Death On The Nile - Christie Agatha (книги регистрация онлайн .TXT) 📗

"The cabin next to hers on the other side of the boat. In other words-Pennington.

We always seem to come back to Pennington." "We will come back to him presently with the kid gloves removed! Ah, yes, I am promising myself that pleasure." "In the meantime we'd better get on with our search of the boat. The pearls still make a convenient excuse even though they have been returned-but Miss Bowers is not likely to advertise that fact." "Ah, these pearls." Poirot held them up against the light once more. He stuck out his tongue and licked them-he even gingerly tried one of them between his teeth. Then, with a sigh, he threw them down on the table.

"Here are more complications, my friend," he said. "I am 'not an expert on precious stones, but I have had a good deal to do with them in my time and I am fairly certain of what I say. These pearls are only a clever imitation."

Chapter 21

Colonel Race swore lustily.

"This damned case gets more and more involved." He picked up the pearls. "I suppose you've not made a mistake? They look all right to me." "They are a very good imitation-yes." "Now where does that lead us? I suppose Linnet Doyle didn't deliberately have an imitation made and bring it aboard with her for safety. Many women do." "I think, if that were so, her husband would know about it." "She may not have told him." Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

"No, I do not think that is so. I was admiring Mrs. Doyle's pearls the first evening on the boat-their wonderful sheen and lustre. I am sure that she was wearing the genuine ones then." "That brings us up against two possibilities. First, that Miss Van Schuyler only stole the imitation string after the real ones had been stolen by some one else.

Second, that the whole kleptomaniac story is a fabrication. Either Miss Bowers is a thief and quickly invented the story and allayed suspicion by handing over the false pearls, or else that whole party is in it together. That is to say, they are a gang of clever jewel thieves masquerading as an exclusive American family." "Yes," Poirot murmured. "It is difficult to say. But I will point out to you one thing-to make a perfect and exact copy of the pearls, clasp and all, good enough to stand a chance of deceiving Mrs. Doyle is a highly skilled technical performance. It could not be done in a hurry. Whoever copied those pearls must have had a good opportunity of studying the original." Race rose to his feet.

"Useless to speculate about it any further now. Let's get on with the job.

We've got to find the real pearls. And at the same time we'll keep our eyes open." They disposed first of the cabins occupied on the lower deck.

That of Signor Richetti contained various archaeological works in different languages, a varied assortment of clothing, hair lotions of a highly-scented kind and two personal letters-one from an archaeological expedition in Syria, and one from, apparently, a sister in Rome. His handkerchiefs were all of coloured silk.

They passed on to Ferguson's cabin.

There was a sprinkling of communistic literature, a good many snapshots, Samuel Butler's Erewhon and a cheap edition of Pepys' Diary. His personal possessions were not many-most of what outer clothing there was, was torn and dirty, the underclothing, on the other hand; was of really good quality. The handkerchiefs were expensive linen ones.

"Some interesting discrepancies," murmured Poirot.

Race nodded.

"Rather odd that there are absolutely no personal papers, letters, etc." "Yes, that gives one to think. An odd young man, M. Ferguson." He looked thoughtfully at a signet ring he held in his hand, before replacing it in the drawer where he had found it.

They went along to the cabin occupied by Louise Bourget. The maid had her meals after the other passengers, but Race had sent word that she was to be taken to join the others. A cabin steward met them.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologised. "But I've not been able to find the young woman anywhere. I can't think where she can have got to." Race glanced inside the cabin. It was empty.

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

"No letters," said Poirot thoughtfully. "He is careful, our Mr. Fanthorp, to destroy his correspondence." They passed on to Tim Allerton's cabin next door.

There were evidences here of an Anglo-Catholic turn of mind-an exquisite little triptych, and a big rosary, of intricately-carved wood. Besides personal clothing, there was a half-completed manuscript, a good deal annotated and scribbled over, and a good collection of books, most of them recently published.

There were also a quantity of letters thrown carelessly into a drawer. Poirot, never in the least scrupulous about reading other people's correspondence, glanced through them. He noted that amongst them there were no letters from Joanna Southwood. He picked up a tube of secotine, fingered it absently for a minute or two, then said: "Let us pass on." "No Woolworth handkerchiefs," said Race, rapidly replacing the contents of a drawer.

Mrs. Allerton's cabin was the next. It was exquisitely neat and a faint, old-fashioned smell of lavender hung about it.

The two men's search was soon over. Race remarked as they left it: "Nice woman, that." The next cabin was that which had been used as a dressing-room by Simon Doyle. His immediate necessities-pyjamas, toilet things, etc., had been moved to Bessner's cabin, but the remainder of his possessions were still there, two good-sized leather suitcases and a kitbag. There were also some clothes in the wardrobe.

"We will look carefully here, my friend,' said Poirot. "For it is very possible that the thief hid the pearls here." "You think it is likely?" "But, yes, indeed. Consider! The thief whoever he or she may be must know that sooner or later a search will be made and therefore a hiding-place in his or her own cabin would be injudicious in the extreme. The public rooms present other difficulties. But here is a cabin belonging to a man who cannot possibly visit it himself. So that if the pearls are found here it tells us nothing at all." But the most meticulous search failed to reveal any trace of the missing necklace.

Poirot murmured "Zut!' to himself and they emerged once more on the deck.

Linnet Doyle's cabin had been locked after the body was removed but Race had the key with him. He unlocked the door and the two men stepped inside.

Except for the removal of the girl's body, the cabin was exactly as it had been that morning.

"Poirot," said Race. "If there's anything to be found here, for God's sake go ahead and find it. You can if any one can-I know that." "This time you do not mean the pearls, mon ami?"

"No. The murder's the main thing. There may be something I overlooked this morning."

Quietly, deftly, Poirot went about his search. He went down on his knees and scrutinised the floor inch by inch. He examined the bed. He went rapidly through the wardrobe and chest of drawers. He went through the wardrobe trunk and the two costly suitcases. He looked through the expensive gold-fitted dressing-case.

Finally he turned his attention to the washstand. There were various creams, powders, face lotions. But the only thing that seemed to interest Poirot were two little bottles labelled Nailex. He picked them up at last and brought them to the dressing-table. One, which bore the inscription Nailex Rose, was empty but for a drop or two of dark-red fluid at the bottom. The other, the same size, but labelled Nailex Cardinal, was nearly full. Poirot uncorked first the empty then the full one and sniffed them both delicately.