Dead Man's Folly hp-31 Page 13

  Lost in thought, he came quietly round the side of the Folly, and stopped on the threshold, startled in his turn. Sally Legge was there on her knees, her head bent down to the cracks in the flooring. She jumped up, startled.

  "Oh, M. Poirot, you gave me such a shock. I didn't hear you coming."

  "You were looking for something, Madame?"

  "I – no, not exactly."

  "You had lost something, perhaps," said Poirot. "Dropped something. Or perhaps…" He adopted a roguish, gallant air, "Or perhaps, Madame, it is a rendezvous. I am, most unfortunately, not the person you came to meet?"

  She had recovered her aplomb by now.

  "Does one ever have rendezvous in the middle of the morning?" she demanded, questioningly.

  "Sometimes," said Poirot, "one has to have a rendezvous at the only time one can. Husbands," he added sententiously, "are sometimes jealous."

  "I doubt if mine is," said Sally Legge.

  She said the words lightly enough, but behind them Poirot heard an undertone of bitterness.

  "He's so completely engrossed in his own affairs."

  "All women complain of that in husbands," said Poirot. "Especially in English husbands," he added.

  "You foreigners are more gallant."

  "We know," said Poirot, "that it is necessary to tell a woman at least once a week, and preferably three or four times, that we love her; and that it is also wise to bring her a few flowers, to pay her a few compliments, to tell her that she looks well in her new dress or her new hat."

  "Is that what you do?"

  "I, Madame, am not a husband," said Hercule Poirot. "Alas!" he added.

  "I'm sure there's no alas about it. I'm sure you're quite delighted to be a carefree bachelor."

  "No, no, Madame, it is terrible all that I have missed in life."

  "I think one's a fool to marry," said Sally Legge.

  "You regret the days when you painted in your studio in Chelsea?"

  "You seem to know all about me, M. Poirot?"

  "I am a gossip," said Hercule Poirot. "I like to hear all about people." He went on, "Do you really regret, Madame?"

  "Oh, I don't know." She sat down impatiently on the seat. Poirot sat beside her.

  He witnessed once more the phenomena which he was becoming accustomed. This attractive red-haired girl was about to say things to him that she would have thought twice about saying to an Englishman.

  "I hoped," she said, "that when we came down here for a holiday away from everything, that things would be the same again… But it hasn't worked out like that."

  "No?"

  "No. Alec's just as moody and – oh, I don't know – wrapped up in himself. I don't know what's the matter with him. He's so nervy and on edge. People ring him up and leave queer messages for him and he won't tell me anything. That's what makes me mad. He won't tell me anything! I thought at first it was some other woman, but I don't think it is. Not really…"

  But her voice held a certain doubt which Poirot was quick to notice.

  "Did you enjoy your tea yesterday afternoon, Madame?" he asked.

  "Enjoy my tea?" She frowned at him, thoughts seeming to come back from a long way away. Then she said hastily, "Oh, yes. You've no idea how exhausting it was, sitting in that tent muffled up in all those veils. It was stifling."

  "The tea tent also must have been somewhat stifling?"

  "Oh, yes, it was. However, there's nothing like a cuppa, is there?"

  "You were searching for something just now, were you not, Madame? Would it, by any possibility, be this?" He held out in his hand the little gold charm.

  "I – oh, yes. Oh, thank you, M. Poirot. Where did you find it?"

  "It was here, on the floor, in that crack over there."

  "I must have dropped it some time."

  "Yesterday?"

  "Oh, no, not yesterday. It was before that."

  "But surely, Madame, I remember seeing that particular charm on your wrist when you were telling me my fortune."

  Nobody could tell a deliberate lie better than Hercule Poirot. He spoke with complete assurance and before that assurance. Sally Legge's eyelids dropped.

  "I don't really remember," she said. "I only noticed this morning that it was missing."

  "Then I am happy," said Poirot gallantly, "to be able to restore it to you."

  She was turning the little charm over nervously in her fingers. Now she rose.

  "Well, thank you, M. Poirot, thank you very much," she said. Her breath was coming rather unevenly and her eyes were nervous.

  She hurried out of the Folly. Poirot leaned back in the seat and nodded his head slowly.

  No, he said to himself, no, you did not go to the tea tent yesterday afternoon. It was not because you wanted your tea that you were so anxious to know if it was four o'clock. It was here you came yesterday afternoon. Here, to the Folly. Half-way to the boathouse. You came here to meet someone.

  Once again he heard footsteps approaching. Rapid, impatient footsteps. "And here perhaps," said Poirot, smiling in anticipation, "comes whoever it was that Mrs Legge came up here to meet."

  But then, as Alec Legge came round the corner of the Folly, Poirot ejaculated:

  "Wrong again."

  "Eh? What's that?" Alec Legge looked startled.

  "I said," explained Poirot, "that I was wrong again. I am not often wrong," he explained, "and it exasperates me. It was not you I expected to see."

  "Whom did you expect to see?" asked Alec Legge.

  Poirot replied promptly.

  "A young man – a boy almost – in one of these gaily-patterned shirts with turtles on it."

  He was pleased at the effect of his words. Alec Legge took a step forward. He said rather incoherently:

  "How do you know? How did – what d'you, mean?"

  "I am psychic," said Hercule Poirot, and closed, his eyes.

  Alec Legge took another couple of steps forward. Poirot was conscious that a very angry man was standing in front of him.

  "What the devil did you mean?" he demanded.

  "Your friend has, I think," said Poirot, "gone back to the Youth Hostel. If you want to see him you will have to go there to find him."

  "So that's it," muttered Alec Legge.

  He dropped down at the other end of the stone bench.

  "So that's why you're down here? It wasn't a question of 'giving away the prizes.' I might have known better." He turned towards Poirot. His face was haggard and unhappy. "I know what it must seem like," he said. "I know what the whole thing looks like. But it isn't as you think it is. I'm being victimised. I tell you that once you get into these people's clutches, it isn't so easy to get out of them. And I want to get out of them. That's the point, I want to get out of them. You get desperate, you know. You feel like taking desperate measures. You feel you're caught like a rat in a trap and there's nothing you can do. Oh, well, what's the good of talking? You know what you want to know now, I suppose. You've got your evidence."

  He got up, stumbled a little as though he could hardly see his way, then rushed off energetically without a backward look.

  Hercule Poirot remained behind with his eyes very wide open and his eyebrows rising.

  "All this is very curious," he murmured. "Curious and interesting. I have the evidence I need, have I? Evidence of what? Murder?"

  Chapter 14

  I

  Inspector Bland sat in Helmmouth Police Station. Superintendent Baldwin, a large comfortable-looking man, sat on the other side of the table. Between the two men, on the table, was a black sodden mass. Inspector Bland poked at it with a cautious forefinger.

  "That's her hat all right," he said. "I'm sure of it, though I don't suppose I could swear to it. She fancied that shape, it seems. So her maid told me. She'd got one or two of them. A pale pink and a sort of puce colour, but yesterday she was wearing the black one. Yes, this is it. And you fished it out of the river? That makes it look as though it's the way we think it is."

 
"No certainty yet," said Baldwin. "After all," he added, "anyone could throw a hat into the river."

  "Yes," said Bland, "they could throw it in from the boathouse, or they could throw it in off a yacht."

  "The yacht's sewed up, all right," said Baldwin. "If she's there, alive or dead, she's still there."

  "He hasn't been ashore today?"

  "Not so far. He's on board. He's been sitting out in a deck-chair smoking a cigar."

  Inspector Bland glanced at the clock.

  "Almost time to go aboard," he said.

  "Think you'll find her?" asked Baldwin.

  "I wouldn't bank on it," said Bland. "I've got the feeling, you know, that he's a clever devil." He was lost in thought for a moment, poking again at the hat. Then he said, "What about the body – if there was a body? Any ideas about that?"

  "Yes," said Baldwin, "I talked to Otterweight this morning. Ex-coastguard man. I always consult him in anything to do with tides and currents. About the time the lady went into the Helm, if she did go into the Helm, the tide was just on the ebb. There is a full moon now and it would be flowing swiftly. Reckon she'd be carried out to sea and the current would take her towards the Cornish coast. There's no certainty where the body would fetch up or if it would fetch up at all. One or two drownings we've had here, we've never recovered the body. It gets broken up, too, on the rocks. Here, by Start Point. On the other hand, it might fetch up any day."

  "If it doesn't, it's going to be difficult," said Bland.

  "You're certain in your own mind that she did go into the river?"

  "I don't see what else it can be," said Inspector Bland sombrely. "We've checked up, you know, on the buses and the trains. This place is a cul-de-sac. She was wearing conspicuous clothes and she didn't take any others with her. So I should say she never left Nasse. Either her body's in the sea or else it's hidden somewhere on the property. What I want now," he went on heavily, "is motive. And the body of course," he added, as an afterthought. "Can't get anywhere until I find the body."

  "What about the other girl?"

  "She saw it – or she saw something. We'll get at the facts in the end, but it won't be easy."

  Baldwin in his turn looked up at the clock.

  "Time to go," he said.

  The two police officers were received on board the Espérance with all De Sousa's charming courtesy. He offered them drinks which they refused, and went on to express a kindly interest in their activities.

  "You are farther forward with your inquiries regarding the death of this young girl?"

  "We're progressing," Inspector Bland told him.

  The superintendent took up the running and expressed very delicately the object of their visit.

  "You would like to search the Espérance?" De Sousa did not seem annoyed. Instead he seemed rather amused. "But why? You think I conceal the murderer or do you think perhaps that I am the murderer myself?"

  "It's necessary, Mr De Sousa, as I'm sure you'll understand. A search warrant…"

  De Sousa raised his hands.

  "But I am anxious to co-operate – eager! Let this be all among friends. You are welcome to search where you will in my boat. Ah, perhaps you think that I have here my cousin, Lady Stubbs? You think, perhaps, she has run away from her husband and taken shelter with me? But search, gentlemen, by all means search."

  The search was duly undertaken. It was a thorough one. In the end, striving to conceal their chagrin, the two police officers took leave of Mr De Sousa.

  "You have found nothing? How disappointing. But I told you that was so. You will perhaps have some refreshment now. No?"

  He accompanied them to where their boat lay alongside.

  "And for myself?" he asked. "I am free to depart? You understand it becomes a little boring here. The weather is good. I should like very much to proceed to Plymouth."

  "If you would be kind enough, sir, to remain here for the inquest – that is tomorrow – in case the Coroner should wish to ask you anything."

  "Why, certainly. I want to do all that I can. But after that?"

  "After that, sir," said Superintendent Baldwin, his face wooden, "you are, of course, at liberty to proceed where you will."

  The last thing they saw as the launch moved away from the yacht, was De Sousa's smiling face looking down on them.

  II

  The inquest was almost painfully devoid of interest.

  Apart from the medical evidence and evidence of identity, there was little to feed the curiosity of the spectators. An adjournment was asked for and granted. The whole proceedings had been purely formal.

  What followed the inquest, however, was not quite so formal. Inspector Bland spent the afternoon taking a trip in that well-known pleasure steamer, The Devon Belle. Leaving Brixwell at about three o'clock, it rounded the headland, proceeded around the coast, entered the mouth of the Helm and went up the river. There were about two hundred and thirty people on board besides Inspector Bland. He sat on the starboard side of the boat, scanning the wooded shore. They came round a bend in the river and passed the isolated grey tiled boathouse that belonged to Hoodown Park. Inspector Bland looked surreptitiously at his watch. It was just quarter-past four. They were coming now close beside the Nasse boathouse. It nestled remote in its trees with its little balcony and its small quay below. There was no sign apparent that there was anyone inside the boathouse, though as a matter of fact, to Inspector Bland's certain knowledge, there was someone inside. P.C. Hoskins, in accordance with orders, was on duty there.

  Not far from the boathouse steps was a small launch. In the launch were a man and girl in holiday kit. They were indulging in what seemed like some rather rough horse-play. The girl was screaming, the man was playfully pretending he was going to duck her overboard. At that same moment a stentorian voice spoke through a megaphone.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," it boomed, "you are now approaching the famous village of Gitcham where we shall remain for three-quarters of an hour and where you can have a crab or lobster tea, as well as Devonshire cream. On your right are the grounds of Nasse House. You will pass the house itself in two or three minutes, it is just visible through the trees. Originally the home of Sir Gervase Folliat, a contemporary of Sir Francis Drake who sailed with him in his voyage to the new world, it is now the property of Sir George Stubbs. On your left is the famous Gooseacre Rock. There, ladies and gentlemen, it was the habit to deposit scolding wives at low tide and to leave them there until the water came up to their necks."

  Everybody on the Devon Belle stared with fascinated interest at the Gooseacre Rock. Jokes were made and there were many shrill giggles and guffaws.

  While this was happening, the holidaymaker in the boat, with a final scuffle, did push his lady friend overboard. Leaning over, he held her in the water, laughing and saying, "No, I don't pull you out till you've promised to behave."

  Nobody, however, observed this with the exception of Inspector Bland. They had all been listening to the megaphone, staring for the first sight of Nasse House through the trees, and gazing with fascinated interest at the Gooseacre Rock.

  The holidaymaker released the girl, she sank under water and a few moments later reappeared on the other side of the boat. She swam to it and got in, heaving herself ever the side with practised skill. Policewoman Alice Jones was an accomplished swimmer.

  Inspector Bland came ashore at Gitcham with the other two hundred and thirty passengers and consumed a lobster tea with Devonshire cream and scones. He said to himself as he did so, "So it could be done, and no one would notice!"

  III

  While Inspector Bland was doing his experiment on the Helm, Hercule Poirot was experimenting with a tent on the lawn at Nasse House. It was, in actual fact, the same tent where Madame Zuleika had told her fortunes. When the rest of the marquees and stands had been dismantled Poirot had asked for this to remain behind.

  He went into it now, closed the flaps and went to the back of it. Deftly he unlaced the flaps there, slipped ou
t, relaced them, and plunged into the hedge of rhododendron that immediately backed the tent. Slipping between a couple of bushes, he soon reached a small rustic arbour. It was a kind of summer-house with a closed door. Poirot opened the door and went inside.

  It was very dim inside because very little light came in through the rhododendrons which had grown up round it since it had been first placed there many years ago. There was a box there with croquet balls in it, and some old rusted hoops. There were one or two broken hockey sticks, a good many earwigs and spiders, and a round irregular mark on the dust on the floor. At this Poirot looked for some time. He knelt down, and taking a little yard measure from his pocket, he measured its dimensions carefully. Then he nodded his head in a satisfied fashion.

  He slipped out quietly, shutting the door behind him. Then he pursued an oblique course through the rhododendron bushes. He worked his way up the hill in this way and came out a short time after on the path which led to the Folly and down from there to the boathouse.

  He did not visit the Folly this time, but went straight down the zig-zagging way until he reached the boathouse. He had the key with him and he opened the door and went in.

  Except for the removal of the body, and of the tea tray with its glass and plate, it was just as he remembered it. The police had noted and photographed all that it contained. He went over now to the table where the pile of comics lay. He turned them over and his expression was not unlike Inspector Eland's had been as he noted the words Marlene had doodled down there before she died. "Jackie Blake goes with Susan Brown." "Peter pinches girls at the pictures." "Georgie Porgie kisses hikers in the wood." "Biddy Fox likes boys." "Albert goes with Doreen."

  He found the remarks pathetic in their young crudity. He remembered Marlene's plain, rather spotty face. He suspected that boys had not pinched Marlene at the pictures. Frustrated, Marlene had got a vicarious thrill by her spying and peering at her young contemporaries. She had spied on people, she had snooped, and she had seen things. Things that she was not meant to have seen – things, usually, of small importance, but on one occasion perhaps something of more importance? Something of whose importance she herself had had no idea.