Mrs. Allerton’s cabin was the next. It was exquisitely neat, and a faint old-fashioned smell of lavender hung about it. The two men’s search was soon over. Race remarked as they left it: “Nice woman, that.”
The next cabin was that which had been used as a dressing room by Simon Doyle. His immediate necessities—pyjamas, toilet things, etc.—had been moved to Bessner’s cabin, but the remainder of his possessions were still there—two good-sized leather suitcases and a kitbag. There were also some clothes in the wardrobe.
“We will look carefully here, my friend,” said Poirot, “for it is possible that the thief hid the pearls here.”
“You think it is likely?”
“But yes, indeed. Consider! The thief, whoever he or she may be, must know that sooner or later a search will be made, and therefore a hiding place in his or her own cabin would be injudicious in the extreme. The public rooms present other difficulties. But here is a cabin belonging to a man who cannot possibly visit it himself so that, if the pearls are found here, it tells us nothing at all.” But the most meticulous search failed to reveal any trace of the missing necklace.
Poirot murmured “Zut!” to himself and they emerged once more on the deck.
Linnet Doyle’s cabin had been locked after the body was removed, but Race had the key with him. He unlocked the door and the two men stepped inside.
Except for the removal of the girl’s body, the cabin was exactly as it had been that morning.
“Poirot,” said Race, “if there’s anything to be found here, for God’s sake go ahead and find it. You can if anyone can—I know that.”
“This time you do not mean the pearls, mon ami?”
“No. The murder’s the main thing. There may be something I overlooked this morning.”
Quietly, deftly, Poirot went about his search. He went down on his knees and scrutinized the floor inch by inch. He examined the bed. He went rapidly through the wardrobe and chest of drawers. He went through the wardrobe trunk and the two costly suitcases. He looked through the expensive gold-fitted dressing-case. Finally he turned his attention to the washstand. There were various creams, powders, face lotions. But the only thing that seemed to interest Poirot were two little bottles labelled Nailex. He picked them up at last and brought them to the dressing table. One, which bore the inscription Nailex Rose, was empty but for a drop or two of dark red fluid at the bottom. The other, the same size, but labelled Nailex Cardinal, was nearly full. Poirot uncorked first the empty, then the full one, and sniffed them both delicately.
An odour of peardrops billowed into the room. With a slight grimace he recorked them.
“Get anything?” asked Race.
Poirot replied by a French proverb: “On ne prend pas les mouches avec le vinaigre.” Then he said with a sigh: “My friend, we have not been fortunate. The murderer has not been obliging. He has not dropped for us the cuff link, the cigarette end, the cigar ash—or, in the case of the woman, the handkerchief, the lipstick, or the hair slide.”
“Only the bottle of nail polish?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “I must ask the maid. There is something—yes—a little curious there.”
“I wonder where the devil the girl’s got to?” said Race.
They left the cabin, locking the door behind them, and passed on to that of Miss Van Schuyler.
Here again were all the appurtenances of wealth—expensive toilet fittings, good luggage, a certain number of private letters and papers all perfectly in order.
The next cabin was the double one occupied by Poirot, and beyond it that of Race. “Hardly like to hide ’em in either of these,” said the Colonel.
Poirot demurred. “It might be. Once, on the Orient Express, I investigated a murder. There was a little matter of a scarlet kimono. It had disappeared, and yet it must be on the train. I found it—where do you think? In my own locked suitcase! Ah! It was an impertinence, that!”
“Well, let’s see if anybody has been impertinent with you or me this time.”
But the thief of the pearls had not been impertinent with Hercule Poirot or with Colonel Race.
Rounding the stern they made a very careful search of Miss Bowers’ cabin but could find nothing of a suspicious nature. Her handkerchiefs were of plain linen with an initial.
The Otterbournes’ cabin came next. Here, again, Poirot made a very meticulous search, but with no result.
The next cabin was Bessner’s. Simon Doyle lay with an untasted tray of food beside him.
“Off my feed,” he said apologetically.
He was looking feverish and very much worse than earlier in the day. Poirot appreciated Bessner’s anxiety to get him as swiftly as possible to hospital and skilled appliances. The little Belgian explained what the two of them were doing, and Simon nodded approval. On learning that the pearls had been restored by Miss Bowers, but proved to be merely imitation, he expressed the most complete astonishment.
“You are quite sure, Monsieur Doyle, that your wife did not have an imitation string which she brought aboard with her instead of the real ones?”