“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.”
Twenty-Two
Colonel Race swore hastily.
“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 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 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 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, Monsieur 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 an
ywhere. 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 Seccotine, fingered it absently for a minute or two, then said: “Let us pass on.”
“No Woolworth handkerchiefs,” reported Race, rapidly replacing the contents of a drawer.