“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 suppose.”
He opened the lid with his handkerchief.
Inside were small tin containers marked salt, pepper, mustard and two larger square tins evidently for sandwiches. Sergeant Phillips lifted the lid of the salt container. It was full to the brim. He raised the next one, commenting:
“H’m, got salt in the pepper one too.”
The mustard compartment also contained salt.
His face suddenly alert, the police sergeant opened one of the bigger square tins. That, too, contained the same white crystalline powder.
Very gingerly, Sergeant Phillips dipped a finger in and applied it to his tongue.
His face changed. He said—and his voice was excited:
“This isn’t salt, sir. Not by a long way! Bitter taste! Seems to me it’s some kind of drug.”
II
“The third angle,” said Colonel Weston with a groan.
They were back at the hotel again.
The Chief Constable went on:
“If by any chance there’s a dope gang mixed up in this, it opens up several possibilities. First of all, the dead woman may have been in with the gang herself. Think that’s likely?”
Hercule Poirot said cautiously:
“It is possible.”
“She may have been a drug addict?”
Poirot shook his head.
He said:
“I should doubt that. She had steady nerves, radiant health, there were no marks of hypodermic injections (not that that proves anything. Some people sniff the stuff). No, I do not think she took drugs.”
“In that case,” said Weston, “she may have run into the business accidentally, and she was deliberately silenced by the people running the show. We’ll know presently just what the stuff is. I’ve sent it to Neasden. If we’re on to some dope ring, they’re not the people to stick at trifles—”
He broke off as the door opened and Mr. Horace Blatt came briskly into the room.
Mr. Blatt was looking hot. He was wiping the perspiration from his forehead. His big hearty voice billowed out and filled the small room.
“Just this minute got back and heard the news! You the Chief Constable? They told me you were in here. My name’s Blatt—Horace Blatt. Any way I can help you? Don’t suppose so. I’ve been out in my boat since early this morning. Missed the whole blinking show. The one day that something does happen in this out-of-the-way spot, I’m not there. Just like life, that, isn’t it? Hullo, Poirot, didn’t see you at first. So you’re in on this? Oh well, I suppose you would be. Sherlock Holmes v. the local police, is that it? Ha, ha! Lestrade—all that stuff. I’ll enjoy seeing you do a bit of fancy sleuthing.”
Mr. Blatt came to anchor in a chair, pulled out a cigarette case and offered it to Colonel Weston, who shook his head.
He said, with a slight smile:
“I’m an inveterate pipe smoker.”
“Same here. I smoke cigarettes as well—but nothing beats a pipe.”
Colonel Weston said with suddenly geniality:
“Then light up, man.”
Blatt shook his head.
“Not got my pipe on me at the moment. But put me wise about all this. All I’ve heard so far is that Mrs. Marshall was found murdered on one of the beaches here.”
“On Pixy Cove,” said Colonel Weston, watching him.
But Mr. Blatt merely asked excitedly:
“And she was strangled?”
“Yes, Mr. Blatt.”
“Nasty—very nasty. Mind you, she asked for it! Hot stuff—trés moustarde—eh, M. Poirot? Any idea who did it, or mustn’t I ask that?”
With a faint smile Colonel Weston said:
“Well, you know, it’s we who are supposed to ask the questions.”
Mr. Blatt waved his cigarette.
“Sorry—sorry—my mistake. Go ahead.”
“You went out sailing this morning. At what time?”
“Left here at a quarter to ten.”
“Was any one with you?”
“Not a soul. All on my little lonesome.”
“And where did you go?”
“Along the coast in the direction of Plymouth. Took lunch with me. Not much wind so I didn’t actually get very far.”
After another question or two, Weston asked:
“Now about the Marshalls? Do you know anything that might help us?”
“Well, I’ve given you my opinion. Crime passionnel! All I can tell you is, it wasn’t me! The fair Arlena had no use for me. Nothing doing in that quarter. She had her own blue-eyed boy! And if you ask me, Marshall was getting wise to it.”
“Have you any evidence for that?”
“Saw him give young Redfern a dirty look once or twice. Dark horse, Marshall. Looks very meek and mild and as though he were half asleep all the time—but that’s not his reputation in the City. I’ve heard a thing or two about him. Nearly had up for assault once. Mind you, the fellow in question had put up a pretty dirty deal. Marshall had trusted him and the fellow had let him down cold. Particularly dirty business, I believe. Marshall went for him and half-killed him. Fellow didn’t prosecute—too afraid of what might come out. I give you that for what it’s worth.”
“So you think it possible,” said Poirot, “that Captain Marshall strangled his wife?”
“Not at all. Never said anything of the sort. Just letting you know that he’s the sort of fellow who could go berserk on occasions.”
Poirot said:
“Mr. Blatt, there is reason to believe that Mrs. Marshall went this morning to Pixy Cove to meet someone. Have you any idea who that someone might be?”
Mr. Blatt winked.
“It’s not a guess. It’s a certainty. Redfern!”
“It was not Mr. Redfern.”
Mr. Blatt seemed taken aback. He said hesitatingly:
“Then I don’t know… No, I can’t imagine….”
He went on, regaining a little of his aplomb:
“As I said before, it wasn’t me! No such luck! Let me see, couldn’t have been Gardener—his wife keeps far too sharp an eye on him! That old ass Barry? Rot! And it would hardly be the parson. Although, mind you, I’ve seen his Reverence watching her a good bit. All holy disapproval, but perhaps an eye for the contours all the same! Eh? Lot of hypocrites, most parsons. Did you read that case last month? Parson and the churchwarden’s daughter! Bit of an eye-opener.”
Mr. Blatt chuckled.
Colonel Weston said coldly:
“There is nothing you can think of that might help us?”
The other shook his head.
“No. Can’t think of a thing.” He added: “This will make a bit of a stir, I imagine. The Press will be on to it like hot cakes. There won’t be quite so much of this high-toned exclusiveness about the Jolly Roger in future. Jolly Roger indeed. Precious little jol
lity about it.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“You have not enjoyed your stay here?”
Mr. Blatt’s red face got slightly redder. He said:
“Well, no, I haven’t. The sailing’s all right and the scenery and the service and the food—but there’s no matiness in the place, you know what I mean! What I say is, my money’s as good as another man’s. We’re all here to enjoy ourselves. Then why not get together and do it? All these cliques and people sitting by themselves and giving you frosty good mornings—and good evenings—and yes, very pleasant weather. No joy de viver. Lot of stuck-up dummies!”
Mr. Blatt paused—by now very red indeed.
He wiped his forehead once more and said apologetically:
“Don’t pay any attention to me. I get all worked up.”
III
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“And what do we think of Mr. Blatt?”
Colonel Weston grinned and said:
“What do you think of him? You’ve seen more of him than I have.”
Poirot said softly:
“There are many of your English idioms that describe him. The rough diamond! The self-made man! The social climber! He is, as you choose to look at it, pathetic, ludicrous, blatant! It is a matter of opinion. But I think, too, that he is something else.”
“And what is that?”
Hercule Poirot, his eyes raised to the ceiling, murmured:
“I think that he is—nervous!”
IV
Inspector Colgate said:
“I’ve got those times worked out. From the hotel to the ladder down to Pixy Cove three minutes. That’s walking till you are out of sight of the hotel and then running like hell.”
Weston raised his eyebrows. He said:
“That’s quicker than I thought.”
“Down ladder to beach one minute and three quarters. Up same two minutes. That’s P.C. Flint. He’s a bit of an athlete. Walking and taking the ladder in the normal way, the whole business takes close on a quarter of an hour.”
Weston nodded. He said:
“There’s another thing we must go into, the pipe question.”
Colgate said:
“Blatt smokes a pipe, so does Marshall, so does the parson. Redfern smokes cigarettes, the American prefers a cigar. Major Barry doesn’t smoke at all. There’s one pipe in Marshall’s room, two in Blatt’s, and one in the parson’s. Chambermaid says Marshall has two pipes. The other chambermaid isn’t a very bright girl. Doesn’t know how many pipes the other two have. Says vaguely she’s noticed two or three about in their rooms.”
Weston nodded.
“Anything else?”
“I’ve checked up on the staff. They all seem quite O.K. Henry, in the bar, checks Marshall’s statement about seeing him at ten to eleven. William, the beach attendant, was down repairing the ladder on the rocks by the hotel most of the morning. He seems all right. George marked the tennis court and then bedded out some plants round by the dining room. Neither of them would have seen anyone who came across the causeway to the island.”
“When was the causeway uncovered?”
“Round about 9:30, sir.”
Weston pulled at his moustache.
“It’s possible somebody did come that way. We’ve got a new angle, Colgate.”
He told of the discovery of the sandwich box in the cave.
V
There was a tap on the door.
“Come in,” said Weston.
It was Captain Marshall.
He said:
“Can you tell me what arrangements I can make about the funeral?”
“I think we shall manage the inquest for the day after tomorrow, Captain Marshall.”
“Thank you.”
Inspector Colgate said:
“Excuse me, sir, allow me to return you these.”
He handed over the three letters.
Kenneth Marshall smiled rather sardonically.
He said:
“Has the police department been testing the speed of my typing? I hope my character is cleared.”
Colonel Weston said pleasantly.
“Yes, Captain Marshall, I think we can give you a clean bill of health. Those sheets take fully an hour to type. Moreover you were heard typing them by the chambermaid up till five minutes to eleven and you were seen by another witness at twenty minutes past.”
Captain Marshall murmured:
“Really? That all seems very satisfactory!”
“Yes. Miss Darnley came to your room at twenty minutes past eleven. You were so busy typing that you did not observe her entry.”
Kenneth Marshall’s face took on an impassive expression. He said:
“Does Miss Darnley say that?” He paused. “As a matter of fact she is wrong. I did see her, though she may not be aware of the fact. I saw her in the mirror.”
Poirot murmured:
“But you did not interrupt your typing?”
Marshall said shortly:
“No. I wanted to get finished.”
He paused a minute, then, in an abrupt voice, he said:
“Nothing more I can do for you?”
“No, thank you, Captain Marshall.”
Kenneth Marshall nodded and went out.
Weston said with a sigh:
“There goes our most hopeful suspect—cleared! Hullo, here’s Neasden.”
The doctor came in with a trace of excitement in his manner. He said:
“That’s a nice little death lot you sent me along.”
“What is it?”
“What is it? Diamorphine Hydrochloride. Stuff that’s usually called Heroin.”
Inspector Colgate whistled. He said:
“Now we’re getting places, all right! Depend upon it, this dope stunt is at the bottom of the whole business.”
Ten
The little crowd of people flocked out of the Red Bull. The brief inquest was over—adjourned for a fortnight.
Rosamund Darnley joined Captain Marshall. She said in a low voice:
“That wasn’t so bad, was it, Ken?”
He did not answer at once. Perhaps he was conscious of the staring eyes of the villagers, the fingers that nearly pointed to him and only just did not quite do so!
“That’s ’im, my dear.” “See, that’s ’er ’usband.” “That be the ’usband.” “Look, there ’e goes….”
The murmurs were not loud enough to reach his ears, but he was none the less sensitive to them. This was the modern-day pillory. The Press he had already encountered—self-confident, persuasive young men, adept at battering down his wall of silence of “Nothing to say” that he had endeavoured to erect. Even the curt monosyllables that he had uttered, thinking that they at least could not lead to misapprehension, had reappeared in his morning’s papers in a totally different guise. “Asked whether he agreed that the mystery of his wife’s death could only be explained on the assumption that a homicidal murderer had found his way on to the island, Captain Marshall declared that—” and so on and so forth.
Cameras had clicked ceaselessly. Now, at this minute, the well-known sound caught his ear. He half-turned—a smiling young man was nodding cheerfully, his purpose accomplished.
Rosamund murmured:
“Captain Marshall and a friend leaving the Red Bull after the inquest.”
Marshall winced.
Rosamund said:
“It’s no use, Ken! You’ve got to face it! I don’t mean just the fact of Arlena’s death—I mean all the attendant beastliness. The staring eyes and gossiping tongues, the fatuous interviews in the papers—and the best way to meet it is to find it funny! Come out with all the old inane cliches and curl a sardonic lip at them.”
He said:
“Is that your way?”
“Yes.” She paused. “It isn’t yours, I know. Protective colouring is your line. Remain rigidly nonactive and fade into the background! But you can’t do that here—you’ve no background to fade into. You s
tand out clear for all to see—like a striped tiger against a white backcloth. The husband of the murdered woman!”
“For God’s sake, Rosamund—”
She said gently:
“My dear, I’m trying to be good for you!”
They walked for a few steps in silence. Then Marshall said in a different voice:
“I know you are. I’m not really ungrateful, Rosamund.”
They had progressed beyond the limits of the village. Eyes followed them but there was no one very near. Rosamund Darnley’s voice dropped as she repeated a variant of her first remark.
“It didn’t really go so badly, did it?”
He was silent for a moment, then he said:
“I don’t know.”
“What do the police think?”
“They’re noncommittal.”
After a minute Rosamund said:
“That little man—Poirot—is he really taking an active interest!”
Kenneth Marshall said:
“Seemed to be sitting in the Chief Constable’s pocket all right the other day.”
“I know—but is he doing anything?”
“How the hell should I know, Rosamund?”
She said thoughtfully:
“He’s pretty old. Probably more or less ga ga.”
“Perhaps.”
They came to the causeway. Opposite them, serene in the sun, lay the island.
Rosamund said suddenly:
“Sometimes—things seem unreal. I can’t believe, this minute, that it ever happened….”
Marshall said slowly:
“I think I know what you mean. Nature is so regardless! One ant the less—that’s all it is in Nature!”
Rosamund said:
“Yes—and that’s the proper way to look at it really.”
He gave her one very quick glance. Then he said in a low voice:
“Don’t worry, my dear. It’s all right. It’s all right.”
II
Linda came down to the causeway to meet them. She moved with the spasmodic jerkiness of a nervous colt. Her young face was marred by deep black shadows under her eyes. Her lips were dry and rough.
She said breathlessly:
“What happened—what—what did they say?”
Her father said abruptly:
“Inquest adjourned for a fortnight.”