Evil Under the Sun Read online

  “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. Anyone could come on to 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 one person was very clearly indicated.”

  Rosamund’s voice hardened a little. She said:

  “Go on.”

  Hercule Poirot went on.

  “But you see, 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 anyone take a bath?”

  Hercule Poirot said: “Why, indeed?”

  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. Redfern as they passed on the sea. During the morning, Mademoiselle, are you sure you did not happen to go down to Pixy Cove and enter the cave there—the famous Pixy’s Cave?”

  Rosamund turned her head and stared at him.

  She said in a quiet level 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 Gabrielle No 8.”

  Rosamund said sharply:

  “You’ve just said yourself, M. Poirot, that Arlena Marshall used Gabrielle No. 8. She was on the beach there 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 Darnley’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 Darnley said:

  “Nothing.”

  VIII

  It was perhaps an hour later that Hercule Poirot came to the top of the path leading to Gull Cove. There was someone 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 beside her, rested on him with the 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. 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 say it and I do say it. It 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 troub
le?”

  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 someone 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 means it must be one of 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 account 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 fide 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 them down to anything you can get hold 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 a 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 had looked at it for about a fortnight. He could have quite easily gone over the day before, 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.”

  Weston said:

  “If the Marshall woman’s death is the result of her getting mixed-up, innocently or otherwise, with the dope-running 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 had 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 batty parson, but, personally, 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 Lane went into that mental home?”

  “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….”

  II

  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 Co
ve. There were several rough boulders near the head of the ladder, he noted, forming easy concealment for anyone 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 jig-saw 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 on that morning.

  The evening of a bridge game. He, Patrick Redfern and Rosamund Darnley 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 stem.

  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.

  Bathwater 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 stop: his own belief in the presence of evil on the island.

  Evil…

  He looked down at a typewritten paper in his hands.

  Nellie Parsons—found strangled in a lonely copse near Chobham. No clue to her murderer ever discovered.

  Nellie Parsons?

  Alice Corrigan.

  He read very carefully the details of Alice Corrigan’s death.

  III

  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.”