Зло под солнцем / Evil Under the Sun Кристи Агата

Chapter 11

Inspector Colgate was reporting to the Chief Constable.

“I’ve got on to one thing, sir, and something pretty sensational. It’s about Mrs Marshall’s money. I’ve been into it with her lawyers. I’d say it’s a bit of a shock to them. I’ve got proof of the blackmail story. You remember she was left fifty thousand pounds by old Erskine? Well, all that’s left of that is about fifteen thousand.”

The Chief Constable whistled.

“Whew, what’s become of the rest?”

“That’s the interesting point, sir. She’s sold out stuff from time to time, and each time she’s handled it in cash or negotiable securities – that’s to say she’s handed out money to some one that she didn’t want traced. Blackmail all right.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“Certainly looks like it. And the blackmailer is here in this hotel. That means it must be one of those three men. Got anything fresh on any of them?”

“Can’t say I’ve got anything definite, sir. Major Barry’s a retired Army man, as he says. Lives in a small flat, has a pension and a small income from stocks. But he’s paid in pretty considerable sums into his accounts in the last year.”

“That sounds promising. What’s his explanation?”

“Says they’re betting gains. It’s perfectly true that he goes to all the large race meetings. Places his bets on the course too, doesn’t run an account.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“Hard to disprove that,” he said. “But it’s suggestive.”

Colgate went on: “Next, the Reverend Stephen Lane. He’s bona fide all right – had a living at St Helen’s, Whiteridge, Surrey – resigned his living just over a year ago owing to ill-health. His ill-health amounted to his going into a nursing home for mental patients. He was there for over a year.”

“Interesting,” said Weston.

“Yes, sir. I tried to get as much as I could out of the doctor in charge but you know what these medicos are – it’s difficult to pin them down to anything you can get hold of. But as far as I can make out, his Reverence’s trouble was an obsession about the Devil – especially the Devil in the guise of woman – scarlet woman – whore of Babylon.”

“H’m,” said Weston. “There have been precedents for murder there.”

“Yes, sir. It seems to me that Stephen Lane is at least a possibility. The late Mrs Marshall was a pretty good example of what a clergyman would call a Scarlet Woman – hair and goings-on and all. Seems to me it’s not impossible he may have felt it his appointed task to dispose of her. That is if he is really batty.”

“Nothing to fit in with the blackmail theory?”

“No, sir. I think we can wash him out as far as that’s concerned. Has some private means of his own, but not very much, and no sudden increase lately.”

“What about his story of his movements on the day of the crime?”

“Can’t get any confirmation of them. Nobody remembers meeting a parson in the lanes. As to the book at the church, the last entry was three days before and nobody looked at it for about a fortnight. He could have quite easily gone over the day before, say, or even a couple of days before, and dated his entry the 25th.”

Weston nodded. He said:

“And the third man?”

“Horace Blatt? It’s my opinion, sir, that there’s definitely something fishy there. Pays income tax on a sum far exceeding what he makes out of his hardware business. And mind you, he’s a slippery customer. He could probably cook up a reasonable statement – he gambles a bit on the Stock Exchange and he’s in with one or two shady deals. Oh, yes, there may be plausible explanations, but there’s no getting away from it that he’s been making pretty big sums from unexplained sources for some years now.”

“In fact,” said Weston, “the idea is that Mr Horace Blatt is a successful blackmailer by profession?”

“Either that, sir, or it’s dope. I saw Chief Inspector Ridgeway who’s in charge of the dope business, and he was no end keen. Seems there’s been a good bit of heroin coming in lately. They’re on to the small distributors and they know more or less who’s running it the other end, but it’s the way it’s coming into the country that’s baffled them so far.”

Weston said: “If the Marshall woman’s death is the result of her getting mixed up, innocently or otherwise, with the dope-running stunt, then we’d better hand the whole thing over to Scotland Yard. It’s their pigeon. Eh? What do you say?”

Inspector Colgate said rather regretfully: “I’m afraid you’re right, sir. If it’s dope, then it’s a case for the Yard.”

Weston said after a moment or two’s thought:

“It really seems the most likely explanation.”

Colgate nodded gloomily.

“Yes, it does. Marshall’s right out of it – though I did get some information that might have been useful if his alibi hadn’t been so good. Seems his firm is very near the rocks. Not his fault or his partner’s, just the general result of the crisis last year and the general state of trade and finance. And as far as he knew, he’d come into fifty thousand pounds if his wife died. And fifty thousand would have been a very useful sum.” He sighed. “Seems a pity when a man’s got two perfectly good motives for murder, that he can be proved to have nothing to do with it!”

Weston smiled. “Cheer up, Colgate. There’s still a chance we may distinguish ourselves. There’s the blackmail angle still and there’s the batty parson, but personally I think the dope solution is far the most likely.” He added: “And if it was one of the dope gang who put her out we’ll have been instrumental in helping Scotland Yard to solve the dope problem. In fact, take it all round, one way or another, we’ve done pretty well.”

An unwilling smile showed on Colgate’s face.

He said: “Well, that’s the lot, sir. By the way, I checked up on the writer of that letter we found in her room. The one signed J. N. Nothing doing. He’s in China safe enough. Same chap as Miss Brewster was telling us about. Bit of a young scallywag. I’ve checked up on the rest of Mrs Marshall’s friends. No leads there. Everything there is to get, we’ve got, sir.”

Weston said: “So now it’s up to us.” He paused and then added: “Seen anything of our Belgian colleague? Does he know all you’ve told me?”

Colgate said with a grin: “He’s a queer little cuss, isn’t he? D’you know what he asked me day before yesterday? He wanted particulars of any cases of strangulation in the last three years.”

Colonel Weston sat up.

“He did, did he? Now I wonder – ” he paused a minute. “When did you say the Reverend Stephen Lane went into that mental home?”

“A year ago last Easter, sir.”

Colonel Weston was thinking deeply.

He said: “There was a case – body of a young woman found somewhere near Bagshot. Going to meet her husband somewhere and never turned up. And there was what the papers called the Lonely Copse Mystery. Both in Surrey if I remember rightly.”

His eyes met those of his Inspector.

Colgate said: “Surrey? My word, sir, it fits, doesn’t it? I wonder…”

Hercule Poirot sat on the turf on the summit of the island. A little to his left was the beginning of the steel ladder that led down to Pixy’s Cove. There were several rough boulders near the head of the ladder, he noted, forming easy concealment for any one who proposed to descend to the beach below. Of the beach itself little could be seen from the top owing to the overhang of the cliff.

Hercule Poirot nodded his head gravely. The pieces of his mosaic were fitting into position. Mentally he went over those pieces considering each as a detached item. A morning on the bathing beach some few days before Arlena Marshall’s death. One, two, three, four, five, separate remarks uttered that morning.

The evening of a bridge game. He, Patrick Redfern and Rosamund Darnley had been at the table. Christine had wandered out while dummy and had overheard a certain conversation. Who else had been in the lounge at that time? Who had been absent?

The evening before the crime. The conversation he had had with Christine on the cliff and the scene he had witnessed on his way back to the hotel. Gabrielle No. 8.

A pair of scissors.

A broken pipe.

A bottle thrown from a window.

A green calendar.

A packet of candles.

A mirror and a typewriter.

A skein of magenta wool.

A girl’s wristwatch.

Bath-water rushing down the waste-pipe.

Each of these unrelated facts must fit into its appointed place. There must be no loose ends. And then, with each concrete fact fitted into position, on to the next step: his own belief in the presence of evil on the island… Evil… He looked down at a typewritten list in his hands.

NELLIE PARSONS – FOUND STRANGLED IN A LONELY COPSE NEAR CHOBHAM. NO CLUE TO HER MURDERER EVER DISCOVERED.

Nellie Parsons? ALICE CORRIGAN. He read very carefully the details of Alice Corrigan’s death.

To Hercule Poirot, sitting on the ledge overlooking the sea, came Inspector Colgate. Poirot liked Inspector Colgate. He liked his rugged face, his shrewd eyes, and his slow unhurried manner. Inspector Colgate sat down. He said, glancing down at the typewritten sheets in Poirot’s hand:

“Done anything with those cases, sir?”

“I have studied them – yes.”

Colgate got up, he walked along and peered into the next niche. He came back, saying:

“One can’t be too careful. Don’t want to be overheard.”

Poirot said: “You are wise.”

Colgate said: “I don’t mind telling you, M. Poirot, that I’ve been interested in those cases myself – though perhaps I shouldn’t have thought about them if you hadn’t asked for them.” He paused. “I’ve been interested in one case in particular.”

“Alice Corrigan?”

“Alice Corrigan.” He paused. “I’ve been on to the Surrey police about that case – wanted to get all the ins and outs of it.”

“Tell me, my friend. I am interested – very interested.”

“I thought you might be. Alice Corrigan was found strangled in Caesar’s Grove on Blackridge Heath – not ten miles from Marley Copse where Nellie Parsons was found – and both those places are within twelve miles of Whiteridge where Mr Lane was vicar.”

Poirot said: “Tell me more about the death of Alice Corrigan.”

Colgate said: “The Surrey police didn’t at first connect her death with that of Nellie Parsons. That’s because they’d pitched on the husband as the guilty party. Don’t quite know why except that he was a bit of what the press calls a ‘mystery man’ – not much known about him – who he was or where he came from. She’d married him against her people’s wishes, she’d a bit of money of her own – and she’d insured her life in his favour – all that was enough to raise suspicion, as I think you’ll agree, sir?”

Poirot nodded.

“But when it came down to brass tacks the husband was washed right out of the picture. The body was discovered by one of these woman hikers – hefty young woman in shorts. She was an absolutely competent and reliable witness – games mistress at a school in Lancashire. She noted the time when she found the body – it was exactly four fifteen – and gave it as her opinion that the woman had been dead quite a short time – not more than ten minutes. That fitted in well enough with the police surgeon’s view when he examined the body at 5.45. She left everything as it was and tramped across country to Bagshot police station where she reported the death. Now from three o’clock to four ten, Edward Corrigan was in the train coming down from London where he’d gone up for the day on business. Four other people were in the carriage with him. From the station he took the local bus, two of his fellow passengers travelling by it also. He got off at the Pine Ridge Caf where he’d arranged to meet his wife for tea. Time then was four twenty-five. He ordered tea for them both, but said not to bring it till she came. Then he walked about outside waiting for her. When, by five o’clock she hadn’t turned up, he was getting alarmed – thought she might have sprained her ankle. The arrangement was that she was to walk across the moors from the village where they were staying to the Pine Ridge Caf and go home by bus. Caesar’s Grove is not far from the caf and it’s thought that as she was ahead of time she sat down there to admire the view for a bit before going on, and that some tramp or madman came upon her there and caught her unawares. Once the husband was proved to be out of it, naturally they connected up her death with that of Nellie Parsons – that rather flighty servant girl who was found strangled in Marley Copse. They decided that the same man was responsible for both crimes but they never caught him – and what’s more they never came near catching him! Drew a blank everywhere.”

He paused and then he said slowly:

“And now – here’s a third woman strangled – and a certain gentleman we won’t name right on the spot.”

He stopped. His small shrewd eyes came round to Poirot. He waited hopefully. Poirot’s lips moved. Inspector Colgate leaned forward. Poirot was murmuring:

“– so difficult to know what pieces are part of the fur rug and which are the cat’s tail.”

“I beg pardon, sir?” said Inspector Colgate, startled.

Poirot said quickly: “I apologize. I was following a train of thought of my own.”

“What’s this about a fur rug and a cat?”

“Nothing – nothing at all.” He paused. “Tell me, Inspector Colgate, if you suspected some one of tellig lies – many, many lies, but you had no proof, what would you do?”

Inspector Colgate considered.

“It’s difficult, that is. But it’s my opinion that if any one tells enough lies, they’re bound to trip up in the end.”

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, that is very true. You see, it is only in my mind that certain statements are lies. I think that they are lies, but I cannot know they are lies. But one might perhaps make a test – a test of one little not very noticeable lie. And if that were proved to be a lie – why then, one would know that all the rest were lies, too!”

Inspector Colgate looked at him curiously.

“Your mind works a funny way, doesn’t it, sir? But I daresay it comes out all right in the end. If you’ll excuse my asking, what put you on to asking about strangulation cases in general?”

Poirot said slowly:

“You have a word in your language – slick. This crime seemed to me a very slick crime! It made me wonder, if, perhaps, it was not a first attempt.”

Inspector Colgate said: “I see.”

Poirot went on: “I said to myself, let us examine the past crimes of a similar kind and if there is a crime that closely resembles this one – eh bien, we shall have there a very valuable clue.”

“You mean using the same method of death, sir?”

“No, no, I mean more than that. The death of Nellie Parsons for instance tells me nothing. But the death of Alice Corrigan – tell me, Inspector Colgate, do you not notice one striking form of similarity to this crime?”

Inspector Colgate turned the problem over in his mind.

He said at last: “No, sir, I can’t say that I do really. Unless it’s that in each case the husband has got a iron-cast alibi.”

Poirot said softly: “Ah, so you have noticed that?”

“Ha, Poirot. Glad to see you. Come in. Just the man I want.”

Hercule Poirot responded to the invitation. The Chief Constable pushed over a box of cigarettes, took one himself, and lighted it. Between puffs he said:

“I’ve decided, more or less, on a course of action. But I’d like your opinion on it before I act decisively.”

Hercule Poirot said: “Tell me, my friend.”

Weston said: “I’ve decided to call in Scotland Yard and hand the case over to them. In my opinion, although there have been grounds for suspicion against one or two people, the whole case hinges on dope smuggling. It seems clear to me that that place, Pixy’s Cove, was a definite rendezvous for the stuff.”

Poirot nodded.

“I agree.”

“Good man. And I’m pretty certain who our dope smuggler is. Horace Blatt.”

Again Poirot assented.

He said: “That, too, is indicated.”

“I see our minds have both worked the same way. Blatt used to go sailing in that boat of his. Sometimes he’d invite people to go with him, but most of the time he went out alone. He had some rather conspicuous red sails on that boat but we’ve found that he had some white sails as well stowed away. I think he sailed out on a good day to an appointed spot, and was met by another boat – sailing boat or motor yacht – something of the kind, and the stuff was handed over. Then Blatt would run ashore into Pixy’s Cove at a suitable time of day – ”

Hercule Poirot smiled: “Yes, yes, at half past one. The hour of the British lunch when every one is quite sure to be in the dining-room. The island is private. It is not a place where outsiders come for picnics. People take their tea sometimes from the hotel to Pixy’s Cove in the afternoon when the sun is on it, or if they want a picnic they would go somewhere far afield, many miles away.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“Quite,” he said. “Therefore Blatt ran ashore there and stowed the stuff on that ledge in the cave. Somebody else was to pick it up there in due course.”

Poirot murmured: “There was a couple, you remember, who came to the island for lunch on the day of the murder? That would be a way of getting the stuff. Some summer visitors from a hotel on the Moor or at St Loo come over to Smuggler’s Island. They announce that they will have lunch. They walk round the island first. How easy to descend to the beach, pick up the sandwich box, place it, no doubt, in Madame’s bathing bag which she carries – and return for lunch to the hotel – a little late, perhaps, say at ten minutes to two, having enjoyed their walk whilst everyone else was in the dining room.”

Weston said: “Yes, it all sounds practicable enough. Now these dope organizations are pretty ruthless. If any one blundered in and got wise to things they wouldn’t make any bones about silencing that person. It seems to me that that is the right explanation of Arlena Marshall’s death. It’s possible that on that morning Blatt was actually at the cove stowing the stuff away. His accomplices were to come for it that very day. Arlena arrives on her float and sees him going into the cave with the box. She asks him about it and he kills her then and there and sheers off in his boat as quick as possible.”

Poirot said: “You think definitely that Blatt is the murderer?”

“It seems the most probable solution. Of course it’s possible that Arlena might have got on to the truth earlier, said something to Blatt about it and some other member of the gang fixed a fake appointment with her and did her in. As I say, I think the best course is to hand the case over to Scotland Yard. They’ve a far better chance than we have of proving Blatt’s connection with the gang.”

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

Weston said: “You think that’s the wise thing to do – eh?”

Poirot was thoughtful.

He said at last: “It may be.”

“Dash it all, Poirot, have you got something up your sleeve, or haven’t you?”

Poirot said gravely: “If I have, I am not sure that I can prove it.”

Weston said: “Of course, I know that you and Colgate have other ideas. Seems a bit fantastic to me but I’m bound to admit there may be something in it. But even if you’re right, I still think it’s a case for the Yard. We’ll give them the facts and they can work in with the Surrey police. What I feel is that it isn’t really a case for us. It’s not sufficiently localized.” He paused. “What do you think, Poirot? What do you feel ought to be done about it?”

Poirot seemed lost in thought. At last he said:

“I know what I should like to do.”

“Yes, man.”

Poirot murmured: “I should like to go for a picnic.”

Colonel Weston stared at him.

Глава 11

Инспектор Колгейт докладывал главному констеблю:

– Я кое-что раскопал, сэр, и это самая настоящая сенсация. Речь идет о деньгах миссис Маршалл. Я встретился с ее поверенными. Могу сказать, для них это явилось полной неожиданностью. У меня есть доказательства версии о шантаже. Помните, что старик Эрскин завещал ей пятьдесят тысяч фунтов? Так вот, сейчас от них осталось всего около пятнадцати.

Главный констебль присвистнул.

– Ого! А куда подевалось остальное?

– Это самое интересное, сэр. Время от времени миссис Маршалл продавала по частям свое наследство, и всякий раз выручку брала наличными или ценными бумагами на предъявителя. Это говорит о том, что она с кем-то расплачивалась и не хотела, чтобы это можно было проследить. Шантаж, тут не может быть никаких сомнений.