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 a.s.s 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."

"And what is that?"

Hercule Poirot, his eyes raised to the ceiling, murmured: "I think that he is-nervous!"

IV.

Inspector Colgate said: "I've got those times worked out. From the hotel to the ladder down to Pixy Cove three minutes. That's walking till you are out of sight of the hotel and then running like h.e.l.l."

Weston raised his eyebrows. He said: "That's quicker than I thought."

"Down ladder to beach one minute and three quarters. Up same two minutes. That's P.C. Flint. He's a bit of an athlete. Walking and taking the ladder in the normal way, the whole business takes close on a quarter of an hour."

Weston nodded. He said: "There's another thing we must go into, the pipe question."

Colgate said: "Blatt smokes a pipe, so does Marshall, so does the parson. Redfern smokes cigarettes, the American prefers a cigar. Major Barry doesn't smoke at all. There's one pipe in Marshall's room, two in Blatt's, and one in the parson's. Chambermaid says Marshall has two pipes. The other chambermaid isn't a very bright girl. Doesn't know how many pipes the other two have. Says vaguely she's noticed two or three about in their rooms."

Weston nodded.

"Anything else?"

"I've checked up on the staff. They all seem quite O.K. Henry, in the bar, checks Marshall's statement about seeing him at ten to eleven. William, the beach attendant, was down repairing the ladder on the rocks by the hotel most of the morning. He seems all right. George marked the tennis court and then bedded out some plants round by the dining room. Neither of them would have seen anyone who came across the causeway to the island."

"When was the causeway uncovered?"

"Round about 9:30, sir."

Weston pulled at his moustache.

"It's possible somebody did come that way. We've got a new angle, Colgate."

He told of the discovery of the sandwich box in the cave.

V.

There was a tap on the door.

"Come in," said Weston.

It was Captain Marshall.

He said: "Can you tell me what arrangements I can make about the funeral?"

"I think we shall manage the inquest for the day after tomorrow, Captain Marshall."

"Thank you."

Inspector Colgate said: "Excuse me, sir, allow me to return you these."

He handed over the three letters.

Kenneth Marshall smiled rather sardonically.

He said: "Has the police department been testing the speed of my typing? I hope my character is cleared."

Colonel Weston said pleasantly.

"Yes, Captain Marshall, I think we can give you a clean bill of health. Those sheets take fully an hour to type. Moreover you were heard typing them by the chambermaid up till five minutes to eleven and you were seen by another witness at twenty minutes past."

Captain Marshall murmured: "Really? That all seems very satisfactory!"

"Yes. Miss Darnley came to your room at twenty minutes past eleven. You were so busy typing that you did not observe her entry."

Kenneth Marshall's face took on an impa.s.sive expression. He said: "Does Miss Darnley say that?" He paused. "As a matter of fact she is wrong. I did see her, though she may not be aware of the fact. I saw her in the mirror."

Poirot murmured: "But you did not interrupt your typing?"

Marshall said shortly: "No. I wanted to get finished."

He paused a minute, then, in an abrupt voice, he said: "Nothing more I can do for you?"

"No, thank you, Captain Marshall."

Kenneth Marshall nodded and went out.

Weston said with a sigh: "There goes our most hopeful suspect-cleared! Hullo, here's Neasden."

The doctor came in with a trace of excitement in his manner. He said: "That's a nice little death lot you sent me along."

"What is it?"

"What is it? Diamorphine Hydrochloride. Stuff that's usually called Heroin."

Inspector Colgate whistled. He said: "Now we're getting places, all right! Depend upon it, this dope stunt is at the bottom of the whole business."

Ten.

The little crowd of people flocked out of the Red Bull. The brief inquest was over-adjourned for a fortnight.

Rosamund Darnley joined Captain Marshall. She said in a low voice: "That wasn't so bad, was it, Ken?"

He did not answer at once. Perhaps he was conscious of the staring eyes of the villagers, the fingers that nearly pointed to him and only just did not quite do so!

"That's 'im, my dear." "See, that's 'er 'usband." "That be the 'usband." "Look, there 'e goes...."

The murmurs were not loud enough to reach his ears, but he was none the less sensitive to them. This was the modern-day pillory. The Press he had already encountered-self-confident, persuasive young men, adept at battering down his wall of silence of "Nothing to say" that he had endeavoured to erect. Even the curt monosyllables that he had uttered, thinking that they at least could not lead to misapprehension, had reappeared in his morning's papers in a totally different guise. "Asked whether he agreed that the mystery of his wife's death could only be explained on the a.s.sumption that a homicidal murderer had found his way on to the island, Captain Marshall declared that-" and so on and so forth.

Cameras had clicked ceaselessly. Now, at this minute, the well-known sound caught his ear. He half-turned-a smiling young man was nodding cheerfully, his purpose accomplished.

Rosamund murmured: "Captain Marshall and a friend leaving the Red Bull after the inquest."

Marshall winced.

Rosamund said: "It's no use, Ken! You've got to face it! I don't mean just the fact of Arlena's death-I mean all the attendant beastliness. The staring eyes and gossiping tongues, the fatuous interviews in the papers-and the best way to meet it is to find it funny! Come out with all the old inane cliches and curl a sardonic lip at them."

He said: "Is that your way?"

"Yes." She paused. "It isn't yours, I know. Protective colouring is your line. Remain rigidly nonactive and fade into the background! But you can't do that here-you've no background to fade into. You stand out clear for all to see-like a striped tiger against a white backcloth. The husband of the murdered woman!"

"For G.o.d's sake, Rosamund-"

She said gently: "My dear, I'm trying to be good for you!"

They walked for a few steps in silence. Then Marshall said in a different voice: "I know you are. I'm not really ungrateful, Rosamund."

They had progressed beyond the limits of the village. Eyes followed them but there was no one very near. Rosamund Darnley's voice dropped as she repeated a variant of her first remark.

"It didn't really go so badly, did it?"

He was silent for a moment, then he said: "I don't know."

"What do the police think?"

"They're noncommittal."

After a minute Rosamund said: "That little man-Poirot-is he really taking an active interest!"

Kenneth Marshall said: "Seemed to be sitting in the Chief Constable's pocket all right the other day."

"I know-but is he doing anything?"

"How the h.e.l.l should I know, Rosamund?"

She said thoughtfully: "He's pretty old. Probably more or less ga ga."

"Perhaps."

They came to the causeway. Opposite them, serene in the sun, lay the island.

Rosamund said suddenly: "Sometimes-things seem unreal. I can't believe, this minute, that it ever happened...."

Marshall said slowly: "I think I know what you mean. Nature is so regardless! One ant the less-that's all it is in Nature!"

Rosamund said: "Yes-and that's the proper way to look at it really."

He gave her one very quick glance. Then he said in a low voice: "Don't worry, my dear. It's all right. It's all right."

II.

Linda came down to the causeway to meet them. She moved with the spasmodic jerkiness of a nervous colt. Her young face was marred by deep black shadows under her eyes. Her lips were dry and rough.

She said breathlessly: "What happened-what-what did they say?"

Her father said abruptly: "Inquest adjourned for a fortnight."

"That means they-they haven't decided?"

"Yes. More evidence is needed."

"But-but what do they think?"

Marshall smiled a little in spite of himself.

"Oh, my dear child-who knows? And whom do you mean by they? The coroner, the jury, the police, the newspaper reporters, the fishing folk of Leathercombe Bay?"

Linda said slowly: "I suppose I mean-the police."