“That way we should show our hand. We must work with great care. It is very delicate, our position, at the moment. Let us discuss the situation as we eat.”
Race agreed. They went into the smoking room.
“Well,” said Race as he poured himself out a cup of coffee, “we’ve got two definite leads. There’s the disappearance of the pearls. And there’s the man Fleetwood. As regards the pearls, robbery seems indicated, but—I don’t know whether you’ll agree with me—”
Poirot said quickly: “But it was an odd moment to choose?”
“Exactly. To steal the pearls at such a moment invites a close search of everybody on board. How then could the thief hope to get away with his booty?”
“He might have gone ashore and dumped it.”
“The company always has a watchman on the bank.”
“Then that is not feasible. Was the murder committed to divert attention from the robbery? No, that does not make sense; it is profoundly unsatisfactory. But supposing that Madame Doyle woke up and caught the thief in the act?”
“And therefore the thief shot her? But she was shot whilst she slept.”
“So that does not make sense…You know, I have a little idea about those pearls—and yet—no—it is impossible. Because if my idea was right the pearls would not have disappeared. Tell me, what did you think of the maid?”
“I wondered,” said Race slowly, “if she knew more than she said.”
“Ah, you too had that impression?”
“Definitely not a nice girl,” said Race.
Hercule Poirot nodded. “Yes, I would not trust her.”
“You think she had something to do with the murder?”
“No. I would not say that.”
“With the theft of the pearls, then?”
“That is more probable. She had only been with Madame Doyle a very short time. She may be a member of a gang that specializes in jewel robberies. In such a case there is often a maid with excellent references. Unfortunately we are not in a position to seek information on these points. And yet that explanation does not quite satisfy me…Those pearls—ah, sacré, my little idea ought to be right. And yet nobody would be so imbecile—” He broke off.
“What about the man Fleetwood?”
“We must question him. It may be that we have there the solution. If Louise Bourget’s story is true, he had a definite motive for revenge. He could have overheard the scene between Jacqueline and Monsieur Doyle, and when they had left the saloon he could have darted in and secured the gun. Yes, it is all quite possible. And that letter J scrawled in blood. That, too, would accord with a simple, rather crude nature.”
“In fact, he’s just the person we are looking for?”
“Yes—only—” Poirot rubbed his nose. He said with a slight grimace: “See you, I recognize my own weaknesses. It has been said of me that I like to make a case difficult. This solution that you put to me—it is too simple, too easy. I cannot feel that it really happened. And yet, that may be the sheer prejudice on my part.”
“Well, we’d better have the fellow here.”
Race rang the bell and gave the order. Then he asked, “Any other—possibilities?”
“Plenty, my friend. There is, for example, the American trustee.”
“Pennington?”
“Yes, Pennington. There was a curious little scene in here the other day.” He narrated the happenings to Race. “You see—it is significant. Madame, she wanted to read all the papers before signing. So he makes the excuse of another day. And then, the husband, he makes a very significant remark.”
“What was that?”
“He says—‘I never read anything. I sign where I am told to sign.’ You perceive the significance of that. Pennington did. I saw it in his eye. He looked at Doyle as though an entirely new idea had come into his head. Just imagine, my friend, that you have been left trustee to the daughter of an intensely wealthy man. You use, perhaps, that money to speculate with. I know it is so in all detective novels—but you read of it too in the newspapers. It happens, my friend, it happens.”
“I don’t dispute it,” said Race.