"Yes. Throwing her mother's secret cache of drink overboard."
Colonel Race shook his head sympathetically.
"So that's it! Tough on a young un."
"Yes, her life has not been very gay, cette pauvre petite Rosalie."
"Well, I'm glad that's been cleared up. She didn't see or hear anything?"
"I asked her that. She responded - after a lapse of quite twenty seconds - that she saw nobody."
"Oh?" Race looked alert.
"Yes, it is suggestive, that."
Race said slowly: "If Linnet Doyle was shot round about ten minutes past one, or indeed any time after the boat had quieted down, it has seemed amazing to me that no one heard the shot. I grant you that a little pistol like that wouldn't make much noise, but all the same the boat would be deadly quiet, and any noise, even a gentle pop, should have been heard. But I begin to understand better now. The cabin on the forward side of hers was unoccupied - since her husband was in Dr Bessner's cabin. The one aft was occupied by the Van Schuyler woman, who was deaf. That leaves only -" He paused and looked expectantly at Poirot, who nodded.
"The cabin on the other side. 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 Madame 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 someone 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 know. But I will now put 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 Madame 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, Monseiur 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 apologized, "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.
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