6 Part 6

Mr. Pennington was shocked. Mr. Pennington could hardly believe it.

"Why, gentlemen," he said, "this is a very serious matter. Very serious indeed."

"Extremely serious for you, Mr. Pennington."

"For me?" Pennington's eyebrows rose in startled surprise. "But, my dear sir,

I was sitting quietly writing in here when that shot was fired." "You have, perhaps, a witness to prove that?" Pennington shook his head.

"Why, no, I wouldn't say that. But it's clearly impossible that I should have gone to the deck above, shot this poor woman (and why should I shoot her anyWay?) and come down again with no one seeing me.

There are always plenty of people on the deck lounge this time of day."

"How do you account for your pistol being used?"

"Well! I'm afraid I may be to blame there. Quite soon after getting aboard there was a conversation in the saloon one evening, I remember, about firearms, and I mentioned then that I always carried a revolver with me when I travel." "Who was there?"

"Well, I can't remember exactly. Most people, I think. Quite a crowd, anyway."

He shook his head gently.

"Why, yes," he said. "I am certainly to blame there." He went on:

"First Linnet, then Linnet's maid and now Mrs. Otterbourne. There seems no reason in it all!"

"There was a reason," said Race.

"There was?"

"Yes. Mrs. Otterbourne was on the point of telling us that she had seen a certain person go into Louise's cabin. Before she could name that person she was shot dead."

Andrew Pennington passed a fine silk handkerchief over his brow.

"All this is terrible," he murmured.

Poirot said:

"M. Pennington, I would like to discuss certain aspects of the case with you.

Will you come to my cabin in half an hour's time?"

"I should be delighted."

Pennington did not sound delighted. He did not look delighted either. Race and Poirot exchanged glances and then abruptly left the room.

"Cunning old devil," said Race. "But he's afraid. Eh?" Poirot nodded:

"Yes, he is not happy, our Mr. Pennington."

As they reached the promenade deck again, Mrs. Allerton came out of her cabin and seeing Poirot beckoned him imperiously.

"Madame?"

"That poor child! Tell me, M, Poirot, is there a double cabin somewhere that I could share with her?

She oughtn't to go back to the one she shared with her mother, and mine is only a single one."

"That can be arranged, Madame. It is very good of you."

"It's a mere decency. Besides, I'm very fond of the girl. I've always liked her." "Is she very upset?"

"Terribly. She seems to have been absolutely devoted to that odious woman.

That is what is so pathetic about it all. Tim says he believes she drank. Is that true?"

Poirot nodded.

"Oh, well, poor woman, one mustn't judge her, I suppose, but the girl must have had a terrible life."

"She did, Madame. She is very proud and she was very loyal."

"Yes, I like that loyalty, I mean. It's out of fashion nowadays. She's an odd character, that girl proud,

reserved, stubborn, and terribly warm-hearted underneath, I fancy."

"I see that I have given her into good hands, Madame."

"Yes, don't worry. I'll look after her. She's inclined to cling to me in the most pathetic fashion."

Mrs. Allerton went back into the cabin. Poirot returned to the scene of the tragedy.

Cornelia was still standing on the deck, her eyes wide.

She said, "I don't understand, M. Poirot. How did the person who shot her get away without our seeing him?"

"Yes, how?" echoed Jacqueline.

"Ah," said Poirot. "It was not quite such a disappearing trick as you think, Mademoiselle. There were three distinct ways the murderer might have gone.

Jacqueline looked puzzled. She said, "Three?"

"He might have gone to the right, or he might have gone to the left, but I don't see any other way," puzzled Cornelia.

Jacqueline too frowned. Then her brow cleared.

She said:

"Of course. He could move in two directions on one plane but he could go at right angles to that plane too. That is, he couldn't go up very well but he could go Poirot smiled.

"You have brains., Mademoiselle."

Cornelia said:

"I know I'm just a plain mutt, but I still don't see."

Jacqueline said:

"M. Poirot means, darling, that he could swing himself over the rail and down on to the deck below."

"My!" gasped Cornelia. "I never thought of that. He'd have to be mighty quick about it, though. I suppose he could just do it?"

"He could do it easily enough," said Tim Allerton. "Remember there's always a minute of shock after a thing like this one hears a shot and one's too paralyzed to move for a second or two."

"That was your experience, Mr. Mlerton?"

"Yes, it was. I just stood like a dummy for quite five seconds. Then I fairly sprinted around the deck."

Race came out of Bessner's cabin, and said authoritatively:

"Would you mind all clearing off. We want to bring out the body."

Everyone moved away obediently. Poirot went with them. Cornelia said to him with sad earnestness.

"I'll never forget this trip as long as I live three deaths It's just like living in a nightmare." Ferguson

overheard her. He said aggressively: "That's because you're overcivilized. You should look on death as the Oriental does. It's a mere incident hardly noticeable." Cornelia said:

"That's all very well, they're not educated, poor creatures"

"No, and a good thing too. Education has devitalized white races. Look at America goes in for an

orgy of culture. Simply disgusting."

"I think you're talking nonsense," said Cornelia, flushing. "I attend lectures every winter on Greek Art and the Renaissance and I went to some on Famous Women of History."

Mr. Ferguson groaned in agony.

"Greek Art! Renaissance! Famous Women of History! It makes me quite sick to hear you. It's the future that matters, woman, not the past. Three women are dead on this boat, well, what of it? They're no less!

Linnet Doyle and her money!

The French maid a domestic parasite, Mrs. Otterbournea useless fool of a woman. Do you think anyone really cares whether they're dead or not? I don't. I think it's a damned good thing!"

"Then you're wrong!" Cornelia blazed out at him. "And it makes me sick to hear you talk and talk as though nobody mattered but you. I didn't like Mrs. Otterbourne much, but her daughter was ever so fond of her and she's all broken up over her mother's death. I don't know much about the French maid, but I expect somebody was fond of her somewhere, and as for Linnet Doyle, well, apart from everything else, she was just lovely! She was so beautiful when she came into a room that it made a lump come in your throat. I'm homely myself, and that makes me appreciate the beauty a lot more. She was as beautiful just as a woman as anything in Greek Art. And whee anything beautiful's dead, it's a loss to the world. So there!"

Mr. Ferguson stepped back a pace. He caught hold of his hair with both hands and tugged at it vehemently.

"I give it up," he said. "You're unbelievable. Just haven't got a bit of natural female spite in you anywhere."

He turned to Poirot. "Do you know, sir, that Cornelia's father was practically ruined by Linnet

Ridgeway's old man? But does the girl gnash her teeth when she sees the heiress sailing about in pearls and Paris models? No, she just bleats out, 'Isn't she beautiful?' like a blessed baa lamb. I don't believe she even felt sore at her."

Cornelia flushed.

"I did, just for a minute. Poppa kind of died of discouragement, you know, because he hadn't made good."

"Felt sore for a minute! I ask you."

Cornelia flashed round on him.

"Well, didn't you say just now it was the future that mattered, not the past?

All that was in the past, wasn't it? It's over."

"Got me there," said Ferguson. "Cornelia Robson, you're the only nice woman I've ever come across. Will you marry me?"

"Don't be absurd."

"It's a genuine proposal even if it is made in the presence of Old Man Sleuth. Anyway, you're a

witness, M. Poirot. I've deliberately offered marriage to this female against all my principles because I don't believe in legal contracts. between the sexes, but I don't think she'd stand for anything else, so marriage it shall be. Come on, Cornelia, say yes." "I think you're utterly ridiculous," said Cornelia, flushing. "Why won't you marry me?" "You're not serious," said Cornelia.

"Do you mean not serious in proposing or do you mean not serious in character?" "Both, but I really meant character. You laugh at all sorts of serious things. Education and Cultural and Death. You wouldn't bereliable." She broke off, flushed again, and hurried along into her cabin.

Ferguson stared after her.

"Damn the girl! I believe she really means it. She wants a man to be reliable. Reliableye gods!" He

paused and then said curiously, "What's the matter with you, M. Poirot? You seem very deep in thought."

Poirot roused himself with a start.

"I reflect, that is all. I reflect." "Meditation on Death. Death, the Recurring Decimal, by Hercule Poirot, one of his well-known monographs." "Mr. Ferguson," said Poirot. "You are a very impertinent young man." "You must excuse me. I like attacking established institutions." "And I am an established institution?" "Precisely. What do you think of that girl?" "Of Miss Robson?" "Yes." "I think that she has a great deal of character." "You're right. She's got spirit. She looks meek, but she isn't. She's got guts.

She's oh, damn it, I want that girl. It mightn't be a bad move if I tackled the old lady. If I could once get her thoroughly against me, it might cut some ice with Cornelia." He wheeled and went into the observation saloon.

Miss Van Schuyler was seated in her usual corner. She looked even more arrogant than usual. She was knitting.

Ferguson strode up to her. Hercule Poirot, entering unobtrusively, took a seat a discreet distance away and appeared to be absorbed in a magazine.

"Good-afternoon, Miss Van Schuyler." Miss Van Schuyler aised her eyes for a bare second, dropped them again and murmured frigidly: "Good-afternoon." "Look here, Miss Van Schuyler, I want to talk to you about something pretty important. It's just this. I want to marry your niece." Miss Van Schuyler's ball of wool dropped on to the ground and ran wildly across the saloon.

She said in a venomous tone: "You must be out of your senses, young man." "Not at all. I'm determined to marry her. I've asked her to marry me!" Miss Van Schuyler surveyed him coldly, with the kind of speculative interest she might have accorded to an odd sort of beetle.

"Indeed? And I presume she sent you about your business." "She refused me." "Naturally." "Not

'naturally' at all. I'm going to go on asking her till she agrees." "I can assure you, sir, I shall take steps to see that my young cousin is not subjected to any such persecution," said Miss Van Schuyler in a biting tone." "What have you got against me?"

Miss Van Schuyler merely raised her eyebrows and gave a vehement tug to her wool, preparatory to regaining it and closing the interview.

"Come now," persisted Mr. Ferguson. "What have you got against me?"

"I should think that was quite obvious, Mr., I don't know your name." "Ferguson."

"Mr. Ferguson." Miss Van Schuyler uttered the name with definite distaste.

"Any such idea is quite out of the question."

"You mean," said Ferguson, "that I'm not good enough for her?" "I should think that would have been obvious to you." "In what way am I not good enough?" Miss Van Schuyler again did not answer.

"I've got two legs two arms, good health and quite reasonable brains. What's wrong with that?"

"There is such a thing as social position, Mr. Ferguson."

"Social position is bunk!"

The door swung open and Cornelia came in. She stopped dead on seeing her redoubtable Cousin Marie in conversation with her would-be suitor.

The outrageous Mr. Ferguson turned his head, grinned broadly and called out:

"Come along, Cornelia. I'm asking for your hand in marriage in the best conventional manner."

"Cornelia," said Miss Van Schuyler, and her voice was truly awful in quality. "Have you encouraged this young man?"

"I no, of course not, at least not exactly I mean"

"What do you mean?"

"She hasn't encouraged me," said Mr. Ferguson helpfully. "I've done it all.

She hasn't actually pushed me in the face because she's got too kind a heart. Cornelia, your aunt says I'm not good enough for you. That, of course, is true, but not in the way she means it. My moral nature certainly doesn't equal yours, but her point is that I'm hopelessly below you socially."

"That, I think, is equally obvious to Cornelia," said Miss Van Schuyler.

"Is it?" Mr. Ferguson looked at her searchingly. "Is that why you won't marry me?"

"No, it isn't." Cornelia flushed. "If-if I liked you, I'd marry you no matter who you were."

"But you don't like me?"

"I think you're just outrageous. The way you say things... The things you say... I've never met any

one the least like you. I..."

Tears threatened to overcome her. She rushed from the room.

"On the whole," said Mr. Ferguson, "that's not too bad for a start." He leaned back in his chair, gazed at the ceiling, whistled, crossed his disreputable knees and remarked, "I'll be calling you Auntie yet."

Miss Van Schuyler trembled with rage.

"Leave this room at once, sir, or I'll ring for the steward."

"I've paid for my ticket," said Mr. Ferguson. "They can't possibly turn me out of the public lounge. But I'll humour you." He sang softly, "Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum." Rising, he sauntered nonchalantly to the door and passed out.

Choking with anger Miss Van Schuyler struggled to her feet. Poirot, discreetly emerging from retirement behind his magazine, sprang up and retrieved the ball of wool.

"Thank you, M. Poirot. If you would send Miss Bowers to meI feel quite upset that insolent young

man."

"Rather eccentric, I'm afraid," said Poirot. "Most of that family are. Spoilt, of course. Always inclined to tilt at windmills." He added carelessly: "You recognised him, I suppose?"

"Recognised him?"

"Calls himself Ferguson and won't use his title because of his advanced ideas." "His title?" Miss Van Schuyler's tone was sharp.

"Yes, that's young Lord Dawlish. Rolling in money, of course. But he became a communist when he was at Oxford."

Miss Van Schuyler, her face a battleground of contradictory emotions, said: "How long have you known this, M. Poirot?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"There was a picture in one of these papers, I noticed the resemblance. Then I found a signet ring with a coat of arms on it. Oh, there's no doubt about it, I assure you.

He quite enjoyed reading the conflicting expressions that succeeded each other on Miss Van Schuyler's face. Finally, with a gracious inclination of the head, she said:

"I am very much obliged to you, M. Poirot."

Poirot looked after her as she went out of the saloon and smiled.

Then he sat down and his face grew grave once more. He was following out a train of thought in hi mind.

From time to time he nodded his head.

"Mais oui," he said at last. "It all fits in."

Race found him still sitting there.

"Well, Poirot, what about it? Pennington's due in ten minutes. I'm leaving this in your hands."

Poirot rose quickly to his feet.

"First, get hold of young Fanthorp." "Fanthorp?" Race looked surprised.

"Yes. Bring him to my cabin."

Race nodded and went off. Poirot went along to his cabin. Race arrived with young Fanthorp a minute or two afterwards.

Poirot indicated chairs and offered cigarettes.

"Now, M. Fanthorp," he said. "To our business! I perceive that you wear the same tie that my friend

Hastings wears."

Jim Fanthorp looked down at his neckwear with some bewilderment.

"It's an O.E. Tie," he said.

"Exactly. You must understand that though I am a foreigner, I know something of the English point of view. I know, for instance, that there are 'things which are done' and things which are 'not done.'"

Jim Fanthorp grinned.

"We don't say that sort of thing much nowadays, sir."

"Perhaps not, but the custom, it still remains. The Old School Tie is the Old School Tie and there are certain things (I know this from experience) that the Old School Tie does not do! One of those things, M. Fanthorp, is to butt into a private conversation unasked when one does not know the people who are conducting it." Fanthorp stared.

Poirot went on:

"But the other day, M. Fanthorp, that is exactly what you did do. Certain persons were quietly transacting some private business in the observation saloon.

You strolled near them, obviously in order to overhear what it was that was in progress, and presently you actually turned round and congratulated a lady, Mrs. Simon Doyleon the soundness of her business methods."

Jim Fanthorp's face got very red. Poirot swept on, not waiting for a comment.

"Now that, M. Fanthorp, was not at all the behavior of one who wears a tie similar to that worn by my friend Hastings! Hastings is all delicacy, would die of shame before he did such a thing! Therefore, taking that action of yours in conjunction with the fact that you are a very young man to be able to afford an expensive holiday, that you are a member of a country solicitor's firm and therefore probably not extravagantly well off, and that you shdw no sign of recent illness such as might necessitate a prolonged visit abroad, I ask myself-and am now asking you what is the reason for your presence on this boat?"

Jim Fanthorp jerked his head back.

"I decline to give you any information whatever, M. Poirot. I really think you must be mad."

"I am not mad. I am very very sane. Where is your firm? In Northampton that is not very far from

Wode Hall. What conversation did you try to overhear?

One concerning legal documents. What was the object of your remark which you uttered with

obvious embarrassment and malaise? Your object was to prevent Mrs. Doyle from signing any

documents unread."

He paused.

"On this boat, we have had a murder, and following that murder two other murders in rapid succession. If I further give you the information that the weapon which killed Mrs. Otterbourne was a revolver owned by Mr. Andrew Penningt, on, then perhaps you will realize that it is actually your duty to tell us all you can.

Jim Fanthorp was silent for some minutes. At last he said:

"You have rather an odd way of going about things, M. Poirot, but I appreciate the points you have

made. The trouble is that I have no exact information to lay before you."

"You mean that it is a case, merely, of suspicion."

"Yes."

"And therefore you think it injudicious to speak? That may be true, legally speaking. But this is not a court of law. Colonel Race and myself are endeavouring to track down a murderer. Anything that can help us to do so may be valuable." Again Jim Fanthorp reflected. Then he said: "Very well. What is it you want to know?" "Why did you come on this trip?"

"My uncle, Mr. Carmichael, Mrs. Doyle's English solicitor, sent me. He handled a good many of her

affairs. In this way, he was often in correspondence with Mr. Andrew Pennington who was Mrs. Doyle's American trustee. Several small incidents (I cannot enumerate them all) made my uncle suspicious that all was not quite as it should be."

"In plain language," said Race, "your uncle suspected that Pennington was a crook?"

Jim Fanthorp nodded, a faint smile on his face.

"You put it rather more bluntly than I should, but the main idea is correct.

Various excuses made by Pennington, certainly plausible explanations of the disposal of funds, aroused my uncle's distrust.

"While these suspicions of his were still nebulous Miss Ridgeway married unexpectedly and went off on her honeymoon to Egypt. Her marriage relieved my uncle's mind, as he knew that on her return to England the estate would have to be formally settled and handed over."

"However, in a letter she wrote him from Cairo, she mentioned casually that she had unexpectedly run across Andrew Pennington. My uncle's suspicions became acute. He felt sure that Pennington, perhaps by now in a desperate position, was going to try and obtain signatures from her which would cover his own defalcations. Since my uncle had no definite evidence to lay before her, he was in a most difficult position. The only thing he could think of was to send me out there, travelling by air, with instructions to discover what was in the wind. I was to keep my eyes open and act summarily if necessary, a most unpleasant mission, I can assure you. As a matter of fact, on the occasion, you mention I had to behave

more or less as a cad! It was awkward, but on the whole I was satisfied with the result."

"You mean you put Mrs. Doyle on her guard?" asked Race.

"Not so much that. But I think I put the wind-up Pennington. I felt convinced he wouldn't try any more funny business for some time and by then I hoped to have got intimate enough with Mr. and Mrs. Doyle to convey some kind of a warning. As a matter of fact I hoped to do so through Doyle. Mrs. Doyle was so attached to Mr. Pennington that it would have been a bit awkward to suggest things to her about him. It would have been easier for me to approach the husband."

Race nodded.

Poirot asked:

"Will you give me a candid opinion on one point, M. Fanthorp? If you were engaged in putting a swindle over, would you choose Mrs. Doyle or Mr. Doyle as a victim?"

Fanthorp smiled faintly.

"Mr. Doyle, every time. Linnet Doyle was very shrewd in business matters.

Her husband, I should fancy, is one of those trustful fellows who know nothing of business and are

always ready to 'sign on the dotted line' as he himself put it." "I agree," said Poirot. He looked at Race.

"And there's your motive." Jim Fanthorp said:

"But this is all pure conjecture. It isn't evidence."

Poirot said easily:

"Ah bah! we will get evidence!"

"How?"

"Possibly from Mr. Pennington himself."

Fanthorp looked doubtful.

"I wonder. I very much wonder." Race glanced at his watch.

"He's about due now."

Jim Fanthorp was quick to take the hint. He left them.

Two minutes later Andrew Pennington made his appearance.

His manner was all smiling urbanity. Only the taut line of his jaw and the wariness of his eyes betrayed the fact that a thoroughly experienced fighter was on his guard.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "here I am."

He sat down and looked at them inquiringly.

"We asked you to come here, Mr. Pennington," began Poirot, "because it is fairly obvious that you have a very special and immediate interest in the case." Pennington raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Is that so?" Poirot said gently:

"Surely. You have known Linnet Ridgeway, I understand, since she was quite a child."

"Oh! that" his face altered became less alert. "I beg pardon, I didn't quite get you. Yes, as I told you this morning, I've known Linnet since she was a cute little thing in pinafores."

"You were on terms of close intimacy with her father?"

"That's so. Melhuish Ridgeway and I were close, very close."

"You were so intimately associated that on his death he appointed you business guardian to his daughter

and trustee to the vast fortune she inherited."

"Why, roughly, that is so." The wariness was back again. The note.was more cautious. "I was not the only trustee, naturally, others were associated with me." "Who has since died?"

"Two of them are dead. The other, Mr. Sterndale Rockford, is alive." "Your partner?" "Yes."

"Miss Ridgeway, I understand, was not yet of age when she married?"

"She would have been twenty-one next July."

"And in the normal course of events she would have come into control of her fortune then?"

"Yes."

"But her marriage precipitated matters?"

Pennington's jaw hardened shot out his chin at them aggressively.

"You'll pardon me, gentlemen, but what exact business is all this of yours?" "If you dislike answering the question"

"There's no dislike about it. I don't mind what you ask me. But I don't see the relevance of all this."

"Oh, but surely, Mr. Pennington . . ." Poirot leaned forward, his eyes green and catlike there is the

question of motive in considering that, financial considerations must always be taken into account."

Pennington said sullenly:

"By Ridgeway's will, Linnet got control of her dough when she was twenty-one or when she married."

"No conditions of any kind?"

"No conditions."

"And it is a matter, I am credibly assured, of millions." "Millions it is." Poirot said softly:

"Your responsibility, Mr. Pennington, and that of your partner has been a very grave one.

Pennington said curtly:

"We're used to responsibility. Doesn't worry us any."

"I wonder."

Something in his tone flicked the other man on the raw. He said angrily: "What the devil do you mean?"

Poirot replied with an air of engaging frankness:

"I was wondering, Mr. Pennington, whether Linnet Ridgeway's sudden marriage caused

any consternation in your office?"

"Consternation?"

"That was the word I used."

"What the hell are you driving at?"

"Something quite simple. Are Linnet Doyle's affairs in the perfect order they should be?"

Pennington rose to his feet.

"That's enough. I'm through." He made for the door.

"But you will answer my question first?" Pennington snapped: "They're in perfect order."

"You were not so alarmed when the news of Linnet Ridgeway's marriage reached you that you rushed over to Europe by the first boat and staged an apparently fortuitous meeting in Egypt?"

Pennington came back towards them. He had himself under control once more.

"What you are saying is absolute balderdash! I didn't even know that Linnet was married till I met her in Cairo. I was utterly astonished. Her letter must have missed me by a day in New York. It was forwarded and I got it about a week later." "You came over by the Carmanic, I think you said." "That's right."

"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 to 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 me?."

"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 made up 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't butt 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 endeavored 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 horrible 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 never 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 to 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 are fantastic." "Time will show." "What did you say?"

"I said, 'Time will show!' This is a matter 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 Mr 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: "In a 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!' at the right moments." "That is very satisfactory. 'OO!' 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?" "Yes 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 an imitation piece of jewelry 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 the 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 jewelry 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 jewelry must have been replaced. So gradually a little picture grew up in Chief Inspector Japp's find. Miss Southwood was at one time associated with a Guild of Modern Jewelry. He suspected that she handled the jewels in question, made accurate drawings of them, got them copied by some humble but dishonest working jeweler 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 quite 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 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 serotine. Most police searchers respect religious symbols unless there is something obviously queer about them you counted on that. I endeavored 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 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 last 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 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 night 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 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 humor: "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 some time 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 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.

The girl said in a low voice:

"It doesn't matter."

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 1.10 this morning, your answer was that you saw nobody. Fortunately, I have been able to arrive at the truth without your help.

Mr. 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, Mr. 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 might as well know. I was after her pearls." Poirot said: you "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?" said 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 Mr. 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'd 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. Yon rushed into his cabin, got hold of it, listened outside Dr. Bessner's cabin door and shot Mrs. Otterbourne before she could reveal your name" "No!" 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 M. 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 his hands in token of 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, Mr. Allerton. I wanted you to realize that'. Now I will tell you something more pleasant. I have not yet examined that roared 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 ease against you at all.

They are in a little box on the table by the ' door if you would care 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 I 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 Il 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. 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 I'd seen me last night?"

Rosalie said: "I thought--they might suspect you."

"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 with a predatory eye. A most unattractive female." Presently Rosalie said: "Your mother need never know about you."

Tim said thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure. 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 pure 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" said 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"

She broke off and sobbed happily on Mrs. Allerton's shoulder.

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 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 is thoroughly suitable."

"In fact, 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 my 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 is not that. Once I went professionally to an archaeological expedition and I learned 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."

Cornelia repeated the words with awe.

"It's planted very deeply in the subconscious sometimes it's just some little thing that happened when you were a child. And he's cured people by getting them to think back and remember what that little thing was."

Cornelia paused, drew a deep breath, and started off again.

"But it's worrying me dreadfully in case it all gets out. It would be too terrible in New York. Why all the tabloids would have it. Cousin Marie and mother and everybody they'd never hold up their heads again."

Race sighed.

"That's all right," he said. "This is Hush Hush House."

"I beg your pardon, Colonel Race."

"What I was endeavoring to say was that anything short of murder is being hushed up."

"Oh!" Cornelia clasped her hands. "I'm so relieved. I've just been worrying and worrying."

"You have the heart too tender," said Dr. Bessner and patted her benevolently on the shoulder. He said to the others, "She has a very sensitive and beautiful nature."

"Oh, I haven't really. You're too kind."

Poirot murmured:

"Have you seen any more of Mr. Ferguson?"

Cornelia blushed.

"No, but Cousin Marie's been talking about him."

"It seems the young man is highly born," said Dr. Bessner. "I must confess he does not look it. His clothes are terrible. Not for a moment does he appear a well-bred man."

"And what do you think, Mademoiselle?"

"I think he must be just plain crazy," said Cornelia.

Poirot turned to the doctor.

"How is your patient?"

"Ach, he is going on splendidly. I have just reassured the little Frulein de Bellefort. Would you believe it, I found her in despair. Just because the fellow had a bit of a temperature this afternoon! But what could be more natural? It is amazing that he is not in a high fever now. But now, he is like some of our peasants, he has a magnificent constitution the constitution of an ox. I have seen them with deep wounds that they hardly notice. It is the same with Mr. Doyle. His pulse is steady, his temperature only slightly above normal. I was able to pooh-pooh the little lady's fears. All the same, it is ridiculous, Night war? One minute you shoot a man, the next you are in hysterics in case he may not be doing well." Cornelia said:

"She loves him terribly, you see." "Ach! but it is not sensible, that. If you loved a man, would you try and shoot him? No, you are sensible." "I don't like things that go off with bangs anyway," said Cornelia.

"Naturally you do not. You are very feminine." Race interrupted this scene of heavy approval.

"Since Doyle is all right, there's no reason I shouldn't come along and resume our talk of this afternoon. He was just telling me about a telegram." Dr. Bessner's bulk moved up and down appreciatively.

"Ho, ho, ho, it was very funny that! Doyle, he tells me about it. It was a telegram all about

vegetables, potatoes, artichokes leeks. Ach! pardon?" With a stifled exclamation, Race had sat up in his chair. "My God," he said. "So that's it. Richetti!" He looked around on three uncomprehending faces.

"A new code, was used in the South African rebellion. Potatoes mean machine guns, artichokes are high explosives and so on. Richetti is no more an archaeologist than I am! He's a very dangerous agitator, a man who's killed more than once. And I'll swear that he's killed once again. Mrs. Doyle opened that telegram by mistake, you see. If she were ever to repeat what was in it before me, he knew his goose would be cooked!" He turned to Poirot.

"Am I right?" he said. "Is Richetti the man?" "He is your man," said Poirot. "I always thought there was something wrong about him! He was almost too word-perfect in his role he was all archaeologists, not enough human being." He paused and then said: "But it was not Richetti who killed Linnet Doyle. For some time now I have known what I may express as the 'first half of the murder. Now I know the 'second half also. The picture is complete. But you understand that although I know what must have happened. I have no proof that it happened. Intellectually the case is satisfying. Actually, it is profoundly unsatisfactory. There is only one hope a confession from the murderer." Dr. Bessner raised his shoulders skeptically.

"Ach! but that it would be a miracle." "I think not. Not under the circumstances." Cornelia cried out:

"But who is it? Aren't you going to tell us?" Poirot's eyes ranged quietly over the three of them. Race smiling sardonically, Bessner, still looking skeptical, Cornelia, her mouth hanging a little open, gazing at him with eager eyes.

"Mais oui," he said. "I like an audience, I must confess. I am vain, you see. I am puffed up with conceit. I like to say, 'See how clever is Hercule Poirot!'" Race shifted a little in his chair.

"Well," he said gently, "just how clever Hercule Poirot?" Shaking his head sadly from side to side Poirot said: "To begin with I was stupid incredibly stupid. To me, the stumbling-block was the pistol, Jacqueline de Bellefort's pistol. Why had that pistol not been left on the scene of the crime? The idea of the murderer was quite plainly to incriminate her. Why then did the murderer take it away? I was so stupid that I thought of all sorts of fantastic reasons. The real one was very simple. The murderer took it away because he had to take it away because he had no choice in the matter."

"You and I, my friend," Poirot leaned towards Race, "started our investigation with a preconceived idea.

That idea was that the crime was committed on the spur of the moment without any preliminary planning.

Somebody wished to remove Linnet Doyle and had seized their opportunity to do so at a moment when the crime would almost certainly be attributed to Jacqueline de Bellefort. It, therefore, followed that the person in question had overheard the scene between Jacqueline and Simon Doyle and had obtained possession of the pistol after the others had left the saloon.

"But, my friends, if that preconceived idea was wrong, the whole aspect of the case altered. And it was wrong! This was no spontaneous crime committed on the spur of the moment. It was, on the contrary, very carefully planned and accurately timed, with all the details meticulously worked out beforehand,

even to the drugging of Hercule Poirot's bottle of wine on the night in question!

"But, yes, that is so! I was put to sleep so that there should be no possibility of me participating in the events of the night. It did just occur to me as a possibility. I drink wine, my two companions at table drink whiskey and mineral water respectively. Nothing easier than to slip a dose of harmless narcotics into my bottle of wine the bottles stand on the tables all day. But I dismissed the thought it had been a hot day, I had been unusually tired it was not really extraordinary that I should for once have slept heavily instead of lightly as I usually do.

"You see, I was still in the grip of the preconceived idea. If I had been drugged that would have implied premeditation, it would mean that before 7.30, when dinner is served, the crime had already been decided upon and that (always from the point of view of the preconceived idea) was absurd.

"The first blow to the preconceived idea was when the pistol was recovered from the Nile. To begin with, if we were right in our assumptions, the pistol ought never to have been thrown overboard at all. And there was more to follow." Poirot turned to Dr. Bessner.

"You, Dr. Bessner, examined Linnet Doyle's body. You will remember that the wound showed signs of scorching that is to say that the pistol had been placed close against the head before being fired."

Bessner nodded. "So. That is exact." "But when the pistol was found it was wrapped in a vlvet stole and that velvet showed definite signs that a pistol had been fired through its folds, presumably under the impression that that would deaden the sound of the shot. But if the pistol had been fired through the velvet, there would have been no signs of burning on the victim's skin. Therefore the shot fired through the stole could not have been the shot that killed Linnet Doyle. Could it have been the other shot, the one fired by Jacqueline de Bellefort at Simon Doyle? Again no, for there had been two witnesses of that shooting and we knew all about it. It appeared, therefore, as though a third shot had been fired one we knew nothing about. But only two shots had been fired from the pistol, and there was no hint or suggestion of another shot."

"Here we were face to face with a very curious unexplained circumstance. The next interesting point was the fact that in Linnet Doyle's cabin I found two bottles of colored nail polish. Now ladies very often vary the color of their nails, but so far Linnet Doyle's nails had always been the shade called Cardinal a deep dark red. The other bottle was labeled Rose, which is a shade of pale pink, but the few drops remaining in the bottle were not pale pink but a bright red. I was sufficiently curious to take out the stopper and sniff. Instead of the usual strong odor of pear drops, the bottle smelt of vinegar! That is to say, it suggested that the drop or two of fluid in it was red ink. Now there is no reason why Mrs. Doyle should not have had a bottle of red ink, but it would have been more natural if she had had red ink in a red ink bottle and not in a nail polish bottle. It suggested a link with the faintly stained handkerchief which had been wrapped round the pistol. Red ink washes out quickly but always leaves a pale pink stain.

"I should perhaps have arrived at the truth with these slender indications, but an event occurred which rendered all doubts superfluous. Louise Bourget was killed in circumstances which pointed unmistakably to the fact that she had been blackmailing the murderer. Not only was a fragment of a mile franc note still clasped in her hand, but I remembered some very significant words she had used this morning."

"Listen carefully, for here is the crux of the whole matter. When I asked her if she had seen anything the previous night she gave this curious answer. 'Naturally, if I had been unable to sleep, if I had mounted the stairs, then perhaps I might have seen this assassin, this monster enter or leave Madame's cabin ' Now what exactly did that tell us?" Bessner, his nose wrinkling with intellectual interest, replied promptly: "It told you that she had mounted the stair." "No, no, you fail to see the point. Why should she have said that to us?" "To convey a hint.' "But why hint to us? If she knows who the murderer is, there are two courses open to her, to tell us the truth, or to hold her tongue and demand money for her silence from the person concerned! But she does neither. She neither says promptly: 'I saw nobody. I was asleep.'

Nor does she say: 'Yes, I saw someone, and it was so and so.' Why use that significant indeterminate rigmarole of words? Parbleu, there can be only one reason! She is hinting to the murderer, therefore the murderer must have been present at the time. But besides myself and Colonel Race only two people were present Simon Doyle and Dr. Bessner." The doctor sprang up with a roar.

"Ach! what is that you say? You accuse me? Again? But it is ridiculous beneath contempt." Poirot said sharply: "Be quiet. I am telling you what I thought at the time. Let us remain impersonal." "He doesn't mean he thinks it's you now," said Cornelia soothingly.

Poirot went on quickly.

"So it lay there, between Simon Doyle and Dr. Bessner. But what reason has Bessner to kill Linnet

Doyle? None, so far as I know. Simon Doyle, then? But that was impossible!

There were plenty of witnesses who could swear that Doyle never left the saloon that evening until the quarrel broke out. After that, he was wounded and it would then have been physically impossible for him to have done so. Had I good evidence on both those points? Yes, I had the evidence of Miss Robson, of Jim Fanthorp and of Jacqueline de Bellefort as to the first, and I had the skilled testimony of Dr. Bessner and of Miss Bowers as to the other. No doubt was possible."

"So Dr. Bessner must be the guilty one. In favor of this theory, there was the fact that the maid had been stabbed with a surgical knife. On the other hand, Bessner had deliberately called attention to this fact."

"And then, my friends, a second perfectly indisputable fact became apparent to me. Louise Bourget's hint could not have been intended for Dr. Bessner, because she could perfectly well have spoken to him in private at any time she liked. There was one person, and one person only who corresponded to her necessity Simon Doyle was wounded, was constantly attended by a doctor, was in that doctor's cabin. It was to him, therefore, that she risked saying those ambiguous words in case she might not get another chance. And I remember how she had gone on, turning to him: 'Monsieur, I implore you, you see how it is? What can I say?' And his answer, 'My good girl, don't be a fool. Nobody thinks you saw or heard anything. You'll be quite all right. I'll look after you. Nobody's accusing you of anything.' That was the assurance she wanted, and she got it!" Bessner uttered a colossal snort. "Ach! it is foolish, that! Do you think a man with a fractured bone and a splint on his leg could go walking about the boat and stabbing people! I tell you, it was impossible for Simon Doyle to leave his cabin."

Poirot said gently:

"I know. That is quite true. The thing was impossible. It was impossible, but it was also true! There

could be only one logical meaning behind Louise Bourget's words."

"So I returned to the beginning and reviewed the crime in the light of this new knowledge. Was it possible that in the period preceding the quarrels Simon Doyle had left the saloon and the others had forgotten or not noticed it? I could not see that that was possible. Could the skilled testimony of Dr. Bessner and Miss Bowers be disregarded? Again I felt sure it could not. But, I remembered, there was a gap between the two. Simon Doyle had been alone in the saloon for a period of five minutes, and the skilled testimony of Dr. Bessner only applied to the time after that period. For that period we had only the evidence of visual appearance, and though apparently, that was perfectly sound, it was no longer certain. What had mactually been seen leaving assumption out of the question?"

"Miss Robson had seen Miss de Bellefort fire her pistol, had seen Simon Doyle collapse on to a chair, had seen him clasp a handkerchief to his leg and see that handkerchief gradually soak through red. What had Mr. Fanthorp heard and seen? He heard a shot, he found Doyle with a red-stained handkerchief clasped to his leg. What had happened then? Doyle had been very insistent that Miss de Bellefort should be got away, that she should not be left alone. After that, he suggested that Fanthorp should get hold of the doctor."

"Accordingly Miss Robson and Mr. Fanthorp go out with Miss de Bellefort and for the next five minutes they are busy on the port side of the deck. Miss Bowers's, Dr. Bessner's and Miss de Bellefort's cabins are all on the port side. Two minutes are all that Simon Doyle needs. He picked up the pistol from under the sofa, slips out of his shoes, runs like a hare silently along the starboard deck, enters his wife's cabin, creeps up to her as she lies asleep, shoots her through the head, puts the bottle that has contained the red ink on her washstand (it mustn't be found on him), runs back, gets hold of Miss Van Schuyler's velvet stole which he has quietly stuffed down the side of a chair in readiness, muffles it round the pistol and fires a bullet into his leg. His chair into which he falls (in genuine agony this time) is by a window. He lifts the window and throws the pistol (wrapped up with the tell-tale handkerchief in the velvet stole) into the Nile."

"Impossible!" said Race.

"No, my friend, not impossible. Remember the evidence of Tim Allerton. He heard a pop followed by a splash. And he heard something else the footsteps of a man running past his door. But

nobody should have been running along the starboard side of the deck. What he heard was the

stockinged feet of Simon Doyle running past his cabin."

Race said:

"I still say it's impossible. No man could work out the whole caboodle like that in a flash especially a chap like Doyle who is slow in his mental processes." "But very quick and deft in his physical actions!"

"That, yes. But he wouldn't be capable of thinking the whole thing out." "But he did not think it out himself, my friend. That is where we were all wrong. It looked like a crime committed on the spur of the moment. As I say it was a very cleverly planned and well thought out piece of work. It could not be a chance that Simon Doyle had a bottle of red ink in his pocket. No, it must be designed. It was not a chance that he had a plain unmarked handkerchief with him. It was not chance that Jacqueline de Bellefort's foot kicked the pistol under the settee where it would be out of sight and unremembered until later."

"Jacqueline?"

"Certainly. The two halves of the murderer. What gave Simon his alibi? The shot fired by ]acqueline.

What gave Jacqueline her alibi the insistence of Simon which resulted in a hospital nurse remaining with her all night. There, between the two of them, you get all the qualities you require the cool resourceful planning brain, Jacqueline de Bellefort's brain, and the man of action to carry it out with incredible swiftness and timing."

"Look at it the right way, and it answers every question. Simon Doyle and Jacqueline had been lovers. Realize that they are still lovers and it is all clear. Simon does away with his rich wife, inherits her money, and in due course will marry his old love. It was all very ingenious. The persecution of Mrs. Doyle by Jacqueline, all part of the plan. Simon's pretended rage. And yet there were lapses. He held forth to me once about possessive women held forth with real bitterness. It ought to have been clear to me that it was his wife he was thinking about not Jacqueline. Then his manner to his wife in public. An ordinary inarticulate Englishman, such as Simon Doyle, is very embarrassed by showing any affection. Simon was not a really good actor. He over did it a devoted manner. That conversation I had with Mademoiselle Jacqueline, too, when she pretended that somebody had overheard. I saw no one. And there was no one! Then one night on this boat I thought I heard Simon and Linnet outside my cabin. He was saying,"

'We've got to go through with it now." It was Doyle all right, but it was to Jacqueline he was speaking.

"The final drama was perfectly planned and timed. There was a sleeping draught for me in case I might put an inconvenient finger in the pie, there was the selection of Miss Robson as a witness, the working up of the scene, Miss de Bellefort's exaggerated remorse and hysterics. She made a good deal of noise in case the shot should be heard. En verity, it was an extraordinarily clever idea. Jacqueline says she has shot Doyle, Miss Robson says so, Fanthorp says when Simon's leg is

examined he has been shot. It looks unanswerable! For both of them there is a perfect alibi, at the cost, it is true, of a certain amount of pain and risk to Simon Doyle, but it is necessary that his wound should definitely disable him."

"And then the plan goes wrong. Louise Bourget has been wakeful. She has come up the stairway and she has seen Simon Doyle run along to his wife's cabin and come back. Easy enough to piece together what has happened the following day. And so she makes her greedy bid for hush money and in so doing sign her death warrant."

"But Mr. Doyle couldn't have killed her?" Cornelia objected.

"No, the other partner did that murder. As soon as he could Simon Doyle asks to see Jacqueline. He even asks me to leave them alone together. He tells her that, of the new danger. They must act at once.

He knows where Bessner's scalpels are kept. After the crime the scalpel is wiped and returned and then, very late and rather out of breath, Jacqueline de Bellefort hurries into lunch."

"And still all is not well. For Mrs. Otterbourne has seen Jacquelin go into Louise Bourget's cabin. And she comes hot-foot to tell Simon about it. Jacqueline is the murderess. Do you remember how Simon shouted at the poor woman Nerves, we thought. But the door was open and he was trying to convey the danger to his accomplice.

She heard and she acted like lightning. She remembered Pennington had talked about a revolver.

She got hold of it, crept up outside the door, listened and at the critical moment fired. She boasted once that she was a good shot and her boast was not an idle one."

"I remarked after that third crime that there were three ways the order could have gone. I meant that he could have gone aft (in which case Tim Allerton was the criminal) he could have gone over the side (very improbable) or he could have gone into a cabin. Jacqueline's cabin was just two away from Dr. Bcssner's. She had only to throw down the revolver, bolt into the cabin, ruffle her hair aad fling herself down on the bunk. It was risky, but it was the only possible chance." There was a silence, then Race asked:

"What happened to the first bullet fired at Doyle by the girl?"

"I think it went into the table. There is a recently made hole there. I think Doyle had time to dig it out with a penknife and fling it through the window. I had, of course, a spare cartridge so that it would appear that only two shots had been fired."

Cornelia sighed. "They thought of everything," she said. "It's horrible!"

Poirot was silent. But it was not a modest silence. His eyes seemed to be saying: "You are wrong. They didn't allow for Hercule Poirot."

Aloud he said: "And now, doctor, we will go and have a word with your patient .... "