Evil Under the Sun (13 page)

Inspector Colgate nodded.

“I'll attend to all that, sir,” he said confidently.

The Chief Constable said:

“Think I'll go along to the cove now. See if Phillips has found anything. Then there's that Pixy's Cave we've been hearing about. Ought to see if there are any traces of a man waiting in there. Eh, Poirot? What do you think?”

“By all means. It is a possibility.”

Weston said:

“If somebody from outside had nipped over to the island that would be a good hiding place—if he knew about it. I suppose the locals know?”

Colgate said:

“Don't believe the younger generation would. You see, ever since this hotel was started the coves have been private property. Fishermen don't go there, or picnic parties. And the hotel people aren't local. Mrs. Castle's a Londoner.”

Weston said:

“We might take Redfern with us. He told us about it. What about you, M. Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot hesitated. He said, his foreign intonation very pronounced:

“Me, I am like Miss Brewster and Mrs. Redfern, I do not like to descend perpendicular ladders.”

Weston said: “You can go round by boat.”

Again Hercule Poirot sighed.

“My stomach, it is not happy on the sea.”

“Nonsense, man, it's a beautiful day. Calm as a mill pond. You can't let us down, you know.”

Hercule Poirot hardly looked like responding to this British adjuration. But at that moment, Mrs. Castle poked her ladylike face and elaborate coiffure round the door.

“Ay'm sure ay hope ay am not intruding,” she said. “But Mr. Lane, the clergyman, you know, has just returned. Ay thought you might like to know.”

“Ah yes, thanks, Mrs. Castle. We'll see him right away.”

Mrs. Castle came a little farther into the room. She said:

“Ay don't know if it is worth mentioning, but ay
have
heard that the smallest incident should not be ignored—”

“Yes, yes?” said Weston impatiently.

“It is only that there was a lady and gentleman here about one o'clock. Came over from the mainland. For luncheon. They were informed that there had been an accident and that under the circumstances no luncheons could be served.”

“Any idea who they were?”

“Ay couldn't say at all. Naturally no name was given. They expressed disappointment and a certain amount of curiosity as to the
nature of the accident. Ay couldn't tell them anything, of course. Ay should say, myself, they were summer visitors of the better class.”

Weston said brusquely:

“Ah well, thank you for telling us. Probably not important but quite right—er—to remember everything.”

“Naturally,” said Mrs. Castle, “ay wish to do my Duty!”

“Quite, quite. Ask Mr. Lane to come here.”

V

Stephen Lane strode into the room with his usual vigour.

Weston said:

“I'm the Chief Constable of the County, Mr. Lane. I suppose you've been told what has occurred here?”

“Yes—oh yes—I heard as soon as I got here. Terrible… Terrible…” His thin frame quivered. He said in a low voice: “All along—ever since I arrived here—I have been conscious—very conscious—of the forces of evil close at hand.”

His eyes, burning eager eyes, went to Hercule Poirot.

He said:

“You remember, M. Poirot? Our conversation some days ago? About the reality of evil?”

Weston was studying the tall, gaunt figure in some perplexity. He found it difficult to make this man out. Lane's eyes came back to him. The clergyman said with a slight smile:

“I dare say that seems fantastic to you, sir. We have left off believing in evil in these days. We have abolished Hell fire! We no longer believe in the Devil! But Satan and Satan's emissaries were never more powerful than they are today!”

Weston said:

“Er—er—yes, perhaps. That, Mr. Lane, is your province. Mine is more prosaic—to clear up a case of murder.”

Stephen Lane said:

“An awful word. Murder! One of the earliest sins known on earth—the ruthless shedding of an innocent brother's blood…” He paused, his eyes half closed. Then, in a more ordinary voice he said:

“In what way can I help you?”

“First of all, Mr. Lane, will you tell me your own movements today?”

“Willingly. I started off early on one of my usual tramps. I am fond of walking. I have roamed over a good deal of the countryside round here. Today I went to St. Petrock-in-the-Combe. That is about seven miles from here—a very pleasant walk along winding lanes, up and down the Devon hills and valleys. I took some lunch with me and ate it in a spinney. I visited the church—it has some fragments—only fragments alas, of early glass—also a very interesting painted screen.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lane. Did you meet anyone on your walk?”

“Not to speak to. A cart passed me once and a couple of boys on bicycles and some cows. However,” he smiled, “if you want proof of my statement, I wrote my name in the book at the church. You will find it there.”

“You did not see anyone at the church itself—the Vicar, or the verger?”

Stephen Lane shook his head. He said:

“No, there was no one about and I was the only visitor. St. Pet
rock is a very remote spot. The village itself lies on the far side of it about half a mile farther on.”

Colonel Weston said pleasantly:

“You mustn't think we're—er—doubting what you say. Just a matter of checking up on everybody. Just routine, you know, routine. Have to stick to routine in cases of this kind.”

Stephen Lane said gently:

“Oh yes, I quite understand.”

Weston went on:

“Now the next point. Is there anything you know that would assist us at all? Anything about the dead woman? Anything that could give us a pointer as to who murdered her? Anything you heard or saw?”

Stephen Lane said:

“I heard nothing. All I can tell you is this: that I knew instinctively as soon as I saw her that Arlena Marshall was a focus of evil. She
was
Evil! Evil personified! Woman can be man's help and inspiration in life—she can also be man's downfall. She can drag a man down to the level of the beast. The dead woman was just such a woman. She appealed to everything base in a man's nature. She was a woman such as Jezebel and Aholibah. Now—she has been struck down in the middle of her wickedness!”

Hercule Poirot stirred. He said:

“Not struck down—
strangled!
Strangled, Mr. Lane, by a pair of human hands.”

The clergyman's own hands trembled. The fingers writhed and twitched. He said, and his voice came low and choked:

“That's horrible—horrible—Must you put it like that?”

Hercule Poirot said:

“It is the simple truth. Have you any idea, Mr. Lane, whose hands those were?”

The other shook his head. He said: “I know nothing—nothing….”

Weston got up. He said, after a glance at Colgate to which the latter replied by an almost imperceptible nod, “Well, we must get on to the Cove.”

Lane said:

“Is that where—it happened?”

Weston nodded.

Lane said:

“Can—can I come with you?”

About to return a curt negative, Weston was forestalled by Poirot.

“But certainly,” said Poirot. “Accompany me there in a boat, Mr. Lane. We start immediately.”

F
or the second time that morning Patrick Redfern was rowing a boat into Pixy Cove. The other occupants of the boat were Hercule Poirot, very pale with a hand to his stomach, and Stephen Lane. Colonel Weston had taken the land route. Having been delayed on the way he arrived on the beach at the same time as the boat grounded. A police constable and a plainclothes sergeant were on the beach already. Weston was questioning the latter as the three from the boat walked up and joined him.

Sergeant Phillips said:

“I think I've been over every inch of the beach, sir.”

“Good, what did you find?”

“It's all together here, sir, if you'd like to come and see.”

A small collection of objects was laid out neatly on a rock. There was a pair of scissors, an empty Gold Flake packet, five patent bottle tops, a number of used matches, three pieces of string, one or two fragments of newspaper, a fragment of a smashed pipe,
four buttons, the drumstick bone of a chicken and an empty bottle of sunbathing oil.

Weston looked down appraisingly on the objects.

“H'm,” he said. “Rather moderate for a beach nowadays! Most people seem to confuse a beach with a public rubbish dump! Empty bottle's been here some time by the way the label's blurred—so have most of the other things, I should say. The scissors are new, though. Bright and shining.
They
weren't out in yesterday's rain! Where were they?”

“Close by the bottom of the ladder, sir. Also this bit of pipe.”

“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 taken
her
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 fingerprints.”

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't
salt,
sir. Not by a long way! Bitter taste! Seems to me it's some kind of
drug.
”

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:

“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 something
does
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 Holmes
v.
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—
trés 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't
me!
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't
me!
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?”

Mr. Blatt's red face got slightly redder. He said:

“Well, no, I haven't. The sailing's all right and the scenery and the service and the food—but there's no
matiness
in the place, you know what I mean! What I say is, my money's as good as another man's. We're all here to enjoy ourselves. Then why not get together and
do
it? All these cliques and people sitting by themselves and giving you frosty good mornings—and good evenings—and yes, very pleasant weather. No joy de viver. Lot of stuck-up dummies!”

Mr. Blatt paused—by now very red indeed.

He wiped his forehead once more and said apologetically:

“Don't pay any attention to me. I get all worked up.”

III

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“And what do we think of Mr. Blatt?”

Colonel Weston grinned and said:

“What do
you
think of him? You've seen more of him than I have.”

Poirot said softly:

“There are many of your English idioms that describe him. The rough diamond! The self-made man! The social climber! He is, as you choose to look at it, pathetic, ludicrous, blatant! It is a matter of opinion. But I think, too, that he is something else.”