Death on the Nile - Agatha Christie [95]
“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