Death On The Nile - Christie Agatha - Страница 31

Poirot said quickly:

"It was an odd moment to choose?"

"Exactly. To steal the pearls on a voyage such as this invites a close search of evertjbody on board. How, then, could the thief hope to get away with his booty?" "He might have gone ashore and dumped it?"

"The company always has a watchman on the bank."

"Then that is not feasible. Was the murder committed to divert attention from the robbery? No, that does not make sense-it is profoundly unsatisfactory. But supposing that Mrs. Doyle woke up and caught the thief in the act?"

"And therefore the thief shot her? But she was shot whilst she slept."

"So that too does not make sense… You know, I have a little idea about those pearls-and yet-no-it is impossible. Because if my idea was right the pearls would not have disappeared. Tell me, what did you think of the maid?" "I wondered," said Race slowly, "if she knew more than she said." "Ah, you too had that impression?" "Definitely not a nice girl," said Race.

Hercule Poirot nodded.

"Yes, I would not trust her, that one."

"You think she had something to do with the murder?"

"No, I would not say that."

"With the theft of the pearls, then?"

"That is more probable. She had only been with Mrs. Doyle a very short time.

She may be a member of a gang that specialises in jewel robberies. In such a case there is often a maid with excellent references. Unfortunately we are not in a position to seek information On these points. And yet that explanation does not quite satisfy me… Those pearlsah sacra, my little idea ought to be right. And yet nobody would be so imbecile-" he broke off.

"What about the man Fleetwood?"

"We must question him. It may be that we have there the solution. If Louise Bourges story is true, he had a definite motive for revenge. He could have overheard the scene between Jacqueline and Mr. Doyle, and when they have left the saloon he could have darted in and secured the gun. Yes, it is all quite possible.

And that letter J scrawled in blood. That, too, would accord with a simple rather crude nature."

"In fact, he's just the person we are looking for?"

"Yes-only-"

Poirot rubbed his nose. He said with a slight grimace:

"See you, I recognise my own weaknesses. It has been said of me that I like to make a case difficult. This solution that you put to me-it is too simple-too easy. I cannot feel that it really happened. And yet, that may be sheer prejudice on my part."

"Well, we'd better have the fellow here."

Race rang the bell and gave the order. Then he said:

"Any other-possibilities?"

"Plenty, my friend. There is, for example, the American trustee."

"Pennington?"

"Yes, Pennington. There was a curious little scene in here the other day."

He narrated the happenings to Race.

"You seeit is significant. Madame, she wanted to read all the papers before signing. So he makes the excuse of another day. And then, the husband, he makes a very significant remark."

"What was that?"

"He says: 'I never read anything. I sign where I am told to sign.' You perceive the significance of that? Pennington did. I saw it in his eye. He looked at Doyle as though an entirely new idea had come into his head. Just imagine, my friend, that you have been left trustee to the daughter of an intensely wealthy man. You use, perhaps, that money to speculate with. I know it is so in all detective novels but you read-of it too in the newspapers. It happens, my friend, it happens."

"I don't dispute it," said Race.

"There is, perhaps, still time to make good by speculating wildly. Your ward is not yet of age. And then-she marries! The control passes from your hands into hers at a moment's notice! A disaster! But there is still a chance. She is on a honeymoon. She will perhaps be careless about business. A casual paper slipped in among others, signed without reading. But Linnet Doyle was not like that.

Honeymoon or no honeymoon, she was a business womah. And then her husband makes a remark and a new idea comes to that desperate man who is seeking a way out from ruin. If Linnet Doyle were to die, her fortune would pass to her husband and he would be easy to deal with, he would be a child in the hands of an astute man like Andrew Pennington. Mon cher Colonel, I tell you I saw the thought pass through Andrew Pennington's head. 'If only it were Doyle I had got to deal with… ' That is what he was thinking."

"Quite possible, I dare say," said Race dryly, "But you've no evidence." "Then there's young Ferguson," said Race. "He talks bitterly enough. Not that I go by talk. Still, he might be the fellow whose father was ruined by old Ridgeway. It's a little far-fetched but it's possible. People do brood over bygone wrongs sometimes."

He paused a minute and then said:

"And there's my fellow."

"Yes, there is 'your fellow' as you call him."

'"He's a killer," said Race. "We know that. On the other hand I can't see any way in which he could have come up against Linnet Doyle. Their orbits don't touch."

Poirot said slowly:

"Unless, accidentally, she had become possessed of evidence showing his identity."

"That's possible, but it seems highly unlikely." There was a knock at the door. "Ah, there's our would-be bigamist."

Fleetwood was a big truculent looking man. He looked suspiciously from one to the other of them as he entered the room. Poirot recognised him as the man he had seen talking to Louise Bourget.

Fleetwood said suspiciously: "You wanted to see me?"

"We did," said Race. "You probably know that a murder was committed on this boat last night?" Fleetwood nodded.

"And I believe it is true that you had reason to feel anger against the woman who was killed." A look of alarm sprang up in Fleetwood's eyes.

"Who told you that?" "You considered that Mrs. Doyle had interfered between you and a young woman." "I know who told you that-that lying French hussy. She's a liar through and through, that girl." "But this particular story happens to be true." "It's a dirty lie!" "You say that although you don't know what it is yet." The shot told. The man flushed and gulped.

"It is true, is it not, that you were going to marry the girl Marie, and that she broke it off when she discovered that you were a married man already." "What business was it of hers?" "You mean, what business was it of Mrs. Doyle's? Well, you know, bigamy is bigamy." "It wasn't like that. I married one of the locals out here. It didn't answer. She went back to her people. I've not seen her for half a dozen years." "Still you were married to her." The man was silent. Race went on.

"Mrs. Doyle, or Miss Ridgeway as she then was, found out all this?" "Yes, she did, curse her. Nosing about where no one ever asked her to. I'd have treated Marie right. I'd have done anything for her. And she'd never have known about the other, if it hadn't been for that meddlesome young lady, and I felt bitter about it when I saw her on this boat, all dressed up in pearls and diamonds and lording it all over the place with never a thought that she'd broken up a man's life for him! I felt bitter all right. But if you think I'm a dirty murderer if you think I went and shot her with a gun, well, that's a damned lie! I never touched her. And that's God's truth." He stopped. The sweat was rolling down his face.

"Where were you last night between the hours of twelve and two?" "In my bunk asleepand my mate will tell you so." "We shall see," said Race. He dismissed him with a curt nod. "That'll do." "Eh bien?" said Poirot as the door closed behind Fleetwood.

Race shrugged his shoulders.

"He tells quite a straight story. He's nervous, of course, but not unduly so.

We'll have to investigate his alibi-though I don't suppose it will be decisive. His mate was probably asleep and this fellow could have slipped in and out ffhe wanted to. It depends whether any one else saw him." "Yes, one must inquire as to that." "The next thing, I think," said Race, "is whether any one heard anything which might give us a clue to the time of the crime. Bessner places it as having occurred between twelve and two. It seems reasonable to hope that some one among the passengers may have heard the shot-even if they did not recognise it for what it was. I didn't hear anything of the kind myself. What about you?" Poirot shook his head.