Evil Under the Sun Read online

  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 thought you might be. Alice Corrigan 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 women hikers—hefty young women 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—and gave it as her opinion that the woman 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 Café 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 Café and go home by bus. Caesar’s Grove is not far from the café, 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 tramp or madman came upon her there and 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 to 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 which 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 someone of telling lies—many, many lies but you had no proof, what would you do?”

  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 af
ield, 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.

  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 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 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.