Evil Under the Sun (17 page)

Inspector Colgate considered.

“It's difficult, that is. But it's my opinion that if anyone 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
that 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 dare say it comes out all right in the end. If you'll excuse me 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 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 in 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 cast-iron alibi.”

Poirot said softly:

“Ah, so you
have
noticed that?”

IV

“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 Cave, 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 Cove at a suitable time of day—”

Hercule Poirot smiled:

“Yes, yes, at half past one. The hour of the British lunch when everyone is quite sure to be in the dining room. The island is private. It is not a place where outsiders come for picnics. People take their tea sometimes from the hotel to Pixy 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 Smugglers' 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 everyone 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 arrives on her float and sees him going into
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. We'll give them the facts and they can work 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.

“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 every day, 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 everyone.”

The idea met with unexpected success. Everyone 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 there was Emily Brewster, the Redferns, Stephen Lane, the Gardeners, who were persuaded to delay their departure by one day, Rosamund Darnley 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 any 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! Everyone welcome! Scenery guaranteed. Walk up. Walk up.”

At the last minute Rosamund Darnley came down looking concerned. She said:

“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 the 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 Redfern. “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 watched indulgently while Christine Redfern sprang lightly from stone to stone and observed that her husband was never far from her. Rosamund Darnley 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 even-toned 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 everyone 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 the beach. Well, that's all very well, but he 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 behaviour 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 the 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 plank bridge 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 Redfern 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 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. After lunch he went to sleep a little distance 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 wind
ing 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.”

II

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 Christine Redfern.

Hercule Poirot recognized her as Glady's Narracott. Her voice came quick and uneven.

“Excuse me, Madam, but I'm worried about the young lady. About Miss Marshall. I took her up 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 was 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 Redfern.

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 ripped open the envelope. Inside were a few lines of writing in Linda's prim schoolgirl hand.

III

They were assembled in the lounge—Marshall, the Redferns, Rosamund Darnley and Hercule Poirot.

They sat there silent—waiting….

The door opened and Dr. Neasden came in. He said curtly:

“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?”

Neasden opened the door again and beckoned.

The chambermaid came into the room. She had been crying:

Neasden 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. Redfern's. Your room, Madam. Over at the washstand, and she took up a little 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.” Neasden 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. Redfern.”

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 deliberately. Perhaps—perhaps it was best.”

He looked down at the crumpled note in his hand—the note that Poirot had silently handed to him.

Rosamund Darnley 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. Neasden took 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 Redfern 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 wristwatch.
You do not know
of your own knowledge
that it was a quarter to twelve when you left her—you only know that she told you so. You said yourself the time seemed to have gone very fast.”

She stared at him, stricken.

He said:

“Now, think, Madame, when you left the beach, did you walk back to the hotel fast or slow?”

“I—well, fairly slowly, I think.”

“Do you remember much about that walk back?”

“Not very much, I'm afraid. I—I was thinking.”

Poirot said:

“I am sorry to ask you this, but will you tell just what you were thinking about during that walk?”

Christine flushed.

“I suppose—if it is necessary… I was considering the question of—of leaving here. Just going away without telling my husband. I—I was very unhappy just then, you see.”

Patrick Redfern cried:

“Oh, Christine! I know… I know….”

Poirot's precise voice cut in.

“Exactly. You were concerned over taking a step of some importance. You were, I should say, deaf and blind to your surroundings. You probably walked very slowly and occasionally stopped for some minutes whilst you puzzled things out.”