Evil Under the Sun

‘I should doubt that. She had steady nerves, radiant health, there were no marks of hypodermic injections (not that that proves anything. Some people sniff the stuff). No, I do not think she took drugs.’

‘In that case,’ said Weston, ‘she may have run into the business accidentally, and she was deliberately silenced by the people running the show. We’ll know presently just what the stuff is. I’ve sent it to Neasden. If we’re on to some dope ring, they’re not the people to stick at trifles-’

He broke off as the door opened and Mr Horace Blatt came briskly into the room. 

Mr Blatt was looking hot. He was wiping the perspiration from his forehead. His big hearty voice billowed out and filled the small room.

‘Just this minute got back and heard the news! You the Chief Constable? They told me you were in here. My name’s Blatt-Horace Blatt. Any way I can help you? Don’t suppose so. I’ve been out in my boat since early this morning. Missed the whole blinking show. The one day that somethingdoes happen in this out-of-the-way spot, I’m not there. Just like life, that, isn’t it? Hullo, Poirot, didn’t see you at first. So you’re in on this? Oh well, I suppose you would be. Sherlock Holmesv. the local police, is that it? Ha, ha! Lestrade-all that stuff. I’ll enjoy seeing you do a bit of fancy sleuthing.’

Mr Blatt came to anchor in a chair, pulled out a cigarette case and offered it to Colonel Weston, who shook his head.

He said, with a slight smile:

‘I’m an inveterate pipe smoker.’

‘Same here. I smoke cigarettes as well-but nothing beats a pipe.’

Colonel Weston said with suddenly geniality:

‘Then light up, man.’

Blatt shook his head.

‘Not got my pipe on me at the moment. But put me wise about all this. All I’ve heard so far is that Mrs Marshall was found murdered on one of the beaches here.’

‘On Pixy Cove,’ said Colonel Weston, watching him.

But Mr Blatt merely asked excitedly:

‘And she was strangled?’

‘Yes, Mr Blatt.’

‘Nasty-very nasty. Mind you, she asked for it! Hot stuff-tres moustarde-eh, M. Poirot? Any idea who did it, or mustn’t I ask that?’

With a faint smile Colonel Weston said:

‘Well, you know, it’s we who are supposed to ask the questions.’

Mr Blatt waved his cigarette.

‘Sorry-sorry-my mistake. Go ahead.’

‘You went out sailing this morning. At what time?’

‘Left here at a quarter to ten.’

‘Was any one with you?’

‘Not a soul. All on my little lonesome.’

‘And where did you go?’

‘Along the coast in the direction of Plymouth. Took lunch with me. Not much wind so I didn’t actually get very far.’

After another question or two, Weston asked:

‘Now about the Marshalls? Do you know anything that might help us?’

‘Well, I’ve given you my opinion.Crime passionnel! All I can tell you is, it wasn’tme! The fair Arlena had no use for me. Nothing doing in that quarter. She had her own blue-eyed boy! And if you ask me, Marshall was getting wise to it.’

‘Have you any evidence for that?’

‘Saw him give young Redfern a dirty look once or twice. Dark horse, Marshall. Looks very meek and mild and as though he were half asleep all the time-but that’s not his reputation in the City. I’ve heard a thing or two about him. Nearly had up for assault once. Mind you, the fellow in question had put up a pretty dirty deal. Marshall had trusted him and the fellow had let him down cold. Particularly dirty business, I believe. Marshall went for him and half killed him. Fellow didn’t prosecute-too afraid of what might come out. I give you that for what it’s worth.’

‘So you think it possible,’ said Poirot, ‘that Captain Marshall strangled his wife?’

‘Not at all. Never said anything of the sort. Just letting you know that he’s the sort of fellow who could go berserk on occasions.’

Poirot said:

‘Mr Blatt, there is reason to believe that Mrs Marshall went this morning to Pixy Cove to meet someone. Have you any idea who that someone might be?’

Mr Blatt winked.

‘It’s not a guess. It’s a certainty. Redfern!’ 

‘It was not Mr Redfern.’

Mr Blatt seemed taken aback. He said hesitatingly:

‘Then I don’t know…No, I can’t imagine…’

He went on, regaining a little of his aplomb:

‘As I said before, it wasn’tme! No such luck! Let me see, couldn’t have been Gardener-his wife keeps far too sharp an eye on him! That old ass Barry? Rot! And it would hardly be the parson. Although, mind you, I’ve seen his Reverence watching her a good bit. All holy disapproval, but perhaps an eye for the contours all the same! Eh? Lot of hypocrites, most parsons. Did you read that case last month? Parson and the churchwarden’s daughter! Bit of an eye-opener.’

Mr Blatt chuckled.

Colonel Weston said coldly:

‘There is nothing you can think of that might help us?’

The other shook his head.

‘No. Can’t think of a thing.’ He added: ‘This will make a bit of a stir, I imagine. The Press will be on to it like hot cakes. There won’t be quite so much of this high-toned exclusiveness about the Jolly Roger in future. Jolly Roger indeed. Precious little jollity about it.’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘You have not enjoyed your stay here?’