One When Captain Roger Angmering built him-self a house in the year 1782 on the island off Leathercombe Bay, it was thought the height of eccentricity on his part. A man of good family such as he was should have had a decorous mansion set in wide meadows with, perhaps, a nmning stream and good pasture. But Captain Roger Angmering had only one great love, the sea. So he built his house a sturdy house too, as it needed to be, on the little windswept gull-haunted promontory cut off from land at each high tide. He did not marry, the sea was his fzrst and last spouse, and at his death the house and island went to a distant cousin. That cousin and his descendants thought little of the bequest. Their own acres dwindled, and their heirs grew steadily poorer. In 1922 when the great cult of the Seaside for Holidays was finally established and the thought too hot in the summer, Arthur Angrnering. found his vast inconvenient late Georgian house unsaleable, but he got a good price for the odd bit of property acquired by the seafaring Captain Roger. The sturdy house was added to and embellished. A con-Crete causeway was laid down from the main-land to the island. "Walks" and "Nooks" were cut and devised all round the island. There were two tennis courts, sunterraces leading down to a little bay embellished with rafts and divingboards. The Jolly Roger Ho-tel, Smugglers' Island, Leathercombe Bay came triumphantly into being. And from June till September (with a short season at Easter) the Jolly Roger Hotel was usually packed to the attics. It was enlarged and improved in 1934 by the addition of a cock-tail bar, a bigger dining-room and some extra bathrooms. The prices went up. People said: "Ever been to Leathercombe Bay? Awfully jolly hotel there, on a sort of island. Very comfortable and no trippers or charabancs. Good cooking and all that. You ought to go." And people did go. There was one very important person (in his own estimation at least) staying at the Jolly Roger. Hercule Poirot. rest)lendent in a white duck suit, with a Panama hat tilted over his eyes, his moustaches magnificently befurled, lay back in an improved type of deck-chair and surveyed the bathing beach. A series of terraces led down to it from the hotel. On the beach itself were floats, lilos, rubber and canvas boats, balls and rubber toys. There were a long springboard and three rafts at varying distances from the shore. Of the bathers, some were in the sea, some were lying stretched out in the sun, and some were anointing themselves carefully with oil. On the terrace immediately above, the non bathers sat and commented on the weather, the scene in front of them, the news in the morning papers and any other subject that appealed to them. On Poirot's left a ceaseless flow of conver-sation poured in gentle monotone from the lips of Mrs. Gardener while at the same time her needles clacked as she knitted vigorously. Beyond her, her husband, Odell C. Gar-dener, lay in a hammock chair, his hat tilted forward over his nose, and occasionally ut-tered a brief statement when called upon to do so. On Poirot's fight, Miss Brewster, a tough athletic woman with grizzled hair and a pleasant weatherbeaten face, made gruff cnmment. The ro..111t .nlnded rnther like a sheepdog whose short stentorian barks interrupted the ceaseless yapping of a Pomeranian. Mrs. Gardener was saying: "And so I said to Mr. Gardener, why, I said, sightseeing is all very well, and I do like to do a place thoroughly. But, after all, I said, we've done England pretty well and all I want now is to get some quiet spot by the seaside and just relax. That's what I said, wasn't it, Odell? Just relax. I feel I must relax, I said. That's so, isn't it, Odell?" Mr. Gardener, from behind his hat, murmured: "Yes, darling." Mrs. Gardener pursued the theme. "And so, when I mentioned it to Mr. Kdso, at Cook's (He's arranged all our itinerary for us and been most helpful in every way. I don't really know what we'd have done without him!) Well, as I say, when I mentioned it to him, Mr. Kelso said that we couldn't do better than come here. A most picturesque spot, he said, quite out of the world, and at the same time very comfortable and most exclusive in every way. And of course Mr. Gardener, he chipped in there and said what about the sanitary arrangements? Because, if you'll believe me, Mr. Poirot, a sister of Mr. Gardener's went to stay at a guesthouse once, very exclusive heart of the moors, but would you believe me, nothing but an earth closet! So naturally that made Mr. Gardener suspicious of those out-of-the-world places, didn't it, Odell?" "Why, yes, darling," said Mr. Gardener. "But Mr. Kelso reassured us at once. The sanitation, he said, was absolutely the latest word, and the cooking was excellent. And I'm sure that's so. And what I like about it is, it's intime if you know what I mean. Being a small place we all talk to each other and everybody knows everybody. If there is a fault about the British it is that they're inclined to be a bit stand-offish until they've known you a couple of years. After that nobody could be nicer. Mr. Kelso said that interesting people came here and I see he was right. There's you, Mr. Poirot and Miss Darnley. Oh! I was just tickled to death when I found out who you were, wasn't I, Odell?" "You were, darling." "Ha!" said Miss Brewster, breaking in ex-plosively. "What a thrill, eh, M. Poirot?" Hercule Poirot raised his hands in depre-cation. But it was no more than a polite gesture. Mrs. Gardener flowed smoothly on. "You see, M. Poirot, I'd heard a lot about vnll frnm t'.nmlin ]nh.nn Mr nrdner and I were at Badenhof in May. And of course Cornelia told us all about that business in Egypt when Linnet Ridgeway was killed. She said you were wonderful and I've always been simply crazy to meet you, haven't I, Odell?" "Yes, darling." "And then Miss Darnley, too. I get a lot of my things at Rose Mond's and of course she is Rose Mond, isn't she? I think her clothes are ever so clever. Such a marvellous line. That dress I had on last night was one of hers. She's just a lovely woman in every way, I think." From beyond Miss Brewster, Major Barry who had been sitting with protuberant eyes glued to the bathers granted out: "Distinguished-lookin' gal!" Mrs. Gardener clacked her needles. "I've just got to confess one thing, M. Poirot. It gave me a kind of a turn meeting you here not that I wasn't just thrilled to meet you, because I was. Mr. Gardener knows that. But it just came to me that you might be here well, professionally. You know what I mean? Well, I'm just terribly sensitive, as Mr. Gardener will tell you, and I just couldn't bear it if I was to be mixed up in crime of any kind Y'11 e'$:'' Mr. Gardener cleared his throat. He said: "You see, M. Poirot, Mrs. Gardener is very sensitive. The hands of Hercule Poirot shot into the air. "But let me assure you, Madame, that I am here simply in the same way that you are here yourselves to enjoy myself to spend the holiday. I do not think of crime even." Miss Brewster said again giving her short gruff bark: "No bodies on Smugglers' Island." Hercule Poirot said: "Ah! but .that, it is not strictly true." He pointed downward. "Regard them there, lying out in rows. What are they? They are not men and women. There is nothing personal about them. They are just bodies!" Major Barry said appreciatively: "Good-looking fillies, some of 'em. Bit on the thin side, perhaps." Poirot cried: "Yes, but what appeal is there? What mystery? I, I am old, of the old school. When I was young, one saw barely the ankle. The glimpse of a foamy petticoat, how alluring! The gentle swelling of the calf- a knee a beribboned garter " "Naughty, naughty? said Major Barry "Much more sensible the things we wear nowadays," said Miss Brewster. "Why, yes, M. Po[rot," said Mrs. Gardener. "I do think, you know, that our girls and boys nowadays lead a much more natural healthy life. They just romp about together and they well, they " Mrs. Gardener blushed slightly for she had a nice mind "they think nothing of it, if you know what I mean?" "I do know," said Hercule Po[rot. "It is deplorable!" "Deplorable?" squeaked Mrs. Gardener. "To remove all the romance all the mystery! Today everything is standardized!" He waved a hand towards the recumbent figures. "That reminds me very much of the Morgue in Paris." "M. Po[rot!" Mrs. Gardener was scandalized. "Bodies arranged on slabs like butcher's meat!" "But M. Po[rot, isn't that too farfetched for words?" Hercule Po[rot admitted: "It may be, yes." "AU the same," Mrs. Gardener knitted with energy, "I'm inclined to agree with you on one point. These girls that lie out like thnt in tho en a-ill orrx kir rn thsir loo-e and arms. I've said so to Irene that's my daughter, M. Poirot. Irene, I said to her, if you lie out like that in the sun, you'll have hair all over you, hair on your arms and hair on your legs and hair on your bosom, and what will you look like then? I said to her. Didn't I, Odell?" "Yes, darling," said Mr. Gardener. Every one was silent, perhaps making a mental picture of Irene when the worst had happened. Mrs. Gardener rolled up her knit-ting and said: "I wonder now--" Mr. Gardener said: "Yes, darling?" He struggled out of the hammock chair and took Mrs. Gardener's knitting and her book. He asked: "What about joining us for a drink, Miss Brewster?" "Not just now, thanks." The Gardeners went up to the hotel. Miss Brewster said: "American husbands are won-defful!" Mrs. Gardener's place was taken by the Reverend Stephen Lane. Mr. Lane was a tall vigorous clergyman of fifty odd. His face was tanned and his dark grey flannel trou-sers were holidayfied and disreputable. He said with enthusiasm: "Marvellous country! I've been from Leathercombe Bay to Harford and hack river the cliff.q" "Warm work walking to-day," said Major Barry who never walked. "Good exercise," said Miss Brewster. "I haven't been for my row yet. Nothing like rowing for your stomach muscles." The eyes of Hercule Poirot dropped somewhat ruefully to a certain protuberance in his middle. Miss Brewster, noting the glance, said kindly: "You'd soon get that off, M. Poirot, if you took a rowing-boat out every day." "Merci, Mademoiselle. I detest boats!" "You mean small boats?" "Boats of all sizes!" He closed his eyes and shuddered. "The movement of the sea, it is not pleasant." "Bless the man, the sea is as calm as a mill pond today." Poirot replied with conviction: "There is no such thing as a really calm sea. Always, always, there is motion." "If you ask me," said Major Barry, "seasickness is nine-tenths nerves." "There," said the clergyman, smiling a lime, "speaks the good sailor "Only been ill once and that was crossing the channel! Don't think about it, that's my motto." "Seasickness is really a very odd thing," mllRed Mi. .Rrow.tor cc q,.ehnllci time people be subject to it and not others? It seems so unfair. And nothing to do with one's ordinary health. Quite sickly people are good sailors. Some one told me once it was something to do with one's spine. Then there's the way some people can't stand heights. I'm not very good myself, but Mrs. Redfem is far worse. The other day, on the cliff path to Harford, she turned quite giddy and simply clung to me. She told me she once got stuck halfivay down that outside staircase on Milan Cathedral. She'd gone up without thinking but coming down did for her." "She'd better not go down the ladder to Pixy Cove, then," observed Lane. Miss Brewster made a face. "I funk that myself. It's all right for the young. The Cowan boys and the young Mastermans, they run up and down it and enjoy it." Lane said: "Here comes Mrs. Redfem now coming up from her bathe." Miss Brewster remarked: "M. Poirot ought eh, Major?" to approve of her. She's no sun bather." Young Mrs. Redfern had taken off her rubber cap and was shaking out her hair. She was an ash blonde and her skin was of that dead fairness that goes with that enlnl'wino' -llev le . and nrm. were very white. With a hoarse chuckle, Major Barry said: "Looks a bit uncooked among the others, doesn't she?" Wrapping herself in a long bathrobe Christine Redfern came up the beach and mounted the steps towards them. She had a fair serious face, pretty in a negative way, and small dainty hands and feet. She smiled at them and dropped down beside them, tucking her bath-wrap round her. Miss Brewster said: "You have earned M. Poirot's good opinion. He doesn't like the sun-tanning crowd. Says they're like joints of butcher's meat or words to that effect." Christine Redfern smiled ruefully. She said: "I wish I could sunbathe! But I don't brown. I only blister and get the most frightful freckles all over my arms." "Better than getting hair all over them like Mrs. Gardener's Irene," said Miss Brewster. In answer to Christine's inquiring glance she went on: "Mrs. Gardener's been in grand form this morning. Absolutely non stop. 'Isn't that so, Odell?' 'Yes, darling.'" She paused and then said: "I wish, though, M. Poirot, that you'd played up to her a bit. Why didn't you tell her that you were down here investigating a particularly gruesome murder, and thnt the mrcJprpr n hnmiiclnl maniac, was certainly to be found among the guests of the hotel?" Hercule Poirot sighed. He said: "I very much fear she would have believed me." Major Barry gave a wheezy chuckle. He said: "She certainly would." Emily Brewster said: "No, I don't believe even Mrs. Gardener would have believed in a crime staged here. This isn't the sort of place you'd get a body!" Hercule Poirot stirred a little in his chair. He protested. He said: "But why not, Mademoiselle? Why should there not be what you call a 'body' here on Smugglers' Island?" Emily Brewster said: "I don't know. I suppose some places are more unlikely than others. This isn't the kind of spot "She broke off, finding it difficult to explain her meaning. "It is romantic, yes," agreed Hercule Poirot. "It is peaceful. The sun shines. The sea is blue. But you forget, Miss Brewster, there is evil everywhere under the sun." The clergyman stirred in his chair. He leaned forward. His intensely blue eyes lighted up. Miss Brewster shrugged her shoulders. "Oh! of course I realize that, but all the same " "Rnt nil tho -cnme thle etill -eme tn xrnil on unlikely setting for crime? You forget one thing, Mademoiselle." "Human nature, I suppose?" "That, yes. That, always. But that was not what I was going to say. I was going to point out to you that here every one is on holiday." Emily Brewster turned a puzzled face to him. "I don't understand." Hercule Poirot beamed kindly at her. He made dabs in the air with an emphatic forefinger. "Let us say, you have an enemy. If you seek him out in his flat, in his office, in the street--eh bien, you must have a reason-- you must account for yourself. But here at the seaside it is necessary for no one to account for himself. You are at Leathercombe Bay, why? Parbleu! it is August--one goes to the seaside in August--one is on one's holiday. It is quite natural, you see, for you to be here and for Mr. Lane to be here and for Major Barry to be here and for Mrs. Redfem and her husband to be here. Because it is the custom in England to go to the seaside in August." "Well," admitted Miss Brewster, "that's certainly a very ingenious idea. But what about the Gardeners? They're American." Pmrrvt" srmlwl "T^ir^ri Mro r^r^a-n^ir e*T\f^{^ the door and went in. Arlena was just putting the finishing touches on her toilet. She was dressed in glittering green and looked a little like a mermaid. She was standing in front of the glass applying mascara to her eyelashes. She said: "Oh, it's you. Ken." "Yes. I wondered if you were ready." "Just a minute." Kenneth Marshall strolled to the window. He looked out on the sea. His face, as usual, displayed no emotion of any kind. It was pleasant and ordinary. Turning around, he said: "Arlena?" "Yes?" "You've met Redfem before, I gather?" Arlena said easily: "Oh, yes, darling. At a cocktail party somewhere. I thought he was rather a pet." "So I gather. Did you know that he and his wife were coming down here?" Arlena opened her eyes very wide. "Oh, no, darling. It was the greatest surprise!" Kenneth Marshall said quietly: "I thought, perhaps, that that was what put the idea of this place into your head. You were very keen we should come here." Arlena put down the mascara. She turned towards him. She smiled--a soft seductive Ottilia Cl-»<=» ^arl\7 northwest and the cliff overhung it a good deal. It was a favourite place for picnic teas. In the morning, when the sun was off it, it was not popular and there was seldom any one there. On this occasion, however, there was a figure on the beach. Patrick Redfem's stroke checked and recovered. He said in a would-be casual tone: "Hullo, who's that?" Miss Brewster said drily: "It looks like Mrs. Marshall." Patrick Redfem said as though struck by the idea: "So it does." He altered his course, rowing inshore. Emily Brewster protested. "We don't want to land here, do we?" Patrick Redfem said quickly: "Oh, plenty of time." His eyes looked into hers--something in them, a nave pleading look rather like that of an importunate dog, silenced Emily Brewster. She thought to herself: "Poor boy, he's got it badly. Oh, well, it can't be helped. He'll get over it in time." The boat was fast approaching the beach. Arlena Marshall was lying face downwards on the shingle her arms outstretched. The white float was drawn up near by. Something was puzzling to Emily Brewster. It was "" «-l-»/f«-«r»lt ol-»Q iiT«to 1/-w^l.yi »»<-» rt-t- o/v»-irt^»t-l"t11trr C?1t<» FR1;knew quite well but which was in one respect quite wrong. It was a minute or two before it came to her. Arlena Marshall's attitude was the attitude of a sun-bather. So had she lain many a time on the beach by the hotel, her bronzed body outstretched and the green cardboard hat protecting her head and neck. But there was no sun on Pixy's Beach and there would be none for some hours yet. The overhanging cliff protected the beach from the sun in the morning. A vague feeling of apprehension came over Emily Brewster. The boat grounded on the shingle. Patrick Redfem called: "Hullo, Arlena." And then Emily Brewster's foreboding took definite shape. For the recumbent figure did not move or answer. Emily saw Patrick Redfem's face change. He jumped out of the boat and she followed him. They dragged the boat ashore, then set off up the beach to where that white figure lay so still and unresponsive near the bottom of the cliff. Patrick Redfem got there first but Emily Brewster was close behind him. She saw, as one sees in a dream, the hmn"7(»d limits tli^ wl-nt^ l-tar'iz'l^es l"»atlnr»(T dress—the red curl of hair escaping under the jade-green hat—saw something else too— the curious unnatural angle of the outspread arms. Felt, in that minute, that this body had not lain down but had been thrown. . . . She heard Patrick's voice—a mere frightened whisper. He knelt down beside that still form—touched the hand—the arm. ... He said in a low shuddering whisper: "My God, she's dead. ..." And then, as he lifted the hat a little, peered at the neck: "Oh, God, she's been strangled. . .murdered" It was one of those moments when time stands still. With an odd feeling of unreality Emily Brewster heard herself saying: "We mustn't touch anything. . . . Not until the police come." Redfem's answer came mechanically: "No —no—of course not." And then in a deep agonized whisper: "Who? Who? Who could have done that to Arlena. She can't have— have been murdered. It can't be true!" Emily Brewster shook her head, not knowing quite what to answer. She heard him draw in his breath—heard the low controlled rage in his voice as he said: "My God, if I get my hands on the foul fiend who did this." 1-*" ••»'•» <1»» U«^-ww»^A*» rsl-k^-wTA^A/'l LJ^«* i w\ n m vi n ^i ^^n pictured a lurking murderer behind one of the boulders. Then she heard her voice saying: "Whoever did it wouldn't be hanging about. We must get the police. Perhaps"-- she hesitated--"one of us ought to stay with--with the body." Patrick Redfem said: "I'll stay." Emily Brewster drew a little sigh of relief. She was not the kind of woman who would ever admit to feeling fear, but she was secretly thankful not to have to remain on the beach alone with the faint possibility of a homicidal maniac lingering close at hand. She said: "Good. I'll be as quick as I can. I'll go in the boat. Can't face that ladder. There's a constable at Leathercombe Bay." Patrick Redfem murmured mechanically: "Yes--yes, whatever you think best." As she rowed vigorously away from the shore, Emily Brewster saw Patrick drop down beside the dead woman and bury his head in his hands. There was something so forlorn about his attitude that she felt an unwilling sympathy. He looked like a dog watching by its dead master. Nevertheless her robust common sense was saying to her: "Best thing that could have happened for him and his wife--and for Marshall and the child--but I northwest and the cliff overhung it a good deal. It was a favourite place for picnic teas. In the morning, when the sun was off it, it was not popular and there was seldom any one there. On this occasion, however, there was a figure on the beach. Patrick Redfem's stroke checked and recovered. He said in a would-be casual tone: "Hullo, who's that?" Miss Brewster said drily: "It looks like Mrs. Marshall." Patrick Redfem said as though struck by the idea: "So it does." He altered his course, rowing inshore. Emily Brewster protested. "We don't want to land here, do we?" Patrick Redfem said quickly: "Oh, plenty of time." His eyes looked into hers--something in them, a nave pleading look rather like that of an importunate dog, silenced Emily Brewster. She thought to herself: "Poor boy, he's got it badly. Oh, well, it can't be helped. He'll get over it in time." The boat was fast approaching the beach. Arlena Marshall was lying face downwards on the shingle her arms outstretched. The white float was drawn up near by. Something was puzzling to Emily Brewster. It was l /^arl Tt really is too terrible for words. A lady like Mrs. Marshall murdered and what's so horrible, actually--er--strangled. . . ." Mrs. Castle could hardly bring herself to say the word. She brought it out with the utmost reluctance. Inspector Colgate said soothingly: "Yes, it's a nasty business." "And the newspapers. My hotel in the newspapers!" Colgate said, with a faint grin: "Oh, well, it's advertisement, in a way." Mrs. Castle drew herself up. Her bust heaved and whalebone creaked. She said icily: "That is not the kind of advertisement Ay care about, Mr. Colgate." Colonel Weston broke in. He said: "Now then, Mrs. Castle, you've got a list of the guests staying here, as I asked you?" "Yes, sir." Colonel Weston pored over the hotel register. He looked over to Poirot who made the forth member of the group assembled in the Manageress's office. "This is where you'll probably be able to help us presently." He read down the names. "What about servants?" Mrs. Castle produced a second list. "There FR1;three under him and Henry in the bar. William does the boots and shoes. Then there's the cook and two under her." "What about the waiters?" "Well, sir, Albert, the Mater Dotel, came to me from the Vincent at Plymouth. He was there for some years. The three under him have been here for three years--one of them four. They are very nice lads and most respectable. Henry has been here since the hotel opened. He is quite an institution." Weston nodded. He said to Colgate: "Seems all right. You'll check up on them, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Castle." "That will be all you require?" "For the moment, yes." Mrs. Castle creaked out of the room. Weston said: "First thing to do is to talk with Captain Marshall." Kenneth Marshall sat quietly answering the questions put to him. Apart from a slight hardening of his features he was quite calm. Seen here, with the sunlight falling on him from the window, you realized that he was a handsome man. Those straight features, the steady blue eyes, the firm mouth. His voice was low and pleasant. Colonel Weston was saying: "I quite understand. Captain Mar<->1-»<-»11 iiTit <»« «t t-c»f»*il-»l£k cil-t/-wly 1-ltlO m'llC't" l"M^ tf\ you. But you realize that I am anxious to get the fullest information as soon as possible." Marshall nodded. He said: "I quite understand. Carry on." "Mrs. Marshall was your second wife?" "Yes." "And you have been married, how long?" "Just over four years." "And her name before she was married?" "Helen Stuart. Her acting name was Arlena Stuart." "She was an actress?" "She appeared in Revue and musical shows." "Did she give up the stage on her marriage?" "No. She continued to appear. She actually retired only about a year and a half ago." "Was there any special reason for her retirement?" Kenneth Marshall appeared to consider. "No," he said. "She simply said that she was tired of it all." "It was not--er--in obedience to your special wish?" Marshall raised his eyebrows. "Oh, no." "You were quite content for her to con_^«____ _ __.__ __St.__ ______ ----____-____ '\99 Marshall smiled very faintly. "I should have preferred her to give it up--that, yes. But I made no fuss about it." "It caused no point of dissension between you?" "Certainly not. My wife was free to please herself." "And--the marriage was a happy one?" Kenneth Marshall said coldly: "Certainly." Colonel Weston paused a minute. Then he said: "Captain Marshall, have you any idea who could possibly have killed your wife?" The answer came without the least hesitation. "None whatsoever." "Had she any enemies?" "Possibly." "Ah?" The other went on quickly. He said: "Don't misunderstand me, sir. My wife was an actress. She was also a very good-looking woman. In both capacities she aroused a certain amount of envy and jealousy. There were fusses over parts--there was rivalry from other women--there was a good deal, shall we say, of general envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness! But that is not to say that there was any one who was capable of deliberately murdering her." T-T^»yr»Til«» 'Prtit*/vt- of»r»lyA T/v»« t-l"t«a FIrc'1- t-i »>><» He said: "What you really mean. Monsieur, is that her enemies were mostly, or entirely, women?" Kenneth Marshall looked across at him. "Yes," he said. "That is so." The Chief Constable said: "You know of no man who had a grudge against her?" "No." "Was she previously acquainted with any one in this hotel?" "I believe she had met Mr. Redfem before--at some cocktail party. Nobody else to my knowledge." Weston paused. He seemed to deliberate as to whether to pursue the subject. Then he decided against that course. He said: "We now come to this morning. When was the last time you saw your wife?" Marshall paused a minute, then he said: "I looked in on my way down to breakfast--" "Excuse me, you occupied separate rooms?" "Yes." "And what time was that?" "It must have been about nine o'clock." "What was she doing?" 'She was opening her letters." (« "Nothing of any particular interest. Just good-moming--and that it was a nice day-- that sort of thing." "What was her manner? Unusual at all?" "No, perfectly normal." "She did not seem excited, or depressed, or upset in any way?" "I certainly didn't notice it." Hercule Poirot said: "Did she mention at all what were the contents of her letters?" Again a faint smile appeared on Marshall's lips. He said: "As far as I can remember, she said they were all bills." "Your wife breakfasted in bed?" "Yes." "Did she always do that?" "Invariably." Hercule Poirot said: "What time did she usually come downstairs?" "Oh! between ten and eleven--usually nearer eleven." Poirot went on: "If she were to descend at ten o'clock exactly, that would be rather surprising?" "Yes. She wasn't often down as early as that." "But she was this morning. Why do you think that was. Captain Marshall?" Marshall said nn^mntmnflllv "T-TflVpn't thf* least idea. Alight have been the weather-- extra fine day and all that." "You missed her?" Kenneth Marshall shifted a little in his chair. He said: "Looked in on her again after breakfast. Room was empty. I was a bit surprised." "And then you came down on the beach and asked me if I had seen her?" "Er--yes." He added with a faint emphasis in his voice: "And you said you hadn't. . . ." The innocent eyes of Hercule Poirot did not falter. Gently, he caressed his large and flamboyant moustache. Weston said: "Had you any special reason for wanting to find your wife this morning?" Marshall shifted his glance amiably to the Chief Constable. He said: "No, just wondered where she was, that's all." Weston paused. He moved his chair slightly. His voice fell into a different key. He said: "Just now. Captain Marshall, you mentioned that your wife had a previous acquaintance with Mr. Patrick Redfem. How well did your wife know Mr. Redfem?" Kenneth Marshall said: "Mind if I smoke?" He felt through his pockets. "Dash! "pita i-rtioloi/1 i-r»x7 i-m»"m> orvmMxyl"t<»r<» ?? Poirot offered him a cigarette which he accepted. Lighting it, he said: "You were asking about Redfem. My wife told me she had come across him at some cocktail party or other." "He was, then, just a casual acquaintance?" "I believe so." "Since then--" the Chief Constable paused. "I understand that that acquaintanceship has ripened into something rather closer." Marshall said sharply: "You understand that, do you? Who told you so?" "It is the common gossip of the hotel." For a moment Marshall's eyes went to Hercule Poirot. They dwelt on him with a kind of cold anger. He said: "Hotel gossip is usually a tissue of lies!" "Possibly. But I gather that Mr. Redfem and your wife gave some grounds for the gossip." "What grounds?" "They were constantly in each other's company." "Is that all?" "You do not deny that that was so?" "May have been. I really didn't notice." "You did not--excuse me, Caotain Marshall--object to your wife's friendship with Mr. Redfem?" "I wasn't in the habit of criticizing my wife's conduct." "You did not protest or object in any way?" "Certainly not." "Not even though it was becoming a subject of scandal and an estrangement was growing up between Mr. Redfem and his wife?" Kenneth Marshall said coldly: "I mind my own business and I expect other people to mind theirs. I don't listen to gossip and tittle tattle." "You won't deny that Mr. Redfem admired your wife?" "He probably did. Most men did. She was a very beautiful woman." "But you yourself were persuaded that there was nothing serious in the affair?" "I never thought about it, I tell you." "And suppose we have a witness who can testify that they were on terms of the greatest intimacy?" Again those blue eyes went to Hercule Poirot. Again an expression of dislike showed ^--> «-li«f«- m->nrt11»T <-»-»-f»"»»-n-ioiTr^ nn/'^a ^^Oforfall OIl/i* "If you want to listen to tales, listen to 'em. My wife's dead and can't defend herself." "You mean that you, personally, don't believe them?" For the first time a faint dew of sweat was observable on Marshall's brow. He said: "I don't propose to believe anything of the kind." He went on: "Aren't you getting a good way from the essentials of this business? What I believe or don't believe is surely not relevant to the plain fact of murder?" Hercule Poirot answered before either of the others could speak. He said: "You do not comprehend. Captain Marshall. There is no such thing as a plain fact of murder. Murder springs, nine times out of ten, out of the character and circumstances of the murdered person. Because the victim was the kind of person he or she was, therefore was he or she murdered! Until we can understand fully and completely exactly what kind of person Arlena Marshall was, we shall not be able to see clearly exactly the kind of person who murdered her. From that springs the necessity of our questions." Marshall turned to the Chief Constable. He said: "That your view, too?" Weston boggled a little. He said: "Well, iii-\ tr» q i-»rfir»t----that ic tr» Ctl\r__" Marshall gave a short laugh. He said: "Thought you wouldn't agree. This character stuff is M. Poirot's specialty, I believe." Poirot said, smiling: "You can at least congratulate yourself on having done nothing to assist me!" "What do you mean?" "What have you told us about your wife? Exactly nothing at all. You have told us only what every one could see for themselves. That she was beautiful and admired. Nothing more." Kenneth Marshall shrugged his shoulders. He said simply: "You're crazy." He looked towards the Chief Constable and said with emphasis: "Anything else, sir, that you'd like me to tell you?" "Yes, Captain Marshall, your own movements this morning, please." Kenneth Marshall nodded. He had clearly expected this. He said: "I breakfasted downstairs about nine o'clock as usual and read the paper. As I told you I went up to my wife's room afterwards and found she had gone out. I came down to the beach, saw M. Poirot and asked if he had seen her. Then I had a quick bathe and went up to the hotel again. It was then, let me see, about twenty to pipvpn----vps- mst ahnnt i-l-iat T cow tli«a clock in the lounge. It was just after twenty minutes to. I went up to my room, but the chambermaid hadn't quite finished it. I asked her to finish as quickly as she could. I had some letters to type which I wanted to get off by the post. I went downstairs again and had a word or two with Henry in the bar. I went up again to my room at ten minutes to eleven. There I typed my letters. I typed until ten minutes to twelve. I then changed into tennis kit as I had a date to play tennis at twelve. We'd booked the court the day before." "Who was we?" "Mrs. Redfem, Miss Damley, Mr. Gardener and myself. I came down at twelve o'clock and went up to the court. Miss Damley was there and Mr. Gardener. Mrs. Redfem arrived a few minutes later. We played tennis for an hour. Just as we came into the hotel afterwards I--1--got the news." "Thank you. Captain Marshall. Just as a matter of form, is there any one who can corroborate the fact that you were typing in your room between--er--ten minutes to eleven and ten minutes to twelve?" Kenneth Marshall said with a faint smile: «TJ»,,^ ,,^., ----* ~---- --!-- ^-i--^ t 1-11 i own wife? Let me see now. The chambermaid was about doing the rooms. She must have heard the typewriter going. And then there are the letters themselves. With all this upset I haven't posted them. I should imagine they are as good evidence as anything." He took three letters from his pocket. They were addressed, but not stamped. He said: "Their contents, by the way, are strictly confidential. But when it's a case of murder, one is forced to trust in the discretion of the police. They contain lists of figures and various financial statements. I think you will find that if you put one of your men on to type them out, he won't do it in much under an hour." He paused. "Satisfied, I hope?" Weston said smoothly: "It is no question of suspicion. Every one on the island will be asked to account for his or her movements between a quarter to eleven and twenty minutes to twelve this morning." Kenneth Marshall said: "Quite." Weston said: "One more thing. Captain Marshall. Do you know anything about the way your wife was likely to have disposed of any property she had?" "You mean a will? I don't think she ever made a will." "Her solicitors are Barkett, Markett & Applegood, Bedford Square. They saw to all her contracts, etc. But I'm fairly certain she never made a will. She said once that doing a thing like that would give her the shivers." "In that case, if she has died intestate, you, as her husband, succeed to her property." "Yes, I suppose I do." "Had she any near relatives?" "I don't think so. If she had, she never mentioned them. I know that her father and mother died when she was a child and she had no brothers or sisters." "In any case, I suppose, she had nothing very much to leave?" Kenneth Marshall said coolly: "On the contrary. Only two years ago. Sir Robert Erskine, who was an old friend of hers, died and left her a good deal of his fortune. It amounted, I think, to about fifty thousand pounds." Inspector Colgate looked up. An alertness came into his glance. Up to now he had been silent. Now he asked: "Then actually. Captain Marshall, your wife was a rich woman?" Kenneth Marshall shrugged his shoulders. "T CTir»r»r»c<» clip* W7-» ^l^an /'"^'«'«rtf»*olo^^_»*rVlX7C.------ that sort of thing. If husband and wife get ratty with each other, that's a bit awkward for a daughter, too. Anything of that sort?" Linda said clearly: "Do you mean, did Father and Arlena quarrel?" "Well--yes." Weston thought to himself: "Rotten business--questioning a child about her father. Why is one a policeman? Damn it all, it's got to be done, though." Linda said positively: "Oh, no." She added: "Father doesn't quarrel with people. He's not like that at all." Weston said: "Now, Miss Linda, I want you to think very carefully. Have you any idea at all who might have killed your stepmother? Is there anything you've ever heard or anything you know that could help us on that point?" Linda was silent a minute. She seemed to be giving the question a serious unhurried consideration. She said at last: "No, I don't know who could have wanted to kill Arlena." She added: "Except, of course, Mrs. Red- fern ." Weston said: "You think Mrs. Redfem wanted to kill her? Why?" Linda said: "Because her husband was in love with Arlena. But I don't think she would reallv want to kill her. I mean she'd just feel that she wished she was dedead--and that isn't the same thing at all, is itPt?" Poirot said gently: "NoyO, it is not at all the same." Linda nodded. A quesieer sort of spasm passed across her face. ShShe said: "And anyway, Mrs. Redfem could Id never do a thing like that--kill anybody. S She isn't--she isn't violent, if you know what X I mean." Weston and Poirot noddlded. The latter said: "I know exactly what youou mean, my child, and I agree with you. Mrsars. Redfem is not of those who, as your sayining goes, 'sees red.' She would not be--" Hde leaned back half closing his eyes, pickingng his words with care--"shaken by a stormm of feeling--seeing life narrowing in front of If her--seeing a hated face--a hated white neck-k--feeling her hands clench--longing to feel ;1 them press into flesh--" He stopped. Linda ncmoved jerkily back from the table. She said irin a trembling voice: "Can I go now? Is that allall?" Colonel Weston said: " "Yes, yes, that's all. Thank you. Miss Linda.'"." He got up to open the door for her. Then a came back to the table and lit a cigarette. £. "Phew," he said. "Not a nice job, ours. I i can tell you I felt a 1--4- ^c ^ ^a ^^o4-;.rwi,,rr »-r i-liat r-1-nld ahmit the relations between her father and her stepmother. More or less inviting a daughter to put a rope around her father's neck. All the same, it had to be done. Murder is murder. And (he's the person most likely to know the truth of things. I'm rather thankful, though, that she'd nothing to tell us in that line." Poirot said: "Yes, I thought you were." Weston said with an embarrassed cough: "By tlie way, Poirot, you went a bit far, I thought, at the end. All that hands-sinkinginto-flesh business! Not quite the sort of idea to put into a kid's head." Hercule Poirot looked at him with thoughtful eyes. He said: "So you thought I put ideas into her head?" "Well, didn't you? Come now." Poirot shook his head. Weston sheered away from the point. He said: "On the whole we got very little useful stuff out of her. Except a more or less complete alibi for the Redfem woman. If they were together from half past ten to a quarter to twelve that lets Christine Redfem out of it. Exit the jealous wife suspect." Poirot said: "There are better reasons than that for leaving Mrs. Redfem out of it. It \x7r»nlr1 T am pnnvinrwL hp nhvsipflllv imnns- sible md mentally impossible for her to strangle any one. She is cold rather than warmblooded, capable of deep devotion and unanswering constancy, but not of hotblooded passion or rage. Moreover, her hands are far too small and delicate." Colgate said: "I agree with Mr. Poirot. She's out of it. Dr. Neasdon says it was a full-sized pair of hands throttled that dame." Weston said: "Well, I suppose we'd better see the Redfems next. I expect he's recovered a bit from the shock now." Patrick Redfem had recovered full composure by now. He looked pale and haggard and suddenly very young, but his manner was (pite composed. "You are Mr. Patrick Redfem of Crossgates, Seldon, Princes Risborough?" "Yes." "Kow long had you known Mrs. MarstiaU?" Patrick Redfem hesitated, then said: "Thiee months." Weston went on: "Captain Marshall had told as that you and she met casually at a cocktail party. Is that right?" "^es, that's how it came about." plied that until you both met down here you did not know each other well. Is that the truth, Mr. Redfem?" Again Patrick Redfem hesitated a minute. Then he said: "Well--not exactly. As a matter of fact I saw a fair amount of her one way and another." "Without Captain Marshall's knowledge?" Redfem flushed slightly. He said: "I don't know whether he knew about it or not." Hercule Poirot spoke. He murmured: "And was it also without your wife's knowledge, Mr. Redfem?" "I believe I mentioned to my wife that I had met the famous Arlena Stuart." Poirot persisted. "But she did not know how often you were seeing her?" "Well, perhaps not." Weston said: "Did you and Mrs. Marshall arrange to meet down here?" Redfem was silent a minute or two. Then he shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, well," he said. "I suppose it's bound to come out now. It's no good my fencing with you. I was crazy about the woman--mad--infatuated-- anything you like. She wanted me to come down here. I demurred a bit and then I T T iTTxall T TTT/viily-l l"»r»^70 nmfOt^^ t-<-» FR1;do any mortal thing she liked. She had that kind of effect on people." Hercule Poirot murmured: "You paint a very clear picture of her. She was the eternal Circe. Just that!" Patrick Redfem said bitterly: "She turned men into swine all right!" He went on: "I'm being frank with you, gentlemen. I'm not going to hide anything. What's the use? As I say, I was infatuated with her. Whether she cared for me or not, I don't know. She pretended to, but I think she was one of those women who lose interest in a man once they've got him body and soul. She knew she'd got me all right. This morning, when I found her there on the beach, dead, it was as though--" he paused--"as though something had hit me straight between the eyes. I was dazed--knocked out!" Poirot leaned forward. "And now?" Patrick Redfem met his eyes squarely. He said: "I've told you the truth. What I want to ask is this--how much of it has got to be made public? It's not as though it could have any bearing on her death. And if it all comes out, it's going to be pretty rough on my wife. Oh, I know," he went on quickly. "You think I haven't thought much about -------*^ T»-»--l--,_^ 4-l»^4-?^, t-w.0. "DI-It- though I may sound the worst kind of hypocrite, the real truth is that I care for my wife--I care for her very deeply. The other--" he twitched his shoulders--"it was a madness--the kind of idiotic fool thing men do--but Christine is different. She's real. Badly as I've treated her, I've known all along, deep down, that she was the person who really counted." He paused--sighed-- and said rather pathetically: "I wish I could make you believe that." Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said: "But I do believe it. Yes, yes, I do believe it!" Patrick Redfem looked at him gratefully. He said: "Thank you." Colonel Weston cleared his throat. He said: "You may take it, Mr. Redfem, that we shall not go into irrelevancies. If your infatuation for Mrs. Marshall played no part in the murder, then there will be no point in dragging it into the case. But what you don't seem to realize is that that--er--intimacy-- may have a very direct bearing on the murder. It might establish, you understand, a motive for the crime." Patrick Redfem said: "Motive?" Weston said: "Yes, Mr. Redfem, motive! Cantain Marshall, nerhans- was unaware of the affair. Suppose that he suddenly found out." Redfem said: "Oh, God! You mean he got wise and--and killed her?" The Chief Constable said rather drily: "That solution had not occurred to you?" Redfem shook his head. He said: "No-- funny. I never thought of it. You see, Marshall's such a quiet chap. I--oh, it doesn't seem likely." Weston asked: "What was Mrs. Marshall's attitude to her husband in all this? Was she-- well, uneasy--in case it should come to his ears? Or was she indifferent?" Redfem said slowly: "She was--a bit nervous. She didn't want him to suspect anything." "Did she seem afraid of him?" "Afraid? No, I wouldn't say that." Poirot murmured: "Excuse me, M. Redfem, there was not, at any time, the question of a divorce?" Patrick Redfem shook his head decisively. "Oh, no, there was no question of anything like that. There was Christine, you see. And Arlena, I am sure, never thought of such a thing. She was perfectly satisfied married to Marshall. He's--well, rather a big bug in his why--" T-T^ smilpd snddpniv "Cnnntv--all that sort of thing, and quite well off. She never thought of me as a possible husband. No, I was just one of a succession of poor mutts--just something to pass the time with. I knew that all along, and yet, queerly enough, it didn't alter my feelings towards her. ..." His voice trailed off. He sat there thinking. Weston recalled him to the needs of the moment. "Now, Mr. Redfem, had you any particular appointment with Mrs. Marshall this morning?" Patrick Redfem looked slightly puzzled. He said: "Not a particular appointment, no. We usually met every morning on the beach. We used to paddle about on floats." "Were you surprised not to find Mrs. Marshall there this morning?" "Yes, I was. Very surprised. I couldn't understand it at all." "What did you think?" "Well, I didn't know what to think. I mean, all the time I thought she would be coming." "If she were keeping an appointment elsewhere you had no idea with whom that appointment might be?" Patrick Redfem merelv stared and shook his head. "When you had a rendezvous with Mrs. Marshall, where did you meet?" "Well, sometimes Yd meet her in the afternoon down at Gull Cove. You see the sun is off Gull Cove in the afternoon and so there aren't usually many people there. We met there once or twice." "Never on the other cove? Pixy Cove?" "No. You see Pixy Cove faces west and people go round there in boats or on floats in the afternoon. We never tried to meet in the morning. It would have been too noticeable. In the afternoon people go and have a sleep or mouch around and nobody knows much where any one else is." Weston nodded. Patrick Redfem went on: "After dinner, of course, on the fine nights, we used to go off for a stroll together to different parts of the island." Hercule Poirot murmured: "Ah, yes!" and Patrick Redfem shot him an inquiring glance. Weston said: "Then you can give us no help whatsoever as to the cause that took Mrs. Marshall to Pixy Cove this morning?" Redfem shook his head. He said, and his voice sounded honestly bewildered: "I haven't the faintest idea! It wasn't like Weston said: "Had she any friends down here staying in the neighbourhood?" "Not that I know of. Oh, I'm sure she hadn't." "Now, Mr. Redfem, I want you to think very carefully. You knew Mrs. Marshall in London. You must be acquainted with various members of her circle. Is there any one you know of who could have had a grudge against her? Some one, for instance, whom you may have supplanted in her fancy?" Patrick Redfem thought for some minutes. Then he shook his head. "Honestly," he said. "I can't think of any one." Colonel Weston drummed with his fingers on the table. He said at last: "Well, that's that. We seem to be left with three possibilities. That of an unknown killer--some monomaniac--who happened to be in the neighbourhood--and that's a pretty tall order--" Redfern said, interrupting: "And yet surely, it's by far the most likely explanation." Weston shook his head: "This isn't one of the 'lonely copse' murders. This cove place was pretty inaccessible. Either the man would have to come up from the causeway past the hotel, over the top of the island and down by thai- lorlrl^r r»r»r»1-r"ar»tir»n /vr <^1c<=» 1i<» r'am<=» thf»r<=» by boat. Either way is unlikely for a casual killing." Patrick Redfem said: "You said there were three possibilities." "Um--yes," said the Chief Constable. "That's to say, there were two people on this island who had a motive for killing her. Her husband, for one, and your wife for another." Redfem stared at him. He looked dumbfounded. He said: "My wife? Christine? D'you mean that Christine had anything to do with this?" He got up and stood there stammering slightly in his incoherent haste to get the words out. "You're mad--quite mad--Christine? Why, it's impossible. It's laughable!" Weston said: "All the same, Mr. Redfem, jealousy is a very powerful motive. Women who are jealous lose control of themselves completely." Redfem said earnestly: "Not Christine. She's--oh, she's not like that. She was unhappy, yes. But she's not the kind of person to--Oh, there's no violence in her." Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Violence. The same word that Linda Marshall had used. As before, he agreed with the "i-» -j, n _____^ __ T»--J.C^---- ^^^ fidently, "it would be absurd. Arlena was twice as strong physically as Christine. I doubt if Christine could strangle a kitten-- certainly not a strong wiry creature like Arlena. And then Christine could never have got down that ladder to the beach. She has no head for that sort of thing. And--oh, the whole thing is fantastic!" Colonel Weston scratched his ear tentatively. "Well," he said. "Put like that it doesn't seem likely. I grant you that. But motive's the first thing we've got to look for." He added: "Motive and opportunity." When Redfem had left the room, the Chief Constable observed with a slight smile: "Didn't think it necessary to tell the fellow his wife had got an alibi. Wanted to hear what he'd have to say to the idea. Shook him up a bit, didn't it?" Hercule Poirot murmured: "The arguments he advanced were quite as strong as any alibi." "Yes. Oh! She didn't do it! She couldn't have done it--physically impossible as you said. Marshall could have done it--but apparently he didn't." Inspector Colgate coughed. He said: "Excuse me, sir. I've been thinking about frit"'*- olil-ti T-t-'o fM"»c'oil"»l<» ir/vi-i Irit/tiiT i-T It^rl thought this thing out, that those letters were got ready beforehand." Weston said: "That's a good idea. We must look into--" He broke off as Christine Redfem entered the room. She was wearing a white tennis frock and a pale blue pullover. It accentuated her fair, rather anaemic prettiness. Yet, Hercule Poirot thought to himself, it was neither a silly face nor a weak one. It had plenty of resolution, courage and good sense. He nodded appreciatively. Colonel Weston thought: "Nice little woman. Bit wishywashy, perhaps. A lot too good for that philandering young ass of a husband of hers. Oh, well, the boy's young. Women usually make a fool of you once!" He said: "Sit down, Mrs. Redfem. We've got to go through a certain amount of routine, you see. Asking everybody for an account of their movements this morning. Just for our records." Christine Redfem nodded. She said in her quiet precise voice: "Oh, yes, I quite understand. Where do you want me to begin?" Hercule Poirot said: "As early as possible, Madame. What did you do when you first got up this morning?" down to breakfast I went into Linda Marshall's room and fixed up with her to go to Gull Cove this morning. We agreed to meet in the lounge at half past ten." Poirot asked: "You did not bathe before breakfast, Madame?" "No. I very seldom do." She smiled. "I like the sea well warmed before I get into it. I'm rather a chilly person." "But your husband bathes then?" "Oh, yes. Nearly always." "And Mrs. Marshall, she also?" A change came over Christine's voice. It became cold and almost acrid. She said: "Oh, no, Mrs. Marshall was the sort of person who never made an appearance before the middle of the morning." With an air of confusion, Hercule Poirot said: "Pardon, Madame, I interrupted you. You were saying that you went to Miss Linda Marshall's room. What time was that?" "Let me see—half past eight—no, a little later." "And was Miss Marshall up then?" "Oh, yes, she had been out." "Out?" "Yes, she said she'd been bathing." Then? was a faint—a vprv faint nntp nf embarrassment in Christine's voice. It puzzled Hercule Poirot. Weston said: "And then?" "Then I went down to breakfast." "And after breakfast?" "I went upstairs, collected my sketching box and sketching book, and we started out." "You and Miss Linda Marshall?" "Yes." "What time was that?" "I think it was just on half past ten." "And what did you do?" "We went to Gull Cove. You know, the cove on the east side of the island. We settled ourselves there. I did a sketch and Linda sunbathed." "What time did you leave the cove?" "At a quarter to twelve. I was playing tennis at twelve and had to change." "You had your watch with you?" "No, as a matter of fact I hadn't. I asked Linda the time." "I see. And then?" "I packed up my sketching things and went back to the hotel." Poirot said: "And Mademoiselle Linda?" "Linda? Oh, Linda went into the sea." Poirot said: "Were you far from the sea \TtTV\f^rf^ \7r»T« xiM»rf» ciltinoy "Well, we were well above high-water mark. Just under the cliff—so that I could be a little in the shade and Linda the sun." Poirot said: "Did Linda Marshall actually enter the sea before you left the beach?" Christine frowned a little in the effort to remember. She said: "Let me see. She ran down the beach—I fastened my box— Yes, I heard her splashing in the waves as I was on the path up the cliff." "You are quite sure of that, Madame? That she really entered the sea?" "Oh, yes." She stared at him in surprise. Colonel Weston also stared at him. Then he said: "Go on, Mrs. Redfem." "I went back to the hotel, changed, and went to the tennis courts where I met the others." "Who were?" "Captain Marshall, Mr. Gardener and Miss Damley. We played two sets. We were just going in again when the news came about— about Mrs. Marshall." Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said: "And what did you think, Madame, when you heard that news?" "What did I think?" Her face showed a faint distaste for the question. "v^o " Christine Redfem said slowly: "It was—a horrible thing to happen." "Ah, yes, your fastidiousness was revolted. I understand that. But what did it mean to you—personally?" She gave him a quick look—a look of appeal. He responded to it. He said in a matter-of-fact voice: "I am appealing to you, Madame, as a woman of intelligence with plenty of good sense and judgment. You had doubtless during your stay here formed an opinion of Mrs. Marshall, of the kind of woman she was?" Christine said cautiously: "I suppose one always does that more or less when one is staying in hotels." "Certainly, it is the natural thing to do. So I ask you, Madame, were you really very surprised at the manner of her death?" Christine said slowly: "I think I see what you mean. No, I was not, perhaps, surprised. Shocked, yes. But she was the kind of woman—" Poirot finished the sentence for her. "She was the kind of woman to whom such a thing might happen. . . . Yes, Madame, that is the truest and most significant thing that has been said in this room this morning. • --fcww^^^^^ rtll ^k.«* Fl-k j-& ft4-**^^«fA^'l <4- ^"»r»»»A"h illxrl A/>^_ sonal feeling aside, what did you really think of the late Mrs. Marshall?" Christine Redfem said calmly: "Is it really worth while going into all that now?" "I think it might be, yes." "Well, what shall I say?" Her fair skin was suddenly suffused with colour. The careful poise of her manner was relaxed. For a short space the natural raw woman looked out. "She's the kind of woman that to my mind is absolutely worthless! She did nothing to justify her existence. She had no mind--no brains. She thought of nothing but men and clothes and admiration. Useless, a parasite! She was attractive to men, I suppose--Oh, of course she was. And she lived for that kind of life. And so, I suppose, I wasn't really surprised at her coming to a sticky end. She was the sort of woman who would be mixed up with everything sordid-- blackmail--jealousy--every kind of crude emotion. She--she appealed to the worst in people." She stopped, panting a little. Her rather short top lip lifted itself in a kind of fastidious disgust. It occurred to Colonel Weston that you could not have found a more complete contrast to Arlena Stuart than Christine Redfem. It also occurred to him that if you were married to Christine Redfem, the atmosphere might be so rarefied that the Arlena Stuarts of this world would hold a particular attraction for you. And then, immediately following on these thoughts, a single word out of the words she had spoken fastened on his attention with particular intensity. He leaned forward and said: "Mrs. Redfem, why in speaking of her did you mention the word blackmail?" Seven Christine stared at him, not seeming at once to take in what he meant. She answered almost mechanically. "I suppose--because she was being blackmailed. She was the sort of person who would be." Colonel Weston said earnestly: "But--do you know she was being blackmailed?" A faint colour rose in the girl's cheeks. She said rather awkwardly: "As a matter of fact I do happen to know it. I--I overheard something." "Will you explain, Mrs. Redfem?" Flushing still more, Christine Redfem said: "I--I didn't mean to overhear. It was an accident. It was two--no, three nights ago. We were playing bridge." She turned towards Poirot. "You remember? My husband and I, M. Poirot and Miss Damley. I was dummy. It was very stuffy in the card room, and I slipped out of the window for a breath of fresh air. I went down towards the beach and I suddenly heard voices. One—it was Arlena Marshall's—I knew it at once—said: 'It's no good pressing me. I can't get any more money now. My husband will suspect something.' And then a man's voice said: 'I'm not taking any excuses. You've got to cough up.' And then Arlena Marshall said: 'You blackmailing brute!' And the man said: 'Brute or not, you'll pay up, my lady.' " Christine paused. "I'd turned back and a minute after Arlena Marshall rushed past me. She looked—well, frightfully upset." Weston said: "And the man? Do you know who he was?" Christine Redfern shook her head. She said: "He was keeping his voice low. I barely heard what he said." "It didn't suggest the voice to you of any one you knew?" She thought again, but once more shook her head. She said: "No, I don't know. It was gruff and low. It—oh, it might have been anybody's." Colonel Weston said: "Thank you, Mrs. Redfem." When the door had closed behind Christine Redfem Inspector Colgate said: "Now we are getting somewhere!" \X7^" Poirot replied: "He was absent for a short time when he fetched a skein of wool for his wife." Colgate said: "Oh, well, we needn't count that." Weston said: "And what about the other three?" "Major Barry went out at ten o'clock this morning. He returned at one-thirty. Mr. Lane was earlier still. He breakfasted at eight. Said he was going for a tramp. Mr. Blatt went off for a sail at nine-thirty same as he does most days. Neither of them is back yet?" "A sail, eh?" Colonel Weston's voice was thoughtful. Inspector Colgate's voice was responsive. He said: "Might fit in rather well, sir." Weston said: "Well, we'll have a word with this Major bloke—and let me see, who else is there? Rosamund Damley. And there's the Brewster woman who found the body with Redfem. What's she like, Colgate?" "Oh, a sensible party, sir. No nonsense about her." "She didn't express any opinions on the death?" The insnector shook his head- "T don't think she'll have anything more to tell us, sir, but we'll have to make sure. Then there are the Americans." Colonel Weston nodded. He said: "Let's have 'em all in and get it over as soon as possible. Never know, might learn something. About the blackmailing stunt if about nothing else." Mr. and Mrs. Gardener came into the presence of authority together. Mrs. Gardener explained immediately. "I hope you'll understand how it is, Colonel Weston (that is the name, I think?)." Reassured on this point she went on: "But this has been a very bad shock to me and Mr. Gardener is always very, very careful of my health--" Mr. Gardener here interpolated. "Mrs. Gardener," he said, "is very sensitive." "--and he said to me, 'Why, Carrie,' he said, 'naturally I'm coming right along with you.' It's not that we haven't the highest admiration for British police methods, because we have. I've been told that British police procedure is the most refined and delicate and I've never doubted it and certainly when I once had a bracelet missing at the Savoy Hotel nothing could have been more lovely and sympathetic than the young man tma, i-r>. sna.^ rr»^ ahrmt it. and of course I FR1;hadn't really lost the bracelet at all, but just mislaid it, that's the worst of rushing about so much, it makes you kind of forgetful where you put things--" Mrs. Gardener paused, inhaled gently and started off again. "And what I say is, and I know Mr. Gardener agrees with me, that we're only too anxious to do anything to help the British police in every way. So go right ahead and ask me anything at all you want to know--" Colonel Weston opened his mouth to comply with this invitation but had momentarily to postpone speech while Mrs. Gardener went on. "That's what I said, Odell, isn't it? And that's so, isn't it?" "Yes, darling," said Mr. Gardener. Colonel Weston spoke hastily. "I understand, Mrs. Gardener, that you and your husband were on the beach all the morning?" For once Mr. Gardener was able to get in first. "That's so," he said. "Why, certainly we were," said Mrs. Gardener. "And a lovely peaceful morning it was, just like any other morning, if you get me, perhaps even more so, and not the slightest idea in our minds of what was happening round the corner on that lonely hparb " FR1;"Did you see Mrs. Marshall at all today?" "We did not. And I said to Odell, 'Why, wherever can Mrs. Marshall have got to this morning?51 said. And first her husband coming looking for her and then that goodlooking young man, Mr. Redfem, and so impatient he was, just sitting there on the beach scowling at every one and everything. And I said to myself, "Why, when he has that nice pretty little wife of his own, must he go running after that dreadful woman?' Because that's just what I felt she was. I always felt that about her, didn't I, Odell?" "Yes, darling." "However that nice Captain Marshall came to marry such a woman I just cannot imagine--and with that nice young daughter growing up, and it's so important for girls to have the right influence. Mrs. Marshall was not at all the right person--no breeding at all--and I should say a very animal nature. Now if Captain Marshall had had any sense he'd have married Miss Damley who's a very, very charming woman and a very distinguished one. I must say I admire the way she's gone straight ahead and built up a firstclass business as she has. It takes brains to do a thing like that--and you've only to look " l?/tc'otf»T«»"»<'l 'T^rfrftl^xr -t-r\ cc^a c'l"t/-./Ti-i pounds t- rit-t/4 xiTAttt" rvi'it' 1"r» the tennis courts where I played tennis until lunchtime." "You were in the cliff recess, called by the hotel. Sunny Ledge, from about half past ten until ten minutes to twelve?" "Yes." "Did you see Mrs. Marshall at all this morning?" "No." "Did you see her from the cliff as she paddled her float round to Pixy's Cove?" "No, she must have gone by before I got there." "Did you notice any one on a float or in a boat at all this morning?" "No, I don't think I did. You see I was reading. Of course I looked up from my book from time to time but as it happened the sea was quiet each time I did so." "You didn't even notice Mr. Redfem and Miss Brewster when they went round?" "No." "You were, I think, acquainted with Mr. Marshall?" "Captain Marshall is an old family friend. His family and mine lived next door to each other. I had not seen him, however, for a good many years--it must be something like twelve wears." "And Mrs. Marshall?" "I'd never exchanged half a dozen words with her until I met her here." "Were Captain and Mrs. Marshall, as far as you knew, on good terms with each other?" "On perfectly good terms, I should say." "Was Captain Marshall very devoted to his wife?" Rosamund said: "He may have been. I can't really tell you anything about that. Captain Marshall is rather old-fashioned--but he hasn't got the modem habit of shouting matrimonial woes upon the housetop." "Did you like Mrs. Marshall, Miss Damley?" "No." The monosyllable came quietly and evenly. It sounded what it was--a simple statement of fact. "Why was that?" A half smile came to Rosamund's lips. She said: "Surely you've discovered that Arlena Marshall was not popular with her own sex? She was bored to death with women and showed it. Nevertheless I should like to have had the dressing of her. She had a great gift for clothes. Her clothes were always just right and she wore them well. I should like to have had her as a client." "She must have. But then she had money of her own and of course Captain Marshall is quite well off." "Did you ever hear or did it ever occur to you that Mrs. Marshall was being blackmailed, Miss Damley?" A look of intense astonishment came over Rosamund Damley's expressive face. She said: "Blackmailed? Arlena?" "The idea seems to surprise you." "Well, yes, it does rather. It seems so incongruous." "But surely it is possible?" "Everything's possible, isn't it? The world soon teaches one that. But I wondered what any one could blackmail Arlena about?" "There are certain things, I suppose, that Mrs. Marshall might be anxious should not come to her husband's ears?" "We-U, yes." She explained the doubt in her voice by saying with a half smile: "I sound skeptical, but then, you see, Arlena was rather notorious in her conduct. She never made much of a pose of respectability." "You think, then, that her husband was aware of her--intimacies with other people?" There was a pause. Rosamund was frowning. She snoke at last in a slow reluctant voice. She said: "You know, I don't really know what to think. I've always assumed that Kenneth Marshall accepted his wife, quite frankly, for what she was. That he had no illusions about her. But it may not be so." "He may have believed in her absolutely?" Rosamund said with semi-exasperation: "Men are such fools. And Kenneth Marshall is unworldly under his sophisticated manner. He may have believed in her blindly. He may have thought she was just--admired." "And you know of no one--that is you have heard of no one who was likely to have had a grudge against Mrs. Marshall?" Rosamund Damley smiled. She said: "Only resentful wives. And I presume since she was strangled, that it was a man who killed her." "Yes." Rosamund said thoughtfully: "No, I can't think of any one. But then I probably shouldn't know. You'll have to ask some one in her own intimate set." "Thank you. Miss Damley." Rosamund turned a little in her chair. She said: "Hasn't M. Poirot any questions to ask?" Her faintly ironic smile flashed out at 1nm Hercule Poirot smiled and shook his head. He said: "I can think of nothing." Rosamund Damley got up and went out. Eight They were standing in the bedroom that had been Arlena MarhsalTs. Two big bay windows gave onto a balcony that overlooked the bathing beach and the sea beyond. Sunshine poured into the room flashing over the bewildering array of bottles and jars on Arlena's dressing-table. Here there was every kind of cosmetic and unguent known to beauty parlours. Amongst this panoply of women's affairs three men moved purposefully. Inspector Colgate went about shutting and opening drawers. Presently he gave a grunt. He had come upon a packet of folded letters. He and Weston ran through them together. Hercule Poirot had moved to the wardrobe. He opened the door of the hanging cupboard and looked at the multiplicity of gowns and sports suits that hung there. He opened the other side. Foamy lingerie lay in beach cardboard hats in lacquer red and pale yellow--a big Hawaiian straw hat--another of drooping dark blue linen and three or four little absurdities for which, no doubt, several guineas had been paid apiece--a kind of beret in dark blue--a tuft, no more, of black velvet--a pale grey turban. Hercule Poirot stood scanning them--a faintly indulgent smile came to his lips. He murmured: "Les femmes!" Colonel Weston was refolding the letters. "Three from young Redfem," he said. "Damned young ass. He'll learn not to write to women in a few more years. Women always keep letters and then swear they've burnt them. There's one other letter here. Same line of country." He held it out and Poirot took it. "Darling Arlena, "God, I feel blue. To be going out to China--and perhaps not seeing you again for years and years. I didn't know any man could go on feeling crazy about a woman like I feel about you. Thanks for the cheque. They won't prosecute now. It was a near shave, though, and all because I wanted to make big money for you. Can ---».»» J T »-»T<-».»-»-<-^/-1 <-/» OA<- /T«rt "»"»/Vt"t<'lc1 in your ears--your lovely lovely ears and clasp great milk-white pearls round your throat only they say pearls are no good nowadays. A fabulous emerald, then? Yes, that's the thing. A great emerald, cool and green and full of hidden fire. Don't forget me--but you won't, I know. You're mine--always. "Good-bye--goodbye--good-bye. "J.N.' "T XT »» Inspector Colgate said: "Might be worth while to find out if J.N. really did go to China. Otherwise--well, he might be the person we're looking for. Crazy about the woman, idealizing her, suddenly finding out he'd been played for a sucker. It sounds to me as though this is the boy Miss Brewster mentioned. Yes, I think this might be useful." Hercule Poirot nodded. He said: "Yes, that letter is important. I find it very important." He turned round and stared at the room-- at the bottles on the dressing table--at the open wardrobe and at a big Pierrot doll that lolled insolently on the bed. They went into Kenneth Marshall's room. It was next door to his wife's but with no communicating door had two windows, but it was much smaller. Between the two windows a gilt mirror hung on the wall. In the corner beyond the righthand window was the dressing-table. On it were two ivory brushes, a clothes brush and a bottle of hair lotion. In the corner by the left-hand window was a writing-table. An open typewriter stood on it and papers were ranged in a stack beside it. Colgate went through them rapidly. He said: "All seems straightforward enough. Ah, here's the letter he mentioned this morning. Dated the 24th--that's yesterday. And here's the envelope--postmarked Leathercombe Bay this morning. Seems all square. Now we'll have an idea if he could have prepared that answer of his beforehand." He sat down. Colonel Weston said: "We'll leave you to it, for a moment. We'll just glance through the rest of the rooms. Every one's been kept out of this corridor until now and they're getting a bit restive about it." They went next into Linda Marshall's room. It faced east, looking out over the rocks down to the sea below. Weston gave a glance round. He murmured: "Don't suppose there's anything to see here. But it's possible Marshall might havp mit snmetnino- in his dano-hl-pr's room FR1;that he didn't want us to find. Not likely, though. It isn't as though there had been a weapon or anything to get rid of." He went out again. Hercule Poirot stayed behind. He found something that interested him in the grate. Something had been burnt there recently. He knelt down, working patiently. He laid out his finds on a sheet of paper. A large irregular blob of candle grease--some fragments of green paper or cardboard, possibly a pull-off calendar, for with it was an unbumt fragment bearing a large figure 5 and a scrap of printing . . . noble deeds. . . . There was also an ordinary pin and some burnt animal matter which might have been hair. Poirot arranged them neatly in a row and stared at them. He murmured: (< 'Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long.9 C'est possible. But what is one to make of this collection? C'est fantastique!" And he picked up the pin and his eyes grew sharp and green. He murmured: "Pour I'amour de Dieu! Is it possible?" Hercule Poirot got up from where he had been kneeling by the grate. Slowly he looked round the room and this time there was an entirely new expression on his face. It was ' i -- -^--- -r^ <.l,^ \^ff. ^f ^^ mantelpiece there were some shelves with a row of books. Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully along the titles. A Bible, a battered copy of Shakespeare's plays. The Marriage of William Ashe by Mrs. Humphry Ward. The Young Stepmother by Charlotte Yonge. The Shropshire Lad. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral. Bernard Shaw's St. Joan. Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. The Burning Court by Dickson Carr. Poirot took out two books. The Young Stepmother and William Ashe, and glanced inside at the blurred stamp affixed to the tide page. As he was about to replace them, his eye caught sight of a book that had been shoved behind the other books. It was a small dumpy volume bound in brown calf. He took it out and opened it. Very slowly he nodded his head. He murmured: "So I was right. . . . Yes, I was right. But for the other--is that possible too? No, it is not possible, unless. ..." He stayed there, motionless, stroking his moustaches whilst his mind ranged busily over the problem. He said again softly: ^Unless--?95 Colonel Weston looked in at the door. "Mnlln Pmrnt still therp^" "I arrive. I arrive," cried Poirot. He hurried out into the corridor. The room next to Linda's was that of the Redfems. Poirot looked into it, noting automatically the traces of two different individualities--a neatness and tidiness which he associated with Christine and a picturesque disorder which was characteristic of Patrick. Apart from these sidelights on personality the room did not interest him. Next to it again was Rosamund Damley's room and here he lingered for a moment in the sheer pleasure of the owner's personality. He noted the few books that lay on the table next to the bed, the expensive simplicity of the toilet set on the dressing-table. And there came gently to his nostrils, the elusive expensive perfume that Rosamund Damley used. Next to Rosamund Damley's room at the northern end of the corridor was an open window leading to a balcony from which an outside stair led down to the rocks below. Weston said: "That's the way people go down to bathe before breakfast--that is, if they bathe off the rocks as most of them do." Interest came into Hercule Poirot's eyes. He stepped outside and looked down. Below, a path led to steps cut zigzag leading *---- ------1---» *-^. 4-l-»^ <-iA<-> ir"» pounds «Q xir<»o *a1c/t a path that led round the hotel to the left. He said: "One could go down these stairs, go to the left round the hotel and join the main path up from the causeway." Weston nodded. He amplified Poirot's statement. "One could go right across the island without going through the hotel at all." He added: "But one might still be seen from a window." "What window?" "Two of the public bathrooms look out that way—north—and the staff bathroom, and the cloakroom on the ground floor. Also the billiard room." Poirot nodded. He said: "And all the former have frosted glass windows and one does not play billiards on a fine morning." "Exactly." Weston paused and said: "If he did it, that's the way he went." "You mean Captain Marshall?" "Yes. Blackmail, or no blackmail, I still feel it points to him. And his manner—well, his manner is unfortunate." Hercule Poirot said drily: "Perhaps—but a manner does not make a murderer!" Weston said: "Then you think he's out of it?" Poirot shook his head. He said: "No, I \x7m-ilrl nrvl- ca\7 that " Weston said: "We'll see what Colgate can make out of the typewriting alibi. In the meantime I've got the chambermaid of this floor waiting to be interviewed. A good deal may depend on her evidence." The chambermaid was a woman of thirty, brisk, efficient and intelligent. Her answers came readily. Captain Marshall had come up to his room not long after ten-thirty. She was then finishing the room. He had asked her to be as quick as possible. She had not seen him come back but she had heard the sound of the typewriter a little later. She put it at about five minutes to eleven. She was then in Mr. and Mrs. Redfem's room. After she had done that she moved on to Miss Damley's room, as near as she could say, at just after eleven o'clock. She remembered hearing Leathercombe Church strike the hour as she went in. At a quarter past eleven she had gone downstairs for her eleven o'clock cup of tea and "snack." Afterwards she had gone to do the rooms in the other wing of the hotel. In answer to the Chief Constable's question she explained that she had done the rooms in this corridor in the following order: Miss Linda Marshall's, the two public bathrooms, Mrs. Marshall's room and private Redfem's room and private bath. Miss Damley's room and private bath. Captain Marshall's and Miss Marshall's rooms had no adjoining bathrooms. During the time she was in Miss Damley's room and bathroom she had not heard any one pass the door or go out by the staircase to the rocks, but it was quite likely she wouldn't have heard if any one went quietly. Weston then directed his questions to the subject of Mrs. Marshall. No, Mrs. Marshall wasn't one for rising early as a rule. She, Gladys Narracott, had been surprised to find the door open and Mrs. Marshall gone down at just after ten. Something quite unusual, that was. "Did Mrs. Marshall always have her breakfast in bed?" "Oh, yes, sir, always. Not very much of it either. Just tea and orange juice and one piece of toast. Slimming like so many ladies." No, she hadn't noticed anything unusual in Mrs. Marshall's manner that morning. She'd seemed quite as usual. Hercule Poirot murmured: "What did you think of Mrs. Marshall, Mademoiselle?" Gladys Narracott stared at him. She said: "Well, that's hardly for me to say, is it, sir?" "Rut ves- it is for you to saw. We are anxious--very anxious--to hear your impression." Gladys gave a slightly uneasy glance towards the Chief Constable who endeavoured to make his face sympathetic and approving, though actually he felt slightly embarrassed by his foreign colleague's methods of approach. He said: "Er--yes, certainly. Go ahead." For the first time Gladys Narracott's brisk efficiency deserted her. Her fingers fumbled with her print dress. She said: "Well, Mrs. Marshall--she wasn't exactly a lady, as you might say. What I mean is she was more like an actress." Colonel Weston said: "She was an actress." "Yes, sir, that's what I'm saying. She just went on exactly as she felt like it. She didn't--well, she didn't trouble to be polite if she wasn't feeling polite. And she'd be all smiles one minute and then if she couldn't find something or the bell wasn't answered at once or her laundry wasn't back, well, she'd be downright rude and nasty about it. None of us as you might say liked her. But her clothes were beautiful, and of course she was a very handsome lady, so it was only natural she should be admired." ^^l^^a,! W7Qo-t-/v> oQirl' "T am cnrrv to have to ask you what I am going to ask you, but it is a very vital matter. Can you tell me how things were between her and her husband?" Gladys Narracott hesitated a minute. She said: "You don't--it wasn't--you don't think as he did it?" Hercule Poirot said quickly: "Do you?" "Oh! I wouldn't like to think so. He's such a nice gentleman. Captain Marshall. He couldn't do a thing like that--I'm sure he couldn't." "But you are not very sure--I hear it in your voice." Gladys Narracott said reluctantly: "You do read things in the papers! When there's jealously. If there's been goings-on--and of course every one's been talking about it-- about her and Mr. Redfem, I mean. And Mrs. Redfem's such a nice quiet lady! It does seem a shame! And Mr. Redfem's a nice gentleman too, but it seems men can't help themselves when it's a lady like Mrs. Marshall--one who's used to having her own way. Wives have to put up with a lot, I'm sure." She sighed and paused. "But if Captain Marshall found out about it--" Colonel Weston said sharply: "Well?" dadvs Marramtt said sinwiv "T did thinly sometimes that Mrs. Marshall was frightened of her husband knowing." "What makes you say that?" "It wasn't anything definite, sir. It was only I felt—that sometimes she was—afraid of him. He was a very quiet gentleman but he wasn't—he wasn't easy." Weston said: "But you've nothing definite to go on? Nothing either of them ever said to each other." Slowly Gladys Narracott shook her head. Weston sighed. He went on: "Now, as to letters received by Mrs. Marshall this morning. Can you tell us anything about those?" "There were about six or seven, sir. I couldn't say exactly." "Did you take them up to her?" "Yes, sir. I got them from the office as usual and put them on her breakfast tray." "Do you remember anything about the look of them?" The girl shook her head. "They were just ordinary-looking letters. Some of them were bills and circulars, I think, because they were torn up on the tray." "What happened to them?" "They went into the dustbin, sir. One of the police gentlemen is going through that -— »» Weston nodded. "And the contents of the wastepaper baskets, where are they?" "They'll be in the dustbin too." Weston said: "H'm--well, I think that is all at present." He looked inquiringly at Poirot. Poirot leaned forward. "When you did Miss Linda Marshall's room this morning, did you do the fireplace?" "There wasn't anything to do, sir. There had been no fire lit." "And there was nothing in the fireplace itself?" "No, sir, it was perfectly all right." "What time did you do her room?" "About a quarter past nine, sir, when she'd gone down to breakfast." "Did she come up to her room after breakfast, do you know?" "Yes, sir. She came up about a quarter to ten." "Did she stay in her room?" "I think so, sir. She came out, hurrying rather, just before half past ten." "You didn't go into her room again?" "No, sir. I had finished with it." Poirot nodded. He said: "There is another thing I want to know. What people bathed before breakfast this momine?" "I couldn't say about the other wing and the floor above. Only about this one." "That is all I want to know." "Well, sir. Captain Marshall and Mr. Redfem were the only ones this morning, I think. They always go down for an early dip." "Did you see them?" "No, sir, but their wet bathing things were hanging over the balcony rail as usual." "Miss Linda Marshall did not bathe this morning?" "No, sir. All her bathing dresses were quite dry." "Ah," said Poirot. "That is what I wanted to know." Gladys Narracott volunteered: "She does most mornings, sir." "And the other three. Miss Darnley, Mrs. Redfem and Mrs. Marshall?" "Mrs. Marshall never, sir. Miss Damley has once or twice, I think. Mrs. Redfem doesn't often bathe before breakfast—only when it's very hot, but she didn't this moming." Again Poirot nodded. Then he asked: "I wonder if you have noticed whether a bottle is missing from any of the rooms you look after in this wins?" "A bottle, sir? What kind of bottle?" "Unfortunately I do not know. But have you noticed--if one has gone?" Gladys said frankly: "I shouldn't from Mrs. Marshall's room, sir, and that's a fact. She has ever so many." "And the other rooms?" "Well, I'm not sure about Miss Damley. She has a good many creams and lotions. But from the other rooms, yes, I would, sir. I mean if I were to look special. If I were noticing, so to speak." "But you haven't actually noticed?" "No, because I wasn't looking special, as I say." "Perhaps you would go and look now, then." "Certainly, sir." She left the room, her print dress rustling. Weston looked at Poirot. He said: "What's all this?" Poirot murmured: "My orderly mind, that is vexed by trifles! Miss Brewster, this moming, was bathing off the rocks before breakfast, and she says that a bottle was thrown from above and nearly hit her. Eh bien, I want to know who threw that bottle and why ?" "My dear man, any one may have chucked a bottle away." "Not at all. To begin with, it could only have been thrown from a window on the east side of the hotel--that is, one of the windows of the rooms we have just examined. Now I ask you, if you have an empty bottle on your dressing-table or in your bathroom, what do you do with it? I will tell you, you drop it into the wastepaper basket. You do not take the trouble to go out on your balcony and hurl it into the seal For one thing you might hit some one, for another it would be too much trouble. No, you would only do that if you did not want any one to see that particular bottle." Weston stared at him. Weston said: "I know that Chief Inspector Japp, whom I met over a case not long ago, always says you have a damned tortuous mind. You're not going to tell me now that Arlena Marshall wasn't strangled at all, but poisoned out of some mysterious bottle with a mysterious drug?" "No, no, I do not think there was poison in that bottle." "Then what was there?" "I do not know at all. That's why I am Gladys Narracott came back. She was a little breathless. She said: "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't find anything missing. I'm sure there's nothing gone from Captain Marshall's room or Miss Linda Marshall's room or Mr. and Mrs. Redfem's room, and I'm pretty sure there's nothing gone from Miss Damley's either. But I couldn't say about Mrs. Marshall's. As I say, she's got such a lot." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said: "No matter. We will leave it." Gladys Narracott said: "Is there anything more, sir?" She looked from one to the other of them. Weston said: "Don't think so. Thank you." Poirot said: "I thank you, no. You are sure, are you not, that there is nothing-- nothing at all, that you have forgotten to tell us?" "About Mrs. Marshall, sir?" "About anything at all. Anything unusual, out of the way, unexplained, slightly peculiar, rather curious--enfin, something that has made you say to yourself or to one of your colleagues: That's funny!'?" Gladys said doubtfully: "Well, not the sort of thing that you would mean, sir?" TT^rr'nlf* Pnirrtt cairl- ""M^ir^r minrl ix/l-tat T mean. You do not know what I mean. It is true, then, that you have said to yourself or to a colleague today: 'That is funny!'?" He brought out the three words with ironic detachment. Gladys said: "It was nothing really. Just a bath being run. And I did pass the remark to Elsie, downstairs, that it was funny somebody having a bath round about twelve o'clock." "Whose bath, who had a bath?" "That I couldn't say, sir. We heard it going down the waste from this wing, that's all, and that's when I said what I did to Elsie." "You're sure it was a bath? Not one of the handbasins?" "Oh! quite sure, sir. You can't mistake bath-water running away." Poirot displaying no further desire to keep her, Gladys Narracott was permitted to depart. Weston said: "You don't think this bath question is important, do you, Poirot? I mean, there's no point to it. No bloodstains or anything like that to wash off. That's the--" he hesitated. Poirot cut in: "That, you would say, is the -^" "*.--..»--«»--«! «»«« »-f» I "^T/t l^1/"w"w1o't"r»ii'tc' no weapon--nothing to get rid of or conceal! Nothing is needed but physical strength-- and the soul of a killer!" His voice was so fierce, so charged with feeling, that Weston recoiled a little. Hercule Poirot smiled at him apologetically. "No, no," he said, "the bath is probably of no importance. Any one may have had a bath. Mrs. Redfem before she went to play tennis. Captain Marshall, Miss Damley. As I say, any one. There is nothing in that." A Police Constable knocked at the door, and put in his head. "It's Miss Damley, sir. She says she'd like to see you again for a minute. There's something she forgot to tell you, she says." Weston said: "We're coming down-- now." The first person they saw was Colgate. His face was gloomy. "Just a minute, sir." Weston and Poirot followed him into Mrs. Castle's office. Colgate said: "I've been checking up with Heald on this typewriting business. Not a doubt of it, it couldn't be done under an hour. Longer, if you had to stop and think here and there. That seems to me pretty well to settle it. And look at this letter." He held it out "My dear Marshall, "Sorry to worry you on your holiday but an entirely unforeseen situation has arisen over the Burley and Tender contracts. ..." "Etcetera, etcetera," said Colgate. "Dated the 24th--that's yesterday. Envelope postmarked yesterday evening E.C.I and Leathercombe Bay this morning. Same typewriter used on envelope and in letter. And by the contents it was clearly impossible for Marshall to prepare his answer beforehand. The figures arise out of the ones in the letter--the whole thing is quite intricate." "H'm," said Weston gloomily. "That seems to let Marshall out. We'll have to look elsewhere." He added: "I've got to see Miss Damley again. She's waiting now." Rosamund came in crisply. Her smile held an apologetic nuance. She said: "I'm frightfully sorry. Probably it isn't worth bothering about. But one does forget things so." "Yes, Miss Damley?" The Chief Constable indicated a chair. She shook her shapely black head. "Oh, it isn't worth sitting down. It's simply this. I «-'>.1^ tT.r-Mi -t-l-trf- T o»-MM"ft- t4"»<» ryi/vnirtcr l\nno' onl" on Sunny Ledge. That isn't quite accurate. I forgot that once during the morning I went back to the hotel and out again." "What time was that. Miss Damley?" "It must have been about a quarter past eleven." "You went back to the hotel, you said?" "Yes, I'd forgotten my glare glasses. At first I thought I wouldn't bother and then my eyes got tired and I decided to go in and get them." "You went straight to your room and out again." "Yes. At least, as a matter of fact, I just looked in on Ken--Captain Marshall. I heard his machine going and I thought it was so stupid of him to stay indoors typing on such a lovely day. I thought I'd tell him to come out." "And what did Captain Marshall say?" Rosamund smiled rather shamefacedly. "Well, when I opened the door he was typing so vigorously, and frowning and looking so concentrated that I just went away quietly. I don't think he even saw me come in." "And that was--at what time. Miss Damley?" "Just about twenty past eleven. I noticed »» <4->o r'lrtr'lr ir» th^ l-iill oc T x»7f»nt rmt ao-airi "And that puts the lid on it finally," said Inspector Colgate. "The chambermaid heard him typing up till five minutes to eleven. Miss Damley saw him at twenty minutes past, and the woman was dead at a quarter to twelve. He says he spent that hour typing in his room and it seems quite clear that he was typing in his room. That washes Captain Marshall right out." He stopped, then looking at Poirot with some curiosity he asked: "M. Poirot's looking very serious over something." Poirot said thoughtfully: "I was wondering why Miss Damley suddenly volunteered this extra evidence." Inspector Colgate cocked his head alertly. "Think there's something fishy about it? That it isn't just a question of 'forgetting'?" He considered for a moment or two, then he said slowly: "Look here, sir, let's look at it this way. Supposing Miss Damley wasn't on Sunny Ledge this morning as she says. That story's a lie. Now suppose that after telling us her story, she finds that somebody saw her somewhere else or alternatively that some one went to the Ledge and didn't find her there. Then she thinks up this story quick - -- -J -- -- ------ --- -- ------ -J ^.-»11/^ ««. 4-^-k WJ-i ^^v rt ^rf-»/-M --»<- TiT^f her absence. You'll notice that she was careful to say Captain Marshall didn't see her when she looked into his room." Poirot murmured: "Yes, I noticed that." Weston said incredulously: "Are you suggesting that Miss Damley's mixed up in this? Nonsense, seems absurd to me. Why should she be?" Inspector Colgate coughed. He said: "You'll remember what the American lady, Mrs. Gardener, said. She sort of hinted that Miss Damley was sweet on Captain Marshall. There'd be a motive there, sir." Weston said impatiently: "Arlena Marshall wasn't killed by a woman. It's a man we've got to look for. We've got to stick to the men in the case." Inspector Colgate sighed. He said: "Yes, that's true, sir. We always come back to that, don't we?" Weston went on: "Better put a constable on to timing one or two things. From the hotel across the island to the top of the ladder. Let him do it running and walking. Same thing with the ladder itself. And somebody had better check the time it takes to go on a float from the bathing beach to the Inspector Colgate nodded. "I'll attend to all that, sir," he said confidently. The Chief Constable said: "Think FU go along to the cove now. See if Phillips has found anything. Then there's that Pixy's Cave that we've been hearing about. Ought to see if there are any traces of a man waiting in there. Eh? Poirot. What do you think?" "By all means. It is a possibility." Weston said: "If somebody from outside had nipped over to the island that would be a good hiding-place--if he knew about it. I suppose the locals know?" Colgate said: "Don't believe the younger generation would. You see, ever since this hotel was started the coves have been private property. Fishermen don't go there, or picnic parties. And the hotel people aren't local. Mrs. Castle's a Londoner." Weston said: "We might take Redfem with us. He told us about it. What about you, M. Poirot?" Hercule Poirot hesitated. He said, his foreign intonation very pronounced: "No, I am like Miss Brewster and Mrs. Redfem, I do not like to descend perpendicular ladders." Weston said: "You can go round by boat." Again Hercule Poirot sighed. "My stom- FR1;"Nonsense, man, it's a beautiful day. Calm as a mill pond. You can't let us down, you know." Hercule Poirot hardly looked like responding to this British adjuration. But at that moment, Mrs. Castle poked her ladylike face and elaborate coiffure round the door. "Ay'm sure Ay hope Ay am not intruding," she said. "But Mr. Lane, the clergyman, you know, has just returned. Ay thought you might like to know." "Ah, yes, thanks, Mrs. Castle. We'll see him right away." Mrs. Castle came a little further into the room. She said: "Ay don't know if it is worth mentioning, but Ay have heard that the smallest incident should not be ignored--" "Yes, yes?" said Weston impatiently. "It is only that there was a lady and gentleman here about one o'clock. Came over from the mainland. For luncheon. They were informed that there had been an accident and that under the circumstances no luncheon could be served." "Any idea who they were?" "Ay couldn't say at all. Naturally no name was given. They expressed disappointment and a certain amount of curiositv as to the nature of the accident. Ay couldn't tell them anything, of course. Ay should say, myself, they were summer visitors of the better class." Weston said brusquely: "Ah, well, thank you for telling us. Probably not important but quite right--er--to remember everything." "Naturally," said Mrs. Castle, "Ay wish to do my Duty!" "Quite, quite. Ask Mr. Lane to come here." Stephen Lane strode into the room with his usual vigor. Weston said: "I'm the Chief Constable of the County, Mr. Lane. I suppose you've been told what has occurred here?" "Yes--oh, yes--I heard as soon as I got here. Terrible. . . . Terrible. ..." His thin frame quivered. He said in a low voice: "All along--ever since I arrived here--I have been conscious--very conscious--of the forces of evil close at hand." His eyes, burning eager eyes, went to Hercule Poirot. He said: "You remember, M. Poirot? Our conversation some days ago? About the reality of evil?" Weston was studying the tall gaunt figure in some perplexity. He found it difficult to w\<\\ra l-ltio ft-ton nil-t- T On^C t<-rl-tTTT<-ft-Q1- t"t"t<3fl?' FR1;But to Poirot's sensitive nose, the air was more than fresh. It was delicately scented. He knew two people who used that elusive perfume. . . . Weston's torch came to rest. He said: "Don't see anything out of the way in here." Poirot's eyes rose to a ledge a little way above his head. He murmured: "One might perhaps see that there is nothing up there?" Weston said: "If there's anything up there it would have to be deliberately put there. Still, we'd better have a look." Poirot said to Lane: "You are, I think, the tallest of us. Monsieur. Could we venture to ask you to make sure there is nothing resting on that ledge?" Lane stretched up, but he could not quite reach to the back of the shelf. Then, seeing a crevice in the rock, he inserted a toe in it and pulled himself up by one hand. He said: "Hullo, there's a box up here." In a minute or two they were out in the sunshine examining the clergyman's find. Weston said: "Careful, don't handle it more than you can help. May be fingerprints." It was a dark green tin box and bore the word Sandwiches on it. Sergeant Phillips said: "Left from some picnic or other, I oii»vrw»c<=» ?? T-T^,',./^ " Poirot asked: "Did Linda say why she had bought candles?" Christine reflected. "No, I don't think she did. I suppose it was to read by at night— perhaps the electric light wasn't good." "On the contrary, Madame, there was a bedside electric lamp in perfect order." Christine said: "Then I don't know what she wanted them for." Poirot said: "What was her manner—when the string broke and the candles fell out of the parcel?" Christine said slowly: "She was—upset— embarrassed." Poirot nodded his head. Then he asked: "Did you notice a calendar in her room?" "A calendar? What kind of calendar?" Poirot said: "Possibly a green calendar— with tear-off leaves." Christine screwed up her eyes in an effort of memory. "A green calendar—rather a bright green. Yes, I have seen a calendar like that—but I can't remember where. It may have been in Linda's room, but I can't be sure." "But you have definitely seen such a thing." "Yes." Affain Poirot nodded. Christine said rather sharply: "What are you hinting at, M. Poirot? What is the meaning of all this?" For answer Poirot produced a small volume bound in faded brown calf. He said: "Have you ever seen this before?" "Why--I think--I'm not sure--yes, Linda was looking into it in the village lending library the other day. But she shut it up and thrust it back quickly when I came up to her. It made me wonder what it was." Silently Poirot displayed the tide. A History of Witchcraft, Sorcery and of the Compounding of Untraceable Poisons. Christine said: "I don't understand. What does all this mean?" Poirot said gravely: "It may mean, Madame, a good deal." She looked at him inquiringly, but he did not go on. Instead he said: "One more question, Madame. Did you take a bath that morning before you went out to play tennis?" Christine stared again. "A bath? No. I would have had no time and anyway I didn't want a bath--not before tennis. I might have had one after." "Did you use your bathroom at all when you came in?" "I sponged my face and hands, that's all." «xr-., j:j _^ <.„-- „„ ,4,^ ^^ ^ ^yf "No, I'm sure I didn't." Poirot nodded. He said: "It is of no importance." Hercule Poirot stood by the table where Mrs. Gardener was wrestling with a jigsaw. She looked up and jumped. "Why M. Poirot, how very quietly you came up beside me! I never heard you. Have you just come back from the inquest? You know, the very thought of that inquest makes me so nervous, I don't know what to do. That's why I'm doing this puzzle. I just felt I couldn't sit outside on the beach as usual. As Mr. Gardener knows, when my nerves are all upset, there's nothing like one of these puzzles for calming me. There now, where does this white piece fit in? It must be part of the fur rug, but I don't seem to see ..." Gently Poirot's hand took the piece from her. He said: "It fits, Madame, here. It is part of the cat." "It can't be. It's a black cat." "A black cat, yes, but you see the tip of the black cat's tail happens to be white." "Why, so it does! How clever of you! But I do think the people who make puzzles are kind of mean. They just go out of their way tn deceive you." She fitted in another piece and then resumed: "You know, M. Poirot, I've been watching you this last day or two. I just wanted to watch you detecting if you know what I mean--not that it doesn't sound rather heartless put like that, as though it were all a game--and a poor creature killed. Oh, dear, every time I think of it I get the shivers! I told Mr. Gardener this morning I'd just got to get away from here, and now the inquest's over he says he thinks we'll be able to leave to-morrow, and that's a blessing, I'm sure. But about detecting, I would so like to know your methods--you know, I'd feel privileged if you'd just explain it to me." Hercule Poirot said: "It is a little like your puzzle, Madame. One assembles the pieces. It is like a mosaic--many colours and patterns--and every strange-shaped little piece must be fitted into its own place." "Now isn't that interesting? Why, I'm sure you explain it just too beautifully." Poirot went on: "And sometimes it is like that piece of your puzzle just now. One arranges very methodically the pieces of the puzzle--one sorts the colours--and then perhaps a piece of one colour that should fit in with--say, the fur rug, fits instead in a black "Why, if that doesn't sound too fascinating! And are there a great many pieces, M. Poirot?" "Yes, Madame. About every one here in this hotel has given me a piece for my puzzle. You amongst them." "Me?" Mrs. Gardener's tone was shrill. "Yes, a remark of yours, Madame, was exceedingly helpful. I might say it was illuminating." "Well, if that isn't too lovely! Can't you tell me some more, M. Poirot?" "Ah! Madame, I reserve the explanations for the last chapter." Mrs. Gardener murmured: "If that isn't just too bad!" Hercule Poirot tapped gently on the door of Captain Marshall's room. Inside there was the sound of a typewriter. A curt "Come in" came from the room and Poirot entered. Captain Marshall's back was turned to him. He was sitting typing at the table between the windows. He did not turn his head but his eyes met Poirot's in the mirror that hung on the wall directly in front of him. He said irritably: "Well, M. Poirot, what is it?" Poirot said quickly: "A thousand apologies fnr intruding Ynn arp hnsv?" Marshall said shortly: "I am rather." Poirot said: "It is one little question that I would like to ask you." Marshall said: "My God, I'm sick of answering questions. I've answered the police questions. I don't feel called upon to answer yours." Poirot said: "Mine is a very simple one. Only this. On the morning of your wife's death, did you have a bath after you finished typing and before you went out to play tennis?" "A bath? No, of course I didn't! I had a bath only an hour earlier!" Hercule Poirot said: "Thank you. That is all." "But look here--Oh--" the other paused irresolutely. Poirot withdrew gently closing the door. Kenneth Marshall said: "The fellow's crazy!" Just outside the bar Poirot encountered Mr. Gardener. He was carrying two cocktails and was clearly on his way to where Mrs. Gardener was ensconced with her jig saw. He smiled at Poirot in genial fashion. "Care to join us, M. Poirot?" Poirot shook his head. He said: "What did »»/^i-« t-lflftly /y+ <-t-»a i it/it iAc'1' ?lAf (~^riiri\wr\w['y^ Mr. Gardener lowered his voice. He said: "Seemed kind of indeterminate to me. Your police, I gather, have got something up their sleeves." "It is possible," said Hercule Poirot. Mr. Gardener lowered his voice still further. "I shall be glad to get Mrs. Gardener away. She's a very, very sensitive woman, and this affair has got on her nerves. She's very highly strung." Hercule Poirot said: "Will you permit me, Mr. Gardener, to ask you one question?" "Why, certainly, M. Poirot. Delighted to assist you in any way I can." Hercule Poirot said: "You are a man of the world--a man, I think, of considerable acumen. What, frankly, was your opinion of the late Mrs. Marshall?" Mr. Gardener's eyebrows rose in surprise. He glanced cautiously round and lowered his voice. "Well, M. Poirot, I've heard a few things that have been kind of going around, if you get me, especially among the women." Poirot nodded. "But if you ask me I'll tell you my candid opinion and that is that that woman was pretty much of a darned fool!" Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully: "Now that is very interesting." Rosamund Damley said: "So it's my turn, is it?" "Pardon?" She laughed. "The other day the Chief Constable held his inquisition. You sat by. To-day, I think, you are conducting your own unofficial inquiry. I've been watching you. First Mrs. Redfem, then I caught a glimpse of you through the lounge window where Mrs. Gardener is doing her hateful jig saw puzzle. Now it's my turn." Hercule Poirot sat down beside her. They were on Sunny Ledge. Below them the sea showed a deep glowing green. Further out it was a pale dazzling blue. Poirot said: "You are very intelligent. Mademoiselle. I have thought so ever since I arrived here. It would be a pleasure to discuss this business with you." Rosamund Damley said softly: "You want to know what I think about the whole thing?" "It would be most interesting." Rosamund said: "I think it's really very simple. The clue is in the woman's past." "The past? Not the present?" "Oh! Not necessarily the very remote past! I look at it like this. Arlena Marshall was attractive, fatally attractive, to men. It's pos- A^Lkl ^. T -«-1^««^1f -«-1-« rt4- <"»i^a rtltfirf-fc +«r^^^"l /V1 rather quickly. Amongst her—followers, shall we say—was one who resented that. Oh, don't misunderstand me, it won't be some one who sticks out a mile. Probably some tepid little man, vain and sensitive—the kind of man who broods. I think he followed her down here, waited his opportunity and killed her." "You mean that he was an outsider, that he came from the mainland?" "Yes. He probably hid in that cave until he got his chance." Poirot shook his head. He said: "Would she go there to meet such a man as you describe? No, she would laugh and not go." Rosamund said: "She mayn't have known she was going to meet him. He may have sent her a message in some other person's name." Poirot murmured: "That is possible." Then he said: "But you forget one thing, Mademoiselle. A man bent on murder could not risk coming in broad daylight across the causeway and past the hotel. Some one might have seen him." "They might have—but I don't think that it's certain. I think it's quite possible that he could have come without any one noticing him at all." "It would be possible, yes, that I grant you. But the point is that he could not count on that possibility." Rosamund said: "Aren't you forgetting something? The weather." "The weather?" "Yes. The day of the murder was a glorious day but the day before, remember, there was rain and thick mist. Any one could come onto the island then without being seen. He had only to go down to the beach and spend the night in the cave. That mist, M. Poirot, is important." Poirot looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two. He said: "You know, there is a good deal in what you have just said." Rosamund flushed. She said: "That's my theory, for what it is worth. Now tell me yours." "Ah," said Hercule Poirot. He stared down at the sea. "Eh bien, Mademoiselle. I am a very simple person. I always incline to the belief that the most likely person committed the crime. At the very beginning it seemed to me that only one person was very clearly indicated." Rosamund's voice hardened a little. She said: "Go on." L1 ~--'»- I ^ U<~f «/^'<- iiMM-ft- /»*'» Dill" XM\T1 Ct^f> there is what you call a snag in the way! It seems that it was impossible for that person to have committed the crime." He heard the quick expulsion of her breath. She said rather breathlessly: "Well?" Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Well, what do we do about it? That is my problem." He paused and then went on. "May I ask you a question?" "Certainly." She faced him, alert and vigilant. But the question that came was an unexpected one. "When you came in to change for tennis that morning, did you have a bath?" Rosamund stared at him. "A bath? What do you mean?" "That is what I mean. A bath! The receptacle of porcelain, one turns the taps and fills it, one gets in, one gets out and ghoosh-- ghoosh--ghoosh, the water goes down the waste pipe!" "M. Poirot, are you quite mad?" "No, I am extremely sane." "Well, anyway, I didn't take a bath." "Ha!" said Poirot. "So nobody took a bath. That is extremely interesting." "But why should any one take a bath?" T-fprrnip Pmrnt Raid* "WTiv mdpprP" FR1;Rosamund said with some exasperation: "I suppose this is the Sherlock Holmes touch!" Hercule Poirot smiled. Then he sniffed the air delicately. "Will you permit me to be impertinent. Mademoiselle?" "I'm sure you couldn't be impertinent, M. Poirot." "That is very kind of you. Then may I venture to say that the scent you use is delicious--it has a nuance--a delicate elusive charm." He waved his hands, and then added in a practical voice, "Gabrielle, No. 8, I think?" "How clever you are. Yes, I always use it." "So did the late Mrs. Marshall. It is chic, eh? And very expensive?" Rosamund shrugged her shoulders with a faint smile. Poirot said: "You sat here where we are now. Mademoiselle, on the morning of the crime. You were seen here, or at least your sunshade was seen by Miss Brewster and Mr. Redfem as they passed on the sea. During the morning. Mademoiselle, are you sure you did not happen to go down to Pixy's Cove and enter the cave there--the famous Pixy's Cave?" '0 /»<«» »"»">«« i-> yl l-i i *< a/A l-t^at* ncko/l on/I o'l"oy<»^ a't" him. She said in a quiet voice: "Are you asking me if I killed Arlena Marshall?" "No. I am asking you if you went into the Pixy's Cave?" "I don't even know where it is. Why should I go into it? For what reason?" "On the day of the crime. Mademoiselle, somebody had been in that cave who used GabrieUe No. 8." Rosamund said sharply: "You've just said yourself, M. Poirot, that Arlena Marshall used GabrieUe No. 8. She was on the beach that day. Presumably she went into the cave." "Why should she go into the cave? It is dark there and narrow and very uncomfortable." Rosamund said impatiently: "Don't ask me for reasons. Since she was actually at the cove she was by far the most likely person. I've told you already I never left this place the whole morning." "Except for the time when you went into the hotel to Captain Marshall's room," Poirot reminded her. "Yes, of course. I'd forgotten that." Poirot said: "And you were wrong. Mademoiselle, when you thought that Captain Marshall did not see you." Rosamund said incredulously: "Kenneth did see me? Did--did he say so?" Poirot nodded. "He saw you. Mademoiselle, in the mirror that hangs over the table." Rosamund caught her breath. She said: "Oh! I see." Poirot was no longer looking out to sea. He was looking at Rosamund Damley's hands as they lay folded in her lap. They were well-shaped hands, beautifully moulded with very long fingers. Rosamund, shooting a quick look at him, followed the direction of his eyes. She said sharply: "What are you looking at my hands for? Do you think--do you think--?" Poirot said: "Do I think--what. Mademoiselle?" Rosamund Damley said: "Nothing." It was perhaps an hour later that Hercule Poirot came to the top of the path leading to Gull Cove. There was some one sitting on the beach. A slight figure in a red shirt and dark blue shorts. Poirot descended the path, stepping carefully in his tight smart shoes. Linda Marshall turned her head sharply. He thought that she shrank a little. Her eyes, as he came and lowered himself gingerly to the shingle heside her- rested on him with the FR1;suspicion and alertness of a trapped animal. He realized, with a pang, how young and vulnerable she was. She said: "What is it? What do you want?" Hercule Poirot did not answer for a minute or two. Then he said: "The other day you told the Chief Constable that you were fond of your stepmother and that she was kind to you." "Well?" "That was not true, was it. Mademoiselle?" "Yes, it was." Poirot said: "She may not have been actively unkind--that I will grant you. But you were not fond of her--oh, no--I think you disliked her very much. That was very plain to see." Linda said: "Perhaps I didn't like her very much. But one can't say that when a person is dead. It wouldn't be decent." Poirot sighed. He said: "They taught you that at your school?" "More or less, I suppose." Hercule Poirot said: "When a person has been murdered, it is more important to be truthful than to be decent." Linda said: "I suppose you would say a thing like that." "I would saw it and T do saw it. Tt is my business, you see, to find out who killed Arlena Marshall." Linda muttered: "I want to forget it all. It's so horrible." Poirot said gently: "But you can't forget, can you?" Linda said: "I suppose some beastly madman killed her." Hercule Poirot murmured: "No, I do not think it was quite like that." Linda caught her breath. She said: "You sound--as though you knew?" Poirot said: "Perhaps I do know." He paused and went on, "Will you trust me, my child, to do the best I can for you in your bitter trouble?" Linda sprang up. She said: "I haven't any trouble. There is nothing you can do for me. I don't know what you are talking about." Poirot said, watching her: "I am talking about candles. ..." He saw the terror leap into her eyes. She cried: "I won't listen to you. I won't listen." She ran across the beach, swift as a young gazelle, and went flying up the zigzag path. Poirot shook his head. He looked grave and troubled. Eleven Inspector Colgate was reporting to the Chief Constable. "I've got on to one thing, sir, and something pretty sensational. It's about Mrs. Marshall's money. I've been into it with her lawyers. I'd say it's a bit of a shock to them. I've got proof of the blackmail story. You remember she was left fifty thousand pounds by old Erskine? Well, all that's left of that is about fifteen thousand." The Chief Constable whistled. "Whew, what's become of the rest?" "That's the interesting point, sir. She's sold out stuff from time to time, and each time she's handled it in cash or negotiable securities--that's to say she's handed out money to some one that she didn't want traced. Blackmail all right." The Chief Constable nodded. "Certainly looks like it. And the blackmailer is here in this hotel- That m^anc it mnct 1"^» r»y»o /^T business, you see, to find out who killed Arlena Marshall." Linda muttered: "I want to forget it all. Ifs so horrible." Poirot said gently: "But you can't forget, can you?" Linda said: "I suppose some beastly madman killed her." Hercule Poirot murmured: "No, I do not think it was quite like that." Linda caught her breath. She said: "You sound--as though you knew?" Poirot said: "Perhaps I do know." He paused and went on, "Will you trust me, my child, to do the best I can for you in your bitter trouble?" Linda sprang up. She said: "I haven't any trouble. There is nothing you can do for me. I don't know what you are talking about." Poirot said, watching her: "I am talking about candles. . . ." He saw the terror leap into her eyes. She cried: "I won't listen to you. I won't listen." She ran across the beach, swift as a young gazelle, and went flying up the zigzag path. Poirot shook his head. He looked grave and troubled. Eleven Inspector Colgate was reporting to the Chief Constable. "I've got on to one thing, sir, and something pretty sensational. It's about Mrs. Marshall's money. I've been into it with her lawyers. I'd say it's a bit of a shock to them. I've got proof of the blackmail story. You remember she was left fifty thousand pounds by old Erskine? Well, all that's left of that is about fifteen thousand." The Chief Constable whistled. "Whew, what's become of the rest?" "That's the interesting point, sir. She's sold out stuff from time to time, and each time she's handled it in cash or negotiable securities--that's to say she's handed out money to some one that she didn't want traced. Blackmail all right." The Chief Constable nodded. "Certainly looks like it. And the blackmailer is here in this hotel- That rn^smo it mnci- 1"w» ^no f\f those three men. Got anything fresh on any of them?" "Can't say I've got anything definite, sir. Major Barry's a retired Army man, as he says. Lives in a small flat, has a pension and a small income from stocks. But he's paid in pretty considerable sums into his accounts in the last year." "That sounds promising. What's his explanation?" "Says they're betting gains. It's perfectly true that he goes to all the large race meetings. Places his bets on the course too, doesn't run an account." The Chief Constable nodded. "Hard to disprove that," he said. "But it's suggestive." Colgate went on: "Next, the Reverend Stephen Lane. He's bona ride all right--had a living at St. Helen's, Whiteridge, Surrey-- resigned his living just over a year ago owing to ill-health. His ill-health amounted to his going into a nursing home for mental patients. He was there for over a year." "Interesting," said Weston. "Yes, sir. I tried to get as much as I could out of the doctor in charge but you know what these medicos are--it's difficult to pin <-1-^-- /4^...,,»» -/-». <->-< iTi-l-iii-trr x7/vn r»Qn crf^t ltdrl of But as far as I can make out, his Reverence's trouble was an obsession about the Devil--especially the Devil in the guise of woman--scarlet woman--whore of Babylon." "H'm," said Weston. "There have been precedents for murder there." "Yes, sir. It seems to me that Stephen Lane is at least a possibility. The late Mrs. Marshall was a pretty good example of what a clergyman would call a Scarlet Woman-- hair and goings-on and all. Seems to me it's not impossible he may have felt it his appointed task to dispose of her. That is if he is really batty." "Nothing to fit in with the blackmail theory?" "No, sir. I think we can wash him out as far as that's concerned. Has some private means of his own, but not very much, and no sudden increase lately." "What about his story of his movements on the day of the crime?" "Can't get any confirmation of them. Nobody remembers meeting a parson in the lanes. As to the book at the church, the last entry was three days before and nobody looked at it for about a fortnight. He could have auite easilv eone over the dav before. FR1;say, or even a couple of days before, and dated his entry the 25th." Weston nodded. He said: "And the third man?" "Horace Blatt? It's my opinion, sir, that there's definitely something fishy there. Pays income tax on a sum far exceeding what he makes out of his hardware business. And mind you, he's a slippery customer. He could probably cook up a reasonable statement-- he gambles a bit on the Stock Exchange and he's in with one or two shady deals. Oh, yes, there may be plausible explanations, but there's no getting away from it that he's been making pretty big sums from unexplained sources for some years now." "In fact," said Weston, "the idea is that Mr. Horace Blatt is a successful blackmailer by profession?" "Either that, sir, or it's dope. I saw Chief Inspector Ridgeway who's in charge of the dope business, and he was no end keen. Seems there's been a good bit of heroin coming in lately. They're on to the small distributors and they know more or less who's running it the other end, but it's the way it's coming into the country that's baffled them so far." \Y/f»ctrtn Qtiid- "If the Marshall woman's death is the result of her getting mixed up, innocently or otherwise, with the doperunning stunt, then we'd better hand the whole thing over to Scotland Yard. It's their pigeon. Eh? What do you say?" Inspector Colgate said rather regretfully: "I'm afraid you're right, sir. If it's dope, then it's a case for the Yard." Weston said after a moment or two's thought: "It really seems the most likely explanation." Colgate nodded gloomily. "Yes, it does. Marshall's right out of it--though I did get some information that might have been useful if his alibi hadn't been so good. Seems his firm is very near the rocks. Not his fault or his partner's, just the general result of the crisis last year and the general state of trade and finance. And as far as he knew, he'd come into fifty thousand pounds if his wife died. And fifty thousand would have been a very useful sum." He sighed. "Seems a pity when a man's got two perfectly good motives for murder, that he can be proved to have nothing to do with it!" Weston smiled. "Cheer up, Colgate. There's still a chance we may distinguish ourselves. There's the blackmail angle still and there's the battv nerson. but nersonallv I think the dope solution is far the most likely." He added: "And if it was one of the dope gang who put her out we'll have been instrumental in helping Scotland Yard to solve the dope problem. In fact, take it all round, one way or another, we've done pretty well." An unwilling smile showed on Colgate's face. He said: "Well, that's the lot, sir. By the way, I checked up on the writer of that letter we found in her room. The one signed J.N. Nothing doing. He's in China safe enough. Same chap as Miss Brewster was telling us about. Bit of a young scallywag. I've checked up on the rest of Mrs. Marshall's friends. No leads there. Everything there is to get, we've got, sir." Weston said: "So now it's up to us." He paused and then added: "Seen anything of our Belgian colleague? Does he know all you've told me?" Colgate said with a grin: "He's a queer little cuss, isn't he? D'you know what he asked me day before yesterday? He wanted particulars of any cases of strangulation in the last three years." Colonel Weston sat up. "He did, did he? Now I wonder--" he paused a minute. "When did you say the Reverend Stephen T .an? wpnt into that mpntal hnmp?" "A year ago last Easter, sir." Colonel Weston was thinking deeply. He said: "There was a case--body of a young woman found somewhere near Bagshot. Going to meet her husband somewhere and never turned up. And there was what the papers called the Lonely Copse Mystery. Both in Surrey if I remember rightly." His eyes met those of his Inspector. Colgate said: "Surrey? My word, sir, it fits, doesn't it? I wonder. ..." Hercule Poirot sat on the turf on the summit of the island. A little to his left was the beginning of the steel ladder that led down to Pixy's Cove. There were several rough boulders near the head of the ladder, he noted, forming easy concealment for any one who proposed to descend to the beach below. Of the beach itself little could be seen from the top owing to the overhang of the cliff. Hercule Poirot nodded his head gravely. The pieces of his mosaic were fitting into position. Mentally he went over those pieces considering each as a detached item. A morning on the bathing beach some few days before Arlena Marshall's death. One, two, three, four, five, separate remarks uttered that mominff. The evening of a bridge game. He, Patrick Redfem and Rosamund Damley had been at the table. Christine had wandered out while dummy and had overheard a certain conversation. Who else had been in the lounge at that time? Who had been absent? The evening before the crime. The conversation he had had with Christine on the cliff and the scene he had witnessed on his way back to the hotel. Gabrielle No. 8. A pair of scissors. A broken pipe. A bottle thrown from a window. A green calendar. A packet of candles. A mirror and a typewriter. A skein of magenta wool. A girl's wristwatch. Bath-water rushing down the waste-pipe. Each of these unrelated facts must fit into its appointed place. There must be no loose ends. And then, with each concrete fact fitted into position, on to the next step: his own belief in the presence of evil on the island. . . . Evil. ... He looked down at a typewritten list in his hands. Nellie Parsons-- found strangled in a lonely copse near Chobham. \7/« r'l» in */» li/w 'wiiw/irw/w ocy^/w /^'^v/%fw^oro^ '^Jf^lllp FR1;Parsons? Alice Corrigan. He read very carefully the details of Alice Corrigan's death. To Hercule Poirot, sitting on the ledge overlooking the sea, came Inspector Colgate. Poirot liked Inspector Colgate. He liked his rugged face, his shrewd eyes, and his slow unhurried manner. Inspector Colgate sat down. He said, glancing down at the typewritten sheets in Poirot's hand: "Done anything with those cases, sir?" "I have studied them--yes." Colgate got up, he walked along and peered into the next niche. He came back, saying: "One can't be too careful. Don't want to be overheard." Poirot said: "You are wise." Colgate said: "I don't mind telling you, M. Poirot, that I've been interested in those cases myself--though perhaps I shouldn't have thought about them if you hadn't asked for them." He paused. "I've been interested in one case in particular." "Alice Corrigan?" "Alice Corrigan." He paused. "I've been on to the Surrey police about that case-- wanted to get all the ins and outs of it." "Tell me, my friend. I am interested-- very interested." "I thou&ht vmi rmot-it he. Alir-e Comofln was found strangled in Caesar's Grove on Blackridge Heath--not ten miles from Marley Copse where Nellie Parsons was found--and both those places are within twelve miles of Whiteridge where Mr. Lane was vicar." Poirot said: "Tell me more about the death of Alice Corrigan." Colgate said: "The Surrey police didn't at first connect her death with that of Nellie Parsons. That's because they'd pitched on the husband as the guilty party. Don't quite know why except that he was a bit of what the press calls a 'mystery man'--not much known about him--who he was or where he came from. She'd married him against her people's wishes, she'd a bit of money of her own--and she'd insured her life in his favour--all that was enough to raise suspicion, as I think you'll agree, sir?" Poirot nodded. "But when it came down to brass tacks the husband was washed right out of the picture. The body was discovered by one of these woman hikers--hefty young woman in shorts. She was an absolutely competent and reliable witness--games mistress at a school in Lancashire. She noted the time when she found the body--it was exactly four fifteen-- onrl rrcitro it- oo li^ar rfrMti'S/vt t-l-tal- 1-1-»^» virrvman had been dead quite a short time--not more than ten minutes. That fitted in well enough with the police surgeon's view when he examined the body at 5.45. She left everything as it was and tramped across country to Bagshot police station where she reported the death. Now from three o'clock to four ten, Edward Corrigan was in the train coming down from London where he'd gone up for the day on business. Four other people were in the carriage with him. From the station he took the local bus, two of his fellow passengers travelling by it also. He got off at the Pine Ridge Cafe where he'd arranged to meet his wife for tea. Time then was four twenty-five. He ordered tea for them both, but said not to bring it till she came. Then he walked about outside waiting for her. When, by five o'clock she hadn't turned up, he was getting alarmed--thought she might have sprained her ankle. The arrangement was that she was to walk across the moors from the village where they were staying to the Pine Ridge Cafe and go home by bus. Caesar's Grove is not far from the cafe and it's thought that as she was ahead of time she sat down there to admire the view for a bit before going on, and that some 1-rsimr» r»r marlman r"am^» Tirwn l-»^»r l4"»w<=» onrl caught her unawares. Once the husband was proved to be out of it, naturally they connected up her death with that of Nellie Parsons--that rather flighty servant girl who was found strangled in Marley Copse. They decided that the same man was responsible for both crimes but they never caught him-- and what's more they never came near catching him! Drew a blank everywhere." He paused and then he said slowly: "And now--here's a third woman strangled--and a certain gentleman we won't name right on the spot." He stopped. His small shrewd eyes came round to Poirot. He waited hopefully. Poirot's lips moved. Inspector Colgate leaned forward. Poirot was murmuring: (<--so difficult to know what pieces are part of the fur rug and which are the cat's tail." "I beg pardon, sir?" said Inspector Colgate, startled. Poirot said quickly: "I apologize. I was following a train of thought of my own." "What's this about a fur rug and a cat?" "Nothing--nothing at all." He paused. "Tell me. Inspector Colgate, if you suspected some one of telling lies--many, many lies, but you had no proof, what would you do?" T»-»<-c>l<-l<»t*<»rl Tt C niTlH- cult, that is. But it's my opinion that if any one tells enough lies, they're bound to trip up in the end." Poirot nodded. "Yes, that is very true. You see, it is only in my mind that certain statements are lies. I think that they are lies, but I cannot know they are lies. But one might perhaps make a test—a test of one little not very noticeable lie. And if that were proved to be a lie—why then, one would know that all the rest were lies, too!" Inspector Colgate looked at him curiously. "Your mind works a funny way, doesn't it, sir? But I daresay it comes out all right in the end. If you'll excuse my asking, what put you on to asking about strangulation cases in general?" Poirot said slowly: "You have a word in your language—slick. This crime seemed to me a very slick crime! It made me wonder, if, perhaps, it was not a first attempt." Inspector Colgate said: "I see." Poirot went on: "I said to myself, let us examine the past crimes of a similar kind and if there is a crime that closely resembles this one—eh bien, we shall have there a very valuable clue." "You mean using the same method of death- sir?" "No, no, I mean more than that. The death of Nellie Parsons for instance tells me nothing. But the death of Alice Corrigan-- tell me. Inspector Colgate, do you not notice one striking form of similarity to this crime?" Inspector Colgate turned the problem over in his mind. He said at last: "No, sir, I can't say that I do really. Unless it's that in each case the husband has got a iron-cast alibi." Poirot said softly: "Ah, so you have noticed that?" "Ha, Poirot. Glad to see you. Come in. Just the man I want." Hercule Poirot responded to the invitation. The Chief Constable pushed over a box of cigarettes, took one himself, and lighted it. Between puffs he said: "I've decided, more or less, on a course of action. But I'd like your opinion on it before I act decisively." Hercule Poirot said: "Tell me, my friend." Weston said: "I've decided to call in Scotland Yard and hand the case over to them. In my opinion, although there have been grounds for suspicion against one or two people, the whole case hinges on dope smuggling. It seems clear to me that that place, Pixy's Cove, was a definite rendezvous for the stuff." Poirot nodded. "I agree." "Good man. And I'm pretty certain who our dope smuggler is. Horace Blatt." Again Poirot assented. He said: "That, too, is indicated." "I see our minds have both worked the same way. Blatt used to go sailing in that boat of his. Sometimes he'd invite people to go with him, but most of the time he went out alone. He had some rather conspicuous red sails on that boat but we've found that he had some white sails as well stowed away. I think he sailed out on a good day to an appointed spot, and was met by another boat--sailing boat or motor yacht--something of the kind, and the stuff was handed over. Then Blatt would run ashore into Pixy's Cove at a suitable time of day--" Hercule Poirot smiled: "Yes, yes, at half past one. The hour of the British lunch when every one is quite sure to be in the diningroom. The island is private. It is not a place where outsiders come for picnics. People take their tea sometimes from the hotel to Pixy's Cove in the afternoon when the sun is on it, or if they want a picnic they would go somewhere far afield, many miles away." The Chief Constable nodded. "Quite," he said. "Therefore Blatt ran ashore there and stowed the stuff on that ledge in the cave. Somebody else was to pick it up there in due course." Poirot murmured: "There was a couple, you remember, who came to the island for lunch on the day of the murder? That would be a way of getting the stuff. Some summer visitors from a hotel on the Moor or at St. Loo come over to Smuggler's Island. They announce that they will have lunch. They walk round the island first. How easy to descend to the beach, pick up the sandwich box, place it, no doubt, in Madame's bathing bag which she carries--and return for lunch to the hotel--a little late, perhaps, say at ten minutes to two, having enjoyed their walk whilst every one else was in the dining room." Weston said: "Yes, it all sounds practicable enough. Now these dope organizations are pretty ruthless. If any one blundered in and got wise to things they wouldn't make any bones about silencing that person. It seems to me that that is the right explanation of Arlena Marshall's death. It's possible that on that morning Blatt was actually at the cove stowing the stuff away. His accomplices were to come for it that very day. Arlena amvps r»n hpr float and sp^s him o-mno- inln the cave with the box. She asks him about it and he kills her then and there and sheers off in his boat as quick as possible." Poirot said: "You think definitely that Blatt is the murderer?" "It seems the most probable solution. Of course it's possible that Arlena might have got on to the truth earlier, said something to Blatt about it and some other member of the gang fixed a fake appointment with her and did her in. As I say, I think the best course is to hand the case over to Scotland Yard. They've a far better chance than we have of proving Blatt's connection with the gang." Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Weston said: "You think that's the wise thing to do--eh?" Poirot was thoughtful. He said at last: "It may be." "Dash it all, Poirot, have you got something up your sleeve, or haven't you?" Poirot said gravely: "If I have, I am not sure that I can prove it." Weston said: "Of course, I know that you and Colgate have other ideas. Seems a bit fantastic to me but I'm bound to admit there may be something in it. But even if you're right, I still think it's a case for the Yard. V^p'll Oivp l4"i(»m the» faffs and thf»v r»an wrvrh'- in with the Surrey police. What I feel is that it isn't really a case for us. It's not sufficiently localized." He paused. "What do you think, Poirot? What do you feel ought to be done about it?" Poirot seemed lost in thought. At last he said: "I know what I should like to do." "Yes, man." Poirot murmured: "I should like to go for a picnic." Colonel Weston stared at him. Twelve "A picnic, M. Poirot?" Emily Brewster stared at him as though he were out of his senses. Poirot said engagingly: "It sounds to you, does it not, very outrageous? But indeed it seems to me a most admirable idea. We need something of the everyday, the usual, to restore life to the normal. I am most anxious to see something of Dartmoor, the weather is good. It will--how shall I say, it will cheer everybody up! So aid me in this matter. Persuade every one." The idea met with unexpected success. Every one was at first dubious and then grudgingly admitted it might not be such a bad idea after all. It was not suggested that Captain Marshall should be asked. He had himself announced that he had to go to Plymouth that day. Mr. Blatt was of the party, enthusiastically so. He was determined to be the life and soul of it. Besides him, I there were Rmilv Rrewster- the Redfems- Stephen Lane, the Gardeners who were persuaded to delay their departure by one day, Rosamund Damley and Linda. Poirot had been eloquent to Rosamund and had dwelt on the advantage it would be to Linda to have something to take her out of herself. To this Rosamund agreed. She said: "You're quite right. The shock has been very bad for a child of that age. It has made her terribly jumpy." "That is only natural. Mademoiselle. But at that age one soon forgets. Persuade her to come. You can, I know." Major Barry had refused firmly. He said he didn't like picnics. "Lots of baskets to carry," he said. "And darned uncomfortable. Eating my food at a table's good enough for me." The party assembled at ten o'clock. Three cars had been ordered. Mr. Blatt was loud and cheerful imitating a tourist guide. "This way, ladies and gentlemen--this way for Dartmoor. Heather and bilberries, Devonshire cream and convicts. Bring your wives, gentlemen, or bring the other thing! Every one welcome! Scenery guaranteed. Walk up. Walk up." At the last minute Rosamund Damley ---------- --I------ 1^^.1.^--t^. ^/-v»-t^-«Q»«»->c»/-l d"»<» OQirl* "Linda's not coming. She says she's got a frightful headache." Poirot cried: "But it will do her good to come. Persuade her. Mademoiselle." Rosamund said firmly: "It's no good. She's absolutely determined. I've given her some aspirin and she's gone to bed." She hesitated and said: "I think, perhaps, I won't go, either." "Can't allow that, dear lady, can't allow that," cried Mr. Blatt, seizing her facetiously by the arm. "La haute Mode must grace this occasion. No refusals! I've taken you into custody, ha, ha. Sentenced to Dartmoor." He led her firmly to the first car. Rosamund threw a black look at Hercule Poirot. "I'll stay with Linda," said Christine Redfem. "I don't mind a bit." Patrick said: "Oh, come on, Christine." And Poirot said: "No, no, you must come, Madame. With a headache one is better alone. Come, let us start." The three cars drove off. They went first to the real Pixy's Cave on Sheepstor and had a good deal of fun looking for the entrance and at last finding it, aided by a picture postcard. It was precarious going on the big boulders and Hercule Poirot did not attempt it- He watcl-ipd inrhilo-pntiv whil^ Christine FR1;Redfem sprang lightly from stone to stone and observed that her husband was never far from her. Rosamund Damley and Emily Brewster had joined in the search though the latter slipped once and gave a slight twist to her ankle. Stephen Lane was indefatigable, his long lean figure turning and twisting among the boulders. Mr. Blatt contented himself with going a little way and shouting encouragement, also taking photographs of the searchers. The Gardeners and Poirot remained staidly sitting by the wayside whilst Mrs. Gardener's voice upraised itself in a pleasant eventoned monologue punctuated now and then by the obedient "Yes, darlings" of her spouse. <(--and what I always have felt, M. Poirot, and Mr. Gardener agrees with me-- is that snapshots can be very annoying. Unless, that is to say, they are taken among friends. That Mr. Blatt has just no sensitiveness of any kind. He just comes right up to every one and talks away and takes pictures of you and, as I said to Mr. Gardener, that really is very ill-bred. That's what I said, Odell, wasn't it?" "Yes, darling." "That group he took of us all sitting on ^ - i--__i_ wt^ii <-i,^*»^ «n ,^^,, ,,ro11 FR1;should have asked first. As it was. Miss Brewster was just getting up from the beach and it certainly makes her look a very peculiar shape." "I'll say it does," said Mr. Gardener with a grin. "And there's Mr. Blatt giving round copies to everybody without so much as asking first. He gave one to you, M. Poirot, I noticed." Poirot nodded. He said: "I value that group very much." Mrs. Gardener went on: "And look at his behavior today--so loud and noisy and common. Why, it just makes me shudder. You ought to have arranged to leave that man at home, M. Poirot." Hercule Poirot murmured: "Alas, Madame, that would have been difficult." "I should say it would. That man just pushes his way in anywhere. He's just not sensitive at all." At this moment the discovery of Pixy's Cave was hailed from below with loud cries. The party now drove on, under Hercule Poirot's directions, to a spot where a short walk from the car down a hillside of heather led to a delightful spot by a small river. A narrow niank hride-e crossed the river and Poirot and her husband induced Mrs. Gardener to cross it to where a delightful heathery spot free from prickly furze looked an ideal spot for a picnic lunch. Talking volubly about her sensations when crossing on a plank bridge Mrs. Gardener sank down. Suddenly there was a slight outcry. The others had run across the bridge lightly enough, but Emily Brewster was standing in the middle of the plank, her eyes shut, swaying to and fro. Poirot and Patrick Redfem rushed to the rescue. Emily Brewster was gruff and ashamed. "Thanks, thanks. Sorry. Never was good at crossing running water. Get giddy. Stupid, very." Lunch was spread out and the picnic began. All the people concerned were secretly surprised to find out how much they enjoyed this interlude. It was, perhaps, because it afforded an escape from an atmosphere of suspicion and dread. Here, with the trickling of the water, the soft peaty smell in the air and the warm colouring of bracken and heather, a world of murder and police inquiries and suspicion seemed blotted out as though it had never existed. Even Mr. Blatt forgot to be the life and soul of the party. Aftpr Innrb hp wfnt tn sipfn a littip distanpp away and subdued snores testified to his blissful unconsciousness. It was quite a grateful party of people who packed up the picnic baskets and congratulated Hercule Poirot on his good idea. The sun was sinking as they returned along the narrow winding lanes. From the top of the hill above Leathercombe Bay they had a brief glimpse of the island with the white Hotel on it. It looked peaceful and innocent in the setting sun. Mrs. Gardener, not loquacious for once, sighed and said: "I really do thank you, M. Poirot. I feel so calm. It's just wonderful." Major Barry came out to greet them on arrival. "Hullo," he said. "Had a good day?" Mrs. Gardener said: "Indeed we did. The moors were just too lovely for anything. So English and old world. And the air delicious and invigorating. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so lazy as to stay behind." The Major chuckled. "I'm too old for that kind of thing--sitting on a patch of bog and eating sandwiches." A chambermaid had come out of the hotel. She was a little out of breath. She hesitated for a moment, then came swiftly up to r^.linstinp R^rlfrm TTf»rr«ii1f» Prnrrvl- wrTtoniy^rl her as Gladys Narracott. Her voice came quick and uneven. "Excuse me. Madam, but I'm worried about the young lady. About Miss Marshall. I took her some tea just now and I couldn't get her to wake and she looks so--so queer somehow." Christine looked round helplessly. Poirot was at her side in a moment. His hand under her elbow he said quietly: "We will go up and see." They hurried up the stairs and along the passage to Linda's room. One glance at her was enough to tell them both that something was very wrong. She had an odd colour and her breathing was hardly perceptible. Poirot's hand went to her pulse. At the same time he noticed an envelope stuck up against the lamp on the bedside table. It was addressed to himself. Captain Marshall came quickly into the room. He said: "What's this about Linda? What's the matter with her?" A small frightened sob came from Christine Redfem. Hercule Poirot turned from the bed. He said to Marshall: "Get a doctor--as quick as you possibly can. But I'm afraid--very much afraid--it may be too late." He took the letter with his name on it and nr»r»pd rvn^n th<=> ^nv^lrvrv* Tncirlf» vuf^rf^ a f^w lines of writing in Linda's prim schoolgirl hand. / think this is the best way out. Ask Father to try and forgive me. I killed Arlena. I thought I should be glad--but Pm not. I am very sorry for everything. . . . They were assembled in the lounge-- Marshall, the Redfems, Rosamund Damley and Hercule Poirot. They sat there silent-- waiting. . . . The door opened and Dr. Neasdon came in. He said curdy: "I've done all I can. She may pull through--but I'm bound to tell you that there's not much hope." He paused. Marshall, his face stiff, his eyes a cold frosty blue, asked: "How did she get hold of the stuff?" Neasdon opened the door again and beckoned. The chambermaid came into the room. She had been crying. Neasdon said: "Just tell us again what you saw?" Sniffing, the girl said: "I never thought--I never thought for a minute there was anything wrong--though the young lady did seem rather strange about it." A slight gesture of impatience from the doctor started her off again. "She was in the other lady's room. Mrs. Redfem's. Your room. Madam. (1'Vft* £ll" lil^ 1l7QOr»ol-oy»/^ rurt/A o1-»Q f-^^lv .<-> « Uttle bottle. She did give a bit of a jump when I came in and I thought it was queer her taking things from your room, but then of course it might be something she'd lent you. She just said: 'Oh, this is what I'm looking for—' and went out." Christine said almost in a whisper: "My sleeping tablets." The doctor said brusquely: "How did she know about them?" Christine said: "I gave her one. The night after it happened. She told me she couldn't sleep. She—I remember her saying—'Will one be enough?'—and I said, 'Oh, yes, they were very strong'—that I'd been cautioned never to take more than two at most." Neasdon nodded. "She made pretty sure," he said. "Took six of them." Christine sobbed again. "Oh, dear, I feel it's my fault. I should have kept them locked -,_ »» up. The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "It might have been wiser, Mrs. Redfem." Christine said despairingly: "She's dying— and it's my fault. ..." Kenneth Marshall stirred in his chair. He said: "No, you can't blame yourself. Linda knew what she was doing. She took them <-1i»l'Sl"^»fo-t-<»lxr T^<»i'*l"»'a'r»o^^rM»yhaf»c -il- xx7*ac 1'M^ct" ?) He looked down at the crumpled note in his hand--the note that Poirot had silently handed to him. Rosamund Damley cried out: "I don't believe it. I don't believe Linda killed her. Surely it's impossible--on the evidence!" Christine said eagerly: "Yes, she can't have done it! She must have got overwrought and imagined it all." The door opened and Colonel Weston came in. He said: "What's all this I hear?" Dr. Neasdon look the note from Marshall's hand and handed it to the Chief Constable. The latter read it. He exclaimed incredulously: "What? But this is nonsense--absolute nonsense! It's impossible." He repeated with assurance. "Impossible! Isn't it, Poirot?" Hercule Poirot moved for the first time. He said in a slow sad voice: "No, I'm afraid it is not impossible." Christine Redfem said: "But I was with her, M. Poirot. I was with her up to a quarter to twelve. I told the police so." Poirot said: "Your evidence gave her an alibi--yes. But what was your evidence based on? It was based on Linda Marshall's own wrist-watch. You did not know of your own knowledge that it was a quarter to twelve whpn vnn Ipft bpr--vnn nnlv 1^-nnw tl-iat