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 after 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 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. Madame 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 wife'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 Madame 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."
"You don't understand," Pennington muttered. "It's all square enough really. It's been this damned slump - Wall 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 leant 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 toward 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.
Chapter 26
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 - cat-like. 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 Madame 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. Mais c'est tout. For this crime, something was wanted 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 Ma Otterbourne came along. We'll ask him again."
"Presently. First, I have someone 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, Monsieur Allerton. Sit down."
Tim sat. His face was attentive but very slightly bored.
"Anything I can do?" His tone was polite but not enthusiastic.
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