Poirot went on:
"You've played - and lost.
Useless to go on bluffing."
"You don't understand," Pennington muttered. "It's all square enough really.
It's been this damned slump - Wall Street's been crazy.
But I'd staged a comeback.
With luck everything will be O.K. by the middle of June."
With shaking hands he took a cigarette, tried to light it, failed.
"I suppose," mused Poirot, "that the boulder was a sudden temptation.
You thought nobody saw you."
"That was an accident. I swear it was an accident!" The man leant forward, his face working, his eyes terrified. "I stumbled and fell against it.
I swear it was an accident."
The two men said nothing.
Pennington suddenly pulled himself together.
He was still a wreck of a man, but his fighting spirit had returned in a certain measure.
He moved toward the door.
"You can't pin that on me, gentlemen.
It was an accident.
And it wasn't I who shot her. D'you hear?
You can't pin that on me either - and you never will."
He went out.
Chapter 26
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 - cat-like.
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 hasn't got!