Агата Кристи - Зло под солнцем / Evil Under the Sun

Linda took first one and then another doubtfully from the shelf and glanced into it. She decided she couldn’t possibly read The Four Feathers or Vice Versa. She took out a small squat volume in brown calf. The time passed… With a start Linda shoved the book back in the shelf as Christine Redfern’s voice said:

“What are you reading, Linda?”

Linda said hurriedly:

“Nothing. I’m looking for a book.”

She pulled out The Marriage of William Ashe at random and advanced to the counter fumbling for twopence.

Christine said: “Mr Blatt just drove me home after nearly running over me first, I really felt I couldn’t walk all across the causeway with him, so I said I had to buy some things.”

Linda said: “He’s awful, isn’t he? Always saying how rich he is and making the most terrible jokes.”

Christine said: “Poor man. One really feels rather sorry for him.”

Linda didn’t agree. She didn’t see anything to be sorry for in Mr Blatt. She was young and ruthless. She walked with Christine Redfern out of the shop and down towards the causeway. She was busy with her own thoughts. She liked Christine Redfern. She and Rosamund Darnley were the only bearable people on the island in Linda’s opinion. Neither of them talked much to her for one thing. Now, as they walked, Christine didn’t say anything. That, Linda thought, was sensible. If you hadn’t anything worth saying why go chattering all the time? She lost herself in her own perplexities.

She said suddenly: “Mrs Redfern, have you ever felt that everything’s so awful – so terrible – that you’ll, oh, burst…”

The words were almost comic, but Linda’s face, drawn and anxious, was not. Christine Redfern, looking at her vaguely, with scarcely comprehending eyes, certainly saw nothing to laugh at… She caught her breath sharply.

She said: “Yes – yes I have felt – just that…”

Mr Blatt said: “So you’re the famous sleuth, eh?”

They were in the cocktail bar, a favorite haunt of Mr Blatt’s.

Hercule Poirot acknowledged the remark with his usual lack of modesty. Mr Blatt went on.

“And what are you doing down here – on a job?”

“No, no. I repose myself. I take the holiday.”

Mr Blatt winked. “You’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you?”

Poirot replied: “Not necessarily.”

Horace Blatt said: “Oh! come now. As a matter of fact you’d be safe enough with me. I don’t repeat all I hear! Learnt to keep my mouth shut years ago. Shouldn’t have got on the way I have if I hadn’t known how to do that. But you know what most people are – yap, yap, yap, about everything they hear! Now you can’t afford that in your trade! That’s why you’ve got to keep it up that you’re here holiday-making and nothing else.”

Poirot asked: “And why should you suppose the contrary?”

Mr Blatt dosed one eye.

He said: “I’m a man of the world. I know the cut of a fellow’s jib. A man like you would be at Deauville or Le Touquet or down at Juan les Pins. That’s your – what’s the phrase? – spiritual home.”

Poirot sighed. He looked out of the window. Rain was falling and mist encircled the island.

He said: “It is possible that you are right! There, at least, in wet weather there are the distractions.”

“Good old Casino!” said Mr Blatt. “You know, I’ve had to work pretty hard most of my life. No time for holidays or kickshaws. I meant to make good and I have made good. Now I can do what I please. My money’s as good as any man’s. I’ve seen a bit of life in the last few years, I can tell you.”

Poirot murmured: “Ah, yes?”

“Don’t know why I came to this place,” Mr Blatt continued.

Poirot observed: “I, too, wondered.”

“Eh, what’s that?”

Poirot waved an eloquent hand. “I, too, am not without observation. I should have expected you most certainly to choose Deauville or Biarritz.”

“Instead of which, we’re both here, eh?” Mr Blatt gave a hoarse chuckle. “Don’t really know why I came here,” he mused. “I think, you know, it sounded romantic. Jolly Roger Hotel, Smugglers’ Island. That kind of address tickles you up, you know. Makes you think of when you were a boy. Pirates, smuggling, all that.” He laughed rather self-consciously. “I used to sail quite a bit as a boy. Not this part of the world. Off the East coast. Funny how a taste for that sort of thing never leaves you. I could have a tiptop yacht if I liked, but somehow I don’t really fancy it. I like mucking about in that little yawl of mine. Redfern’s keen on sailing, too. He’s been out with me once or twice. Can’t get hold of him now – always hanging round that red-haired wife of Marshall’s.”

He paused, then lowering his voice, he went on.

“Mostly a dried-up lot of sticks in this hotel! Mrs Marshall’s about the only lively spot! I should think Marshall’s got his hands full looking after her. All sorts of stories about her in her stage days – and after! Men go crazy after her. You’ll see, there’ll be a spot of trouble one of these days.”

Poirot said: “What kind of trouble?”

Horace Blatt replied: “That depends. I’d say, looking at Marshall, that he’s a man with a funny kind of temper. As a matter of fact, I know he is. Heard something about him. I’ve met that quiet sort. Never know where you are with that kind. Redfern had better look out – ”

He broke off, as the subject of his words came into the bar. He went on speaking loudly and self-consciously.

“And, as I say, sailing round this coast is good fun. Hullo, Redfern, have one with me? What’ll you have? Dry Martini? Right. What about you, Mr Poirot?”

Poirot shook his head.

Patrick Redfern sat down and said:

“Sailing? It’s the best fun in the world. Wish I could do more of it. Used to spend most of my time as a boy in a sailing dinghy round this coast.”

Poirot said: “Then you know this part of the world well?”

“Rather! I knew this place before there was a hotel on it. There were just a few fishermen’s cottages at Leathercombe Bay and a tumbledown old house, all shut up, on the island.”

“There was a house here?”

“Oh, yes, but it hadn’t been lived in for years. Was practically falling down. There used to be all sorts of stories of secret passages from the house to Pixy’s Cave. We were always looking for that secret passage, I remember.”

Horace Blatt spilt his drink. He cursed, mopped himself and asked:

“What is this Pixy’s Cave?”

Patrick said: “Oh, don’t you know it? It’s on Pixy Cove. You can’t find the entrance to it easily. It’s among a lot of piled-up boulders at one end. Just a long thin crack. You can just squeeze through it. Inside it widens out into quite a big cave. You can imagine what fun it was to a boy! An old fisherman showed it to me. Nowadays, even the fishermen don’t know about it. I asked one the other day why the place was called Pixy Cove and he couldn’t tell me.”

Hercule Poirot said: “But I still do not understand. What is this Pixy?”

Patrick Redfern said: “Oh! that’s typically Devonshire. There’s a Pixy’s Cave on Sheepstor on the Moor. You’re supposed to leave a pin, you know, as a present for the Pixy. A Pixy is a kind of moor spirit.”

Hercule Poirot said: “Ah! but it is interesting, that.”

Patrick Redfern went on. “There’s a lot of pixy lore on Dartmoor still. There are Tors that are said to be pixy-ridden, and I expect that farmers coming home after a thick night still complain of being pixy-led.”

Horace Blatt said: “You mean when they’ve had a Couple?”

Patrick Redfern said with a smile: “That’s certainly the commonsense explanation!”

Blatt looked at his watch.

He said: “I’m going in to dinner. On the whole, Redfern, pirates are my favourites, not pixies.”

Patrick Redfern said with a laugh as the other went out: “Faith, I’d like to see the old boy pixy-led himself!”

Poirot observed meditatively: “For a hard-bitten business man, M. Blatt seems to have a very romantic imagination.”

Patrick Redfern said: “That’s because he’s only half educated. Or so my wife says. Look at what he reads! Nothing but thrillers or Wild West stories.”

Poirot said: “You mean that he has still the mentality of a boy?”

“Well, don’t you think so, sir?”

“Me, I have not seen very much of him.”

“I haven’t really, either. I’ve been out sailing with him once or twice, but he doesn’t really like having any one with him. He prefers to be on his own.”

Hercule Poirot said: “That is indeed curious. It is singularly unlike his practice on land.”

Redfern laughed.

He said: “I know. We all have a bit of trouble keeping out of his way. He’d like to turn this place into a cross between Margate and Le Touquet.”

Poirot said nothing for a minute or two. He was studying the laughing face of his companion very attentively. He said suddenly and unexpectedly:

“I think, Mr Redfern, that you enjoy living.”

Patrick stared at him, surprised.

“Indeed I do. Why not?”

“Why not indeed,” agreed Poirot. “I make you my felicitation on the fact.”

Smiling a little Patrick Redfern said: “Thank you, sir.”

“That is why, as an older man, a very much older man, I venture to offer you a piece of advice.”

“Yes, sir?”

“A very wise friend of mine in the Police Force said to me years ago: ‘Hercule, my friend, if you would know tranquillity, avoid women.’”

Patrick Redfern said: “I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that, sir. I’m married, you know.”

“I do know. You wife is a very charming, a very accomplished woman. She is, I think, very fond of you.”

Patrick Redfern said sharply: “I’m very fond of her.”

“Ah,” said Hercule Poirot, “I am delighted to hear it.”

Patrick’s brow was suddenly like thunder.

“Look here, M. Poirot, what are you getting at?”

“Les femmes.” Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes. “I know something of them. They are capable of complicating life unbearably. And the English, they conduct their affairs indescribably. If it was necessary for you to come here, M. Redfern, why, in the name of Heaven, did you bring your wife?”

Patrick Redfern said angrily: “I don’t know what you mean.”

Hercule Poirot said calmly: “You know perfectly. I am not so foolish as to argue with an infatuated man. I utter only the word of caution.”

“You’ve been listening to these damned scandalmongers. Mrs Gardener, the Brewster woman – nothing to do but to clack their tongues all day. Just because a woman’s good-looking they’re down on her like a sack of coals.”

Hercule Poirot got up.

He murmured: “Are you really as young as all that?”

Shaking his head, he left the bar. Patrick Redfern stared angrily after him.

Hercule Poirot paused in the hall on his way from the dining-room. The doors were open a breath of soft night air came in. The rain had stopped and the mist had dispersed. It was a fine night again. Hercule Poirot found Mrs Redfern in her favourite seat on the cliff ledge. He stopped by her and said:

“This seat is damp. You should not sit here. You will catch the chill.”

“No, I shan’t. And what does it matter anyway.”

“Tscha, tscha, you are not a child! You are an educated woman. You must look at things sensibly.”

She said coldly: “I can assure you I never take cold.”

Poirot said: “It has been a wet day. The wind blew, the rain came down, and the mist was everywhere so that one could not see through it. Eh bien, what is it like now? The mists have rolled away, the sky is clear and up above the stars shine. That is like life, Madame.”