Зло под солнцем / Evil Under the Sun Кристи Агата

“You missed her?”

Kenneth Marshall shifted a little in his chair. He said:

“Looked in on her again after breakfast. Room was empty. I was a bit surprised.”

“And then you came down on the beach and asked me if I had seen her?”

“Er – yes.” He added with a faint em in his voice: “And you said you hadn’t…”

The innocent eyes of Hercule Poirot did not falter. Gently, he caressed his large and flamboyant moustache.

Weston said: “Had you any special reason for wanting to find your wife this morning?”

Marshall shifted his glance amiably to the Chief Constable. He said:

“No, just wondered where she was, that’s all.”

Weston paused. He moved his chair slightly. His voice fell into a different key. He said:

“Just now, Captain Marshall, you mentioned that your wife had a previous acquaintance with Mr Patrick Redfern. How well did your wife know Mr Redfern?”

Kenneth Marshall said:

“Mind if I smoke?” He felt through his pockets. “Dash! I’ve mislaid my pipe somewhere.”

Poirot offered him a cigarette which he accepted. Lighting it, he said:

“You were asking about Redfern. My wife told me she had come across him at some cocktail party or other.”

“He was, then, just a casual acquaintance?”

“I believe so.”

“Since then – ” the Chief Constable paused. “I understand that that acquaintanceship has ripened into something rather closer.”

Marshall said sharply: “You understand that, do you? Who told you so?”

“It is the common gossip of the hotel.”

For a moment Marshall’s eyes went to Hercule Poirot. They dwelt on him with a kind of cold anger.

He said: “Hotel gossip is usually a tissue of lies!”

“Possibly. But I gather that Mr Redfern and your wife gave some grounds for the gossip.”

“What grounds?”

“They were constantly in each other’s company.”

“Is that all?”

“You do not deny that that was so?”

“May have been. I really didn’t notice.”

“You did not – excuse me, Captain Marshall – object to your wife’s friendship with Mr Redfern?”

“I wasn’t in the habit of criticizing my wife’s conduct.”

“You did not protest or object in any way?”

“Certainly not.”

“Not even though it was becoming a subject of scandal and an estrangement was growing up between Mr Redfern and his wife?”

Kenneth Marshall said coldly: “I mind my own business and I expect other people to mind theirs. I don’t listen to gossip and tittle tattle.”

“You won’t deny that Mr Redfern admired your wife?”

“He probably did. Most men did. She was a very beautiful woman.”

“But you yourself were persuaded that there was nothing serious in the affair?”

“I never thought about it, I tell you.”

“And suppose we have a witness who can testify that they were on terms of the greatest intimacy?”

Again those blue eyes went to Hercule Poirot. Again an expression of dislike showed on that usually impassive face. Marshall said:

“If you want to listen to tales, listen to ‘em. My wife’s dead and can’t defend herself.”

“You mean that you, personally, don’t believe them?”

For the first time a faint dew of sweat was observable on Marshall’s brow. He said:

“I don’t propose to believe anything of the kind.” He went on: “Aren’t you getting a good way from the essentials of this business? What I believe or don’t believe is surely not relevant to the plain fact of murder?”

Hercule Poirot answered before either of the others could speak. He said:

“You do not comprehend, Captain Marshall. There is no such thing as a plain fact of murder. Murder springs, nine times out of ten, out of the character and circumstances of the murdered person. Because the victim was the kind of person he or she was, therefore was he or she murdered! Until we can understand fully and completely exactly what kind of person Arlena Marshall was, we shall not be able to see clearly exactly the kind of person who murdered her. From that springs the necessity of our questions.”

Marshall turned to the Chief Constable. He said:

“That your view, too?”

Weston boggled a little. He said: “Well, up to a point – that is to say – ”

Marshall gave a short laugh. He said:

“Thought you wouldn’t agree. This character stuff is M. Poirot’s specialty, I believe.”

Poirot said, smiling: “You can at least congratulate yourself on having done nothing to assist me!”

“What do you mean?”

“What have you told us about your wife? Exactly nothing at all. You have told us only what everyone could see for themselves. That she was beautiful and admired. Nothing more.”

Kenneth Marshall shrugged his shoulders. He said simply:

“You’re crazy.” He looked towards the Chief Constable and said with em: “Anything else, sir, that you’d like me to tell you?”

“Yes, Captain Marshall, your own movements this morning, please.”

Kenneth Marshall nodded. He had clearly expected this. He said:

“I breakfasted downstairs about nine o’clock as usual and read the paper. As I told you I went up to my wife’s room afterwards and found she had gone out. I came down to the beach, saw M. Poirot and asked if he had seen her. Then I had a quick bathe and went up to the hotel again. It was then, let me see, about twenty to to eleven – yes, just about that. I saw the clock in the lounge. It was just after twenty minutes to. I went up to my room, but the chambermaid hadn’t quite finished it. I asked her to finish as quickly as she could. I had some letters to type which I wanted to get off by the post. I went downstairs again and had a word or two with Henry in the bar. I went up again to my room at ten minutes to eleven. There I typed my letters. I typed until ten minutes to twelve. I then changed into tennis kit as I had a date to play tennis at twelve. We’d booked the court the day before.”

“Who was we?”

“Mrs Redfern, Miss Darnley, Mr Gardener and myself. I came down at twelve o’clock and went up to the court. Miss Darnley was there and Mr Gardener. Mrs Redfern arrived a few minutes later. We played tennis for an hour. Just as we came into the hotel afterwards I – I – got the news.”

“Thank you. Captain Marshall. Just as a matter of form, is there any one who can corroborate the fact that you were typing in your room between – er – ten minutes to eleven and ten minutes to twelve?”

Kenneth Marshall said with a faint smile: “Have you got some idea that I killed my own wife? Let me see now. The chambermaid was about doing the rooms. She must have heard the typewriter going. And then there are the letters themselves. With all this upset I haven’t posted them. I should imagine they are as good evidence as anything.”

He took three letters from his pocket. They were addressed, but not stamped. He said:

“Their contents, by the way, are strictly confidential. But when it’s a case of murder, one is forced to trust in the discretion of the police. They contain lists of figures and various financial statements. I think you will find that if you put one of your men on to type them out, he won’t do it in much under an hour.” He paused. “Satisfied, I hope?”

Weston said smoothly: “It is no question of suspicion. Everyone on the island will be asked to account for his or her movements between a quarter to eleven and twenty minutes to twelve this morning.”

Kenneth Marshall said: “Quite.”

Weston said: “One more thing, Captain Marshall. Do you know anything about the way your wife was likely to have disposed of any property she had?”

“You mean a will? I don’t think she ever made a will.”

“Her solicitors are Barkett, Markett & Applegood, Bedford Square. They saw to all her contracts, etc. But I’m fairly certain she never made a will. She said once that doing a thing like that would give her the shivers.”

“In that case, if she has died intestate, you, as her husband, succeed to her property.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Had she any near relatives?”

“I don’t think so. If she had, she never mentioned them. I know that her father and mother died when she was a child and she had no brothers or sisters.”

“In any case, I suppose, she had nothing very much to leave?”

Kenneth Marshall said coolly: “On the contrary. Only two years ago, Sir Robert Erskine, who was an old friend of hers, died and left her a good deal of his fortune. It amounted, I think, to about fifty thousand pounds.”

Inspector Colgate looked up. An alertness came into his glance. Up to now he had been silent. Now he asked:

“Then actually. Captain Marshall, your wife was a rich woman?”

Kenneth Marshall shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose she was really.”

“And you still say she did not make a will?”

“You can ask the solicitors. But I’m pretty certain she didn’t. As I tell you, she thought it unlucky.”

There was a pause, then Marshall added:

“Is there anything further?”

Weston shook his head.

“Don’t think so – eh, Colgate? No. Once more, Captain Marshall, let me offer you all my sympathy in your loss.”

Marshall blinked. He said jerkily:

“Oh – thanks.” He went out.

The three men looked at each other. Weston said:

“Cool customer. Not giving anything away, is he? What do you make of him, Colgate?”

The Inspector shook his head.

“It’s difficult to tell. He’s not the kind that shows anything. That sort makes a bad impression in the witness box, and yet it’s a bit unfair on them really. Sometimes they’re as cut up as anything and yet can’t show it. That kind of manner made the jury bring in a verdict of Guilty against Wallace. It wasn’t the evidence. They just couldn’t believe that a man could lose his wife and talk and act so coolly about it.”

Weston turned to Poirot.

“What do you think, Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot raised his hands. He said:

“What can one say? He is the closed box – the fastened oyster. He has chosen his role. He has heard nothing, he has seen nothing, he knows nothing!”

“We’ve got a choice of motives,” said Colgate. “There’s jealousy and there’s the money motive. Of course, in a way, a husband’s the obvious suspect. One naturally thinks of him first. If he knew his missus was carrying on with the other chap – ”

Poirot interrupted. He said:

“I think he knew that.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Listen, my friend. Last night I had been talking with Mrs Redfern on Sunny Ledge. I came down from there to the hotel and on my way I saw those two together – Mrs Marshall and Patrick Redfern. And a moment or two after I met Captain Marshall. His face was very stiff. It says nothing – but nothing at all! It is almost too blank, if you understand me. Oh! He knew all right.”

Colgate grunted doubtfully. He said:

“Oh, well, if you think so – ”

“I am sure of it! But even then, what does that tell us? What did Kenneth Marshall feel about his wife?”

Colonel Weston said: “Takes her death coolly enough.”

Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner. Inspector Colgate said:

“Sometimes these quiet ones are the most violent underneath, so to speak. It’s all bottled up. He may have been madly fond of her – and madly jealous. But he’s not the kind to show it.”

Poirot said slowly: “That is possible – yes. He is a very interesting character, this Captain Marshall. I interest myself in him greatly. And in his alibi.”

“Alibi by typewriter,” said Weston with a short bark of a laugh. “What have you got to say about that, Colgate?”

Inspector Colgate screwed up his eyes. He said:

“Well, you know, sir, I rather fancy that alibi. It’s not too good, if you know what I mean. It’s – well, it’s natural. And if we find the chambermaid was about, and did hear the typewriter going, well then, it seems to me that it’s all right and that we’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“H’m,” said Colonel Weston. “Where are you going to look?”

For a minute or two the three men pondered the question. Inspector Colgate spoke first. He said:

“It boils down to this – was it an outsider, or a guest at the hotel? I’m not eliminating the servants entirely, mind, but I don’t expect for a minute that we’ll find any of them had a hand in it. No, it’s a hotel guest, or it’s someone from right outside. We’ve got to look at it this way. First of all – motive. There’s gain. The only person to gain by her death was the lady’s husband it seems. What other motives are there? First and foremost – jealousy. It seems to me – just looking at it – that if ever you’ve got a crime passionnel (he bowed to Poirot) this is one.”

Poirot murmured as he looked up at the ceiling: “There are so many passions.”

Inspector Colgate went on: “Her husband wouldn’t allow that she had any enemies – real enemies, that is, but I don’t believe for a minute that that’s so! I should say that a lady like her would – well, would make some pretty bad enemies – eh, sir, what do you say?”

Poirot responded. He said: “Mais oui, that is so. Arlena Marshall would make enemies. But in my opinion, the enemy theory is not tenable, for you see. Inspector, Arlena Marshall’s enemies would, I think, as I said just now, always be women.”

Colonel Weston grunted and said: “Something in that. It’s the women who’ve got their knife into her here all right.”

Poirot went on: “It seems to be hardly possible that the crime was committed by a woman. What does the medical evidence say?”

Weston grunted again. He said: “Neasdon’s pretty confident that she was strangled by a man. Big hands – powerful grip. It’s just possible, of course, that an unusually athletic woman might have done it – but it’s damned unlikely.”

Poirot nodded.

“Exactly. Arsenic in a cup of tea – a box of poisoned chocolates – a knife – even a pistol – but strangulation – no! It is a man we have to look for. And immediately,” he went on, “it becomes more difficult. There are two people here in this hotel who have a motive for wishing Arlena Marshall out of the way – but both of them are women.”

Colonel Weston asked: “Redfern’s wife is one of them, I suppose?”

“Yes. Mrs Redfern might have made up her mind to kill Arlena Stuart. She had, let us say, ample cause. I think, too, that it would be possible for Mrs Redfern to commit a murder. But not this kind of murder. For all her unhappiness and jealousy, she is not, I should say, a woman of strong passions. In love, she would be devoted and loyal – not passionate. As I said just now – arsenic in the teacup – possibly – strangulation, no. I am sure, also, that she is physically incapable of committing this crime and her hands and feet are small below the average.”

Weston nodded.

He said: “This isn’t a woman’s crime. No, a man did this.”

Inspector Colgate coughed.

“Let me put forward a solution, sir. Say that prior to meeting this Mr Redfern the lady had had another affair with some one – call him X. She turns down X for Mr Redfern. X is mad with rage and jealousy. He follows her down here, stays somewhere in the neighborhood, comes over to the island and does her in. It’s a possibility!”

Weston said: “It’s possible, all right. And if it’s true, it ought to be easy to prove. Did he come on foot or in a boat? The latter seems more likely. If so, he must have hired a boat somewhere. You’d better make inquiries.” He looked across at Poirot. “What do you think of Colgate’s suggestion?”

Poirot said slowly: “It leaves, somehow, too much to chance. And besides – somewhere the picture is not true. I cannot, you see, imagine this man… the man who is mad with rage and jealousy.”

Colgate said: “People did go potty about her, though, sir. Look at Redfern.”

“Yes, yes… But all the same – ”

Colgate looked at him questioningly. Poirot shook his head.

He said frowning: “Somewhere, there is something we have missed…”