Simon went on. “And so—really—I shouldn’t know a thing like that. But Linnet was awfully generous with her things. I should think she might have done.”
“She never, for instance”—Poirot’s voice was very smooth—“she never, for instance, lent them to Mademoiselle de Bellefort?”
“What d’you mean?” Simon flushed brick-red, tried to sit up and, wincing, fell back. “What are you getting at? That Jackie stole the pearls? She didn’t. I’ll swear she didn’t. Jackie’s as straight as a die. The mere idea of her being a thief is ridiculous—absolutely ridiculous.”
Poirot looked at him with gently twinkling eyes. “Oh, la! la! la!” he said unexpectedly. “That suggestion of mine, it has indeed stirred up the nest of hornets.”
Simon repeated doggedly, unmoved by Poirot’s lighter note, “Jackie’s straight!”
Poirot remembered a girl’s voice by the Nile in Assuan saying, “I love Simon—and he loves me….”
He had wondered which of the three statements he had heard that night was the true one. It seemed to him that it had turned out to be Jacqueline who had come closest to the truth.
The door opened and Race came in.
“Nothing,” he said brusquely. “Well, we didn’t expect it. I see the stewards coming along with their report as to the searching of the passengers.”
A steward and stewardess appeared in the doorway. The former spoke first. “Nothing, sir.”
“Any of the gentlemen make any fuss?”
“Only the Italian gentleman, sir. He carried on a good deal. Said it was a dishonour—something of that kind. He’d got a gun on him, too.”
“What kind of a gun?”
“Mauser automatic twenty-five, sir.”
“Italians are pretty hot-tempered,” said Simon. “Richetti got in no end of a stew at Wadi Halfa just because of a mistake over a telegram. He was darned rude to Linnet over it.”
Race turned to the stewardess. She was a big handsome-looking woman.
“Nothing on any of the ladies, sir. They made a good deal of fuss—except for Mrs. Allerton, who was as nice as nice could be. Not a sign of the pearls. By the way, the young lady, Miss Rosalie Otterbourne, had a little pistol in her handbag.”
“What kind?”
“It was a very small one, sir, with a pearl handle. A kind of toy.”
Race stared. “Devil take this case,” he muttered. “I thought we’d got her cleared of suspicion, and now—Does every girl on this blinking boat carry around pearl-handled toy pistols?”
He shot a question at the stewardess. “Did she show any feeling over your finding it?”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t think she noticed. I had my back turned whilst I was going through the handbag.”
“Still, she must have known you’d come across it. Oh, well, it beats me. What about the maid?”
“We’ve looked all over the boat, sir. We can’t find her anywhere.”
“What’s this?” asked Simon.
“Mrs. Doyle’s maid—Louise Bourget. She’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
Race said thoughtfully: “She might have stolen the pearls. She is the one person who had ample opportunity to get a replica made.”
“And then, when she found a search was being instituted, she threw herself overboard?” Simon suggested.
“Nonsense,” replied Race, irritably. “A woman can’t throw herself overboard in broad daylight, from a boat like this, without somebody realizing the fact. She’s bound to be somewhere on board.” He addressed the stewardess once more. “When was she last seen?”