“But this is all pure conjecture. It isn’t evidence.”
Poirot said easily:
“Ah bah! we will get evidence!”
“How?”
“Possibly from Mr. Pennington himself.”
Fanthorp looked doubtful.
“I wonder. I very much wonder.” Race glanced at his watch.
“He’s about due now.”
Jim Fanthorp was quick to take the hint. He left them.
Two minutes later Andrew Pennington made his appearance.
His manner was all smiling urbanity. Only the taut line of his jaw and the wariness of his eyes betrayed the fact that a thoroughly experienced fighter was on his guard.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “here I am.”
He sat down and looked at them inquiringly.
“We asked you to come here, Mr. Pennington,” began Poirot, “because it is fairly obvious that you have a very special and immediate interest in the case.” Pennington raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Is that so?” Poirot said gently:
“Surely. You have known Linnet Ridgeway, I understand, since she was quite a child.”
“Oh! that–” his face altered–became less alert. “I beg pardon, I didn’t quite get you. Yes, as I told you this morning, I’ve known Linnet since she was a cute little thing in pinafores.”
“You were on terms of close intimacy with her father?”
“That’s so. Melhuish Ridgeway and I were close–very close.”
“You were so intimately associated that on his death he appointed you business guardian to his daughter and trustee to the vast fortune she inherited.”
“Why, roughly–that is so.” The wariness was back again. The note.was more cautious. “I was not the only trustee, naturally—others were associated with me.” “Who have since died?”
“Two of them are dead. The other, Mr. Sterndale Rockford, is alive.” “Your partner?” “Yes.”
“Miss Ridgeway, I understand, was not yet of age when she married?”
“She would have been twenty-one next July.”
“And in the normal course of events she would have come into control of her fortune then?”
“Yes.”
“But her marriage precipitated matters?”
Pennington’s jaw hardenedhe shot out his chin at them aggressively.
“You’ll pardon me, gentlemen, but what exact business is all this of yours?” “If you dislike answering the question–”
“There’s no dislike about it. I don’t mind what you ask me. But I don’t see the relevance of all this.”
“Oh, but surely, Mr. Pennington . . .” Poirot leaned forward, his eyes green and catlike–“there is the question of motivein considering that, financial considerations must always be taken into account.”
Pennington said sullenly:
“By Ridgeway’s will, Linnet got control of her dough when she was twenty-one or when she married.”
“No conditions of any kind?”
“No conditions.”
“And it is a matter, I am credibly assured, of millions.” “Millions it is.” Poirot said softly:
“Your resp,o, nsibilRy, Mr. Pennington, and that of your partner, has been a very grave one.
Pennington said curtly:
“We’re used to responsibility. Doesn’t worry us any.”
“I wonder.”
Something in his tone flicked the other man on the raw. He said angrily: “What the devil do you mean?”
Poifot replied with an air of engaging frankness:
“I was wondering, Mr. Pennington, whether Linnet Ridgeway’s sudden marriage caused any—consternation in your office?”
“Consternation?”
“That was the word I used.”
“What the hell are you driving at?”
“Something quite simple. Are Linnet Doyle’s affairs in the perfect order they should be?”
Pennington rose to his feet.
“That’s enough. I’m through.” He made for the door.
“But you will answer my question first?” Pennington snapped: “They’re in perfect order.”
“You were not so alarmed when the news of Linnet Ridgeway’s marriage reached you that you rushed over to Europe by the first boat and staged an apparently fortuitous meeting in Egypt?”
Pennington came back towards them. He had himself under control once more.
“What you are saying is absolute balderdash! I didn’t even know that Linnet was married till I met her in Cairo. I was utterly astonished. Her letter must have missed me by a day in New York. It was forwarded and I got it about a week later.” “You came over by the Carmanic, I think you said.” “That’s right.”
“And the letter reached New York after the Carmanic sailed?”
‘ “How many times have I got to repeat it?” “It is strange,” said Poirot.