Evil Under the Sun

‘H’m, probably dropped by someone going up or down. Nothing to say who they belong to?’

‘No, sir. Quite an ordinary pair of nail scissors. Pipe’s a good quality brier-expensive.’

Poirot murmured thoughtfully:

‘Captain Marshall told us, I think, that he had mislaid his pipe.’

Weston said:

‘Marshall’s out of the picture. Anyway, he’s not the only person who smokes a pipe.’

Hercule Poirot was watching Stephen Lane as the latter’s hand went to his pocket and away again. He said pleasantly:

‘You also smoke a pipe, do you not, Mr Lane?’

The clergyman started. He looked at Poirot.

He said:

‘Yes. Oh yes. My pipe is an old friend and companion.’ Putting his hand into his pocket again he drew out a pipe, filled it with tobacco and lighted it.

Hercule Poirot moved away to where Redfern was standing, his eyes blank.

He said in a low voice:

‘I’m glad-they’ve takenher away…’

Stephen Lane asked:

‘Where was she found?’

The Sergeant said cheerfully:

‘Just about where you’re standing, sir.’

Lane moved swiftly aside. He stared at the spot he had just vacated.

The Sergeant went on:

‘Place where the float was drawn up agrees with putting the time she arrived here at 10.45. That’s going by the tide. It’s turned now.’

‘Photography all done?’ asked Weston.

‘Yes, sir.’

Weston turned to Redfern.

‘Now then, man, where’s the entrance to this cave of yours?’ 

Patrick Redfern was still staring down at the beach where Lane had been standing. It was as though he was seeing that sprawling body that was no longer there.

Weston’s words recalled him to himself.

He said: ‘It’s over here.’

He led the way to where a great mass of tumbled-down rocks were massed picturesquely against the cliff side. He went straight to where two big rocks, side by side, showed a straight narrow cleft between them. He said:

‘The entrance is here.’

Weston said:

‘Here? Doesn’t look as though a man could squeeze through.’

‘It’s deceptive, you’ll find, sir. It can just be done.’

Weston inserted himself gingerly into the cleft. It was not as narrow as it looked. Inside, the space widened and proved to be a fairly roomy recess with room to stand upright and to move about.

Hercule Poirot and Stephen Lane joined the Chief Constable. The other stayed outside. Light filtered in through the opening, but Weston had also got a powerful torch which he played freely over the interior.

He observed:

‘Handy place. You’d never suspect it from the outside.’ 

He played the torch carefully over the floor.

Hercule Poirot was delicately sniffing the air.

Noticing this, Weston said:

‘Air quite fresh, not fishy or seaweedy, but of course this place is well above high water mark.’

But to Poirot’s sensitive nose, the air was more than fresh. It was delicately scented. He knew two people who used that elusive perfume…

‘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 finger-prints.’

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’tsalt, sir. Not by a long way! Bitter taste! Seems to me it’s some kind ofdrug.’

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: