He went out.
Twenty-Seven
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—catlike.
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 hadn’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.
Poirot said: “In a sense, perhaps. What I really require is for you to listen.”
Tim’s eyebrows rose in polite surprise.
“Certainly. I’m the world’s best listener. Can be relied on to say ‘Ooer!’ at the right moments.”
“That is very satisfactory. ‘Oo-er!’ will be very expressive. Eh bien, let us commence. When I met you and your mother at Assuan, Monsieur Allerton, I was attracted to your company very strongly. To begin with, I thought your mother was one of the most charming people I had ever met—”
The weary face flickered for a moment; a shade of expression came into it.