ready to be drawn and photographed with no extraneous matter confusing it. That is what I have been seeking to do—clear away the extraneous matter so that we can see the truth—the naked shining truth.”
“Good,” said Race. “Let’s have this naked shining truth. It wasn’t Pennington. It wasn’t young Allerton. I presume it wasn’t Fleetwood. Let’s hear who it was for a change.”
“My friend, I am just about to tell you.”
There was a knock on the door. Race uttered a muffled curse. It was Dr. Bessner and Cornelia. The latter was looking upset.
“Oh, Colonel Race,” she exclaimed, “Miss Bowers has just told me about Cousin Marie. It’s been the most dreadful shock. She said she couldn’t bear the responsibility all by herself any longer, and that I’d better know, as I was one of the family. I just couldn’t believe it at first, but Dr. Bessner here has been just wonderful.”
“No, no,” protested the doctor modestly.
“He’s been so kind, explaining it all, and how people really can’t help it. He’s had kleptomaniacs in his clinic And he’s explained to me how it’s very often due to a deep-seated neurosis.”
Death on the Nile Page 24