Агата Кристи - Зло под солнцем / Evil Under the Sun

– Скамья мокрая. Напрасно вы здесь сидите. Вы можете простудиться.

– Нет, я не простужусь. К тому же это не имеет значения.

– Та-та-та, вы не ребенок! Вы образованная женщина. Вы должны смотреть на все разумно.

– Уверяю вас, у меня никогда не бывает простуды, – холодно сказала Кристина.

– Весь день сегодня было сыро, – настаивал Пуаро. – Дул ветер, шел дождь. Туман был такой густой, что ничего нельзя было разглядеть. Eh bien, что мы видим сейчас? Туман рассеялся, небо ясное, над головой сияют звезды. Так устроена жизнь, мадам.

– Знаете, от чего меня здесь просто тошнит? – со злостью прошептала Кристина.

– От чего, мадам?

– От жалости!

Это слово прозвучало словно щелчок бича.

– Думаете, я ничего не знаю? – продолжала женщина. – Думаете, я ничего не вижу? Все вокруг говорят: «Бедная миссис Редферн, маленькая бедняжка!» Во всяком случае, я не маленькая – у меня достаточно большой рост. Про меня говорят «маленькая», потому что жалеют. Мне невыносимо это слышать!

Пуаро тщательно расстелил на скамье носовой платок и осторожно сел.

– В этом что-то есть, – задумчиво произнес он.

– Эта женщина… – начала было Кристина и умолкла.

– Вы позволите кое-что вам сказать, мадам? – мрачно произнес детектив. – Это такая же истина, как и звезды над нами. В этом мире арлены стюарт – или арлены маршалл – ничего не стоят.

– Вздор! – пробормотала миссис Редферн.

– Уверяю вас, это правда. Их притязания тщетны. По-настоящему женщина чего-нибудь стоит только тогда, когда она добродетельна или умна.

– Вы полагаете, мужчинам есть какое-либо дело до добродетели или мозгов? – презрительно бросила Кристина.

– В конечном счете да, – серьезно ответил Пуаро.

Она усмехнулась.

– Я с вами не согласна.

– Ваш муж вас любит, мадам, – сказал Пуаро. – Я это знаю.

– Вы не можете это знать.

– Да, да, я это знаю. Я видел, как он на вас смотрит.

Внезапно миссис Редферн не выдержала. Упав Пуаро на плечо, она залилась горькими слезами.

– Я больше не могу… я больше не могу…

Потрепав ее по руке, бельгиец ласково сказал:

– Терпение, только терпение.

Выпрямившись, Кристина прижала к глазам платок.

– Все в порядке, – сдавленно промолвила она. – Мне уже лучше. Я… мне бы хотелось побыть одной.

Послушно встав, Пуаро направился по извилистой тропинке назад в пансионат. Он уже почти вернулся обратно, когда услышал приглушенные голоса. Детектив свернул с тропинки. В кустах был проход. Он увидел Арлену Маршалл, а рядом с нею – Патрика Редферна; услышал его голос, дрожащий от полноты чувств.

– Я от тебя без ума… без ума… ты лишила меня рассудка… Я тебе не безразличен? Ты меня хоть немного любишь?

Пуаро увидел лицо Арлены Маршалл – она показалась ему холеной довольной кошкой, в ней не было ничего человеческого.

– Ну конечно, милый Патрик! – сказала она. – Я тебя обожаю. Ты это знаешь…

В кои-то веки Пуаро не стал подслушивать дальше. Вернувшись на тропинку, он спустился к пансионату.

Ему навстречу шагнула фигура. Это был капитан Маршалл.

– Чудесный вечер, вы не находите? – сказал он. – И это после столь отвратительного дня… – Кеннет посмотрел на небо. – Похоже, завтра нас ждет погожий день.

The morning of the 25th of August dawned bright and cloudless. It was a morning to tempt even an inveterate sluggard to rise early. Several people rose early that morning at the Jolly Roger.

It was eight o’clock when Linda, sitting at her dressing-table, turned a little thick calf-bound volume face downwards, sprawling it open, and looked at her own face in the mirror. Her lips were set tight together and the pupils of her eyes contracted. She said below her breath:

“I’ll do it…”

She slipped out of her pyjamas and into her bathing dress. Over it she flung on a bath-robe and laced espadrilles on her feet. She went out of her room and along the passage. At the end of it a door on to the balcony led to an outside staircase leading directly down to the rocks below the hotel. There was a small iron ladder clamped onto the rocks leading down into the water which was used by many of the hotel guests for a before breakfast dip as taking up less time than going down to the main bathing beach. As Linda started down from the balcony she met her father coming up. He said:

“You’re up early. Going to have a dip?”

Linda nodded. They passed each other. Instead of going on down the rocks, however, Linda skirted round the hotel to the left until she came to the path down to the causeway connecting the hotel with the mainland. The tide was high and the causeway under water, but the boat that took hotel guests across was tied to a little jetty. The man in charge of it was absent at the moment. Linda got in, untied it and rowed herself across. She tied up the boat on the other side, walked up the slope past the hotel garage and along until she reached the general shop. The woman had just taken down the shutters and was engaged in sweeping the floor. She looked amazed at the sight of Linda.

“Well, Miss, you are up early.”

Linda put her hand in the pocket of her bath-wrap and brought out some money. She proceeded to make her purchases.

Christine Redfern was standing in Linda’s room when the girl returned. “Oh, there you are,” Christine exclaimed.

“I thought you couldn’t be really up yet.”

Linda said: “No, I’ve been bathing.”

Noticing the parcel in her hand, Christine said with surprise:

“The post has come early today.”

Linda flushed. With her habitual nervous clumsiness the parcel slipped from her hand. The flimsy string broke and some of the contents rolled over the floor.

Christine exclaimed: “What have you been buying candles for?”

But to Linda’s relief she did not wait for an answer, but went on, as she helped to pick the things up from the floor:

“I came in to ask whether you would like to come with me to Gull Cove this morning. I want to sketch there.”

Linda accepted with alacrity. In the last few days she had accompanied Christine Redfern more than once on sketching expeditions. Christine was a most indifferent artist but it was possible that she found the excuse of painting a help to her pride since her husband now spent most of his time with Arlena Marshall.

Linda Marshall had been increasingly morose and bad-tempered. She liked being with Christine who, intent on her work, spoke very little. It was, Linda felt, nearly as good as being by oneself, and in a curious way she craved for company of some kind. There was a subtle kind of sympathy between her and the elder woman, probably based on the fact of their mutual dislike of the same person.

Christine said: “I’m playing tennis at twelve, so we’d better start fairly early. Half past ten?”

“Right. I’ll be ready. Meet you in the hall.”

Rosamund Darnley, strolling out of the dining-room after a very late breakfast, was cannoned into by Linda as the latter came tearing down the stairs.

“Oh! Sorry, Miss Darnley.”

Rosamund said: “Lovely morning, isn’t it? One can hardly believe it after yesterday.”

“I know. I’m going with Mrs Redfern to Gull Cove. I said I’d meet her at half past ten. I thought I was late.”

“No, it’s only twenty-five past.”

“Oh! good.”

She was panting a little and Rosamund looked at her curiously.

“You’re not feverish, are you, Linda?”

The girl’s eyes were very bright and she had a vivid patch of colour in each cheek.

“Oh! no. I’m never feverish.”

Rosamund smiled and said: “It’s such a lovely day I got up for breakfast. Usually I have it in bed. But today I came down and faced eggs and bacon like a man.”

“I know – it’s heavenly after yesterday. Gull Cove is nice in the morning. I shall put a lot of oil on and get really brown.”

Rosamund said: “Yes, Gull Cove is nice in the morning. And it’s more peaceful than the beach here.”

Linda said, rather shyly: “Come too.”

Rosamund shook her head.

She said: “Not this morning. I’ve other fish to fry.”

Christine Redfern came down the stairs. She was wearing beach pyjamas of a loose floppy pattern with long sleeves and wide legs. They were made of some green material with a yellow design. Rosamund’s tongue itched to tell her that yellow and green were the most unbecoming colours possible for her fair, slightly anaemic complexion. It always annoyed Rosamund when people had no clothes sense.

She thought: “If I dressed that girl, I’d soon make her husband sit up and take notice. However much of a fool Arlena is, she does know how to dress. This wretched girl looks just like a wilting lettuce.”

Aloud she said: “Have a nice time. I’m going to Sunny Ledge with a book.”

Hercule Poirot breakfasted in his room as usual of coffee and rolls. The beauty of the morning, however, tempted him to leave the hotel earlier than usual. It was ten o’clock, at least half an hour before his usual appearance, when he descended to the bathing beach. The beach itself was empty save for one person.

That person was Arlena Marshall. Clad in her white bathing-dress, the green Chinese hat on her head, she was trying to launch a white wooden float. Poirot came gallantly to the rescue, completely immersing a pair of white suède shoes in doing so. She thanked him with one of those sideways glances of hers. Just as she was pushing off, she called him.