阳光下的罪恶11

II

Mr. Horace Blatt, returning to Leathercombe Bay down a narrow twisting lane, nearly ran downMrs. Redfern at a corner.

As she flattened¹ herself into the hedge, Mr. Blatt brought his Sunbeam to a halt by applying thebrakes vigorously.

“Hullo-ullo-ullo,” said Mr. Blatt cheerfully.

He was a large man with a red face and a fringe of reddish hair round a shining bald spot.

It was Mr. Blatt’s apparent ambition to be the life and soul of any place he happened to be in.

The Jolly Roger Hotel, in his opinion, given somewhat loudly, needed brightening up. He waspuzzled at the way people seemed to melt and disappear when he himself arrived on the scene.

“Nearly made you into strawberry jam, didn’t I?” said Mr. Blatt gaily².

Christine Redfern said:

“Yes, you did.”

“Jump in,” said Mr. Blatt.

“Oh, thanks—I think I’ll walk.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Blatt. “What’s a car for?”

Yielding to necessity Christine Redfern got in.

Mr. Blatt restarted the engine which had stopped owing to the suddenness with which he hadpreviously pulled up.

Mr. Blatt inquired:

“And what are you doing walking about all alone? That’s all wrong, a nice looking girl likeyou.”

Christine said hurriedly:

“Oh! I like being alone.”

Mr. Blatt gave her a terrific dig with his elbow, nearly sending the car into the hedge at the sametime.

“Girls always say that,” he said. “They don’t mean it. You know, that place, the Jolly Roger,wants a bit of livening up. Nothing jolly about it. No life in it. Of course there’s a good amount ofduds staying there. A lot of kids, to begin with and a lot of old fogeys too. There’s that old Anglo-Indian bore and that athletic³ parson and those yapping Americans and that foreigner with themoustache—makes me laugh that moustache of his! I should say he’s a hairdresser, something ofthat sort.”

Christine shook her head.

“Oh no, he’s a detective.”

Mr. Blatt nearly let the car go into the hedge again.

“A detective? D’you mean he’s in disguise?”

Christine smiled faintly.

She said:

“Oh no, he really is like that. He’s Hercule Poirot. You must have heard of him.”

Mr. Blatt said:

“Didn’t catch his name properly. Oh yes, I’ve heard of him. But I thought he was dead. Dash it,he ought to be dead. What’s he after down here?”

“He’s not after anything—he’s just on a holiday.”

“Well, I suppose that might be so,” Mr. Blatt seemed doubtful about it. “Looks a bit of abounder, doesn’t he?”

“Well,” said Christine and hesitated. “Perhaps a little peculiar⁴.”

“What I say is,” said Mr. Blatt, “what’s wrong with Scotland Yard? Buy British every time forme.”

He reached the bottom of the hill and with a triumphant⁵ fanfare⁶ of the horn ran the car into theJolly Roger’s garage which was situated⁷, for tidal reasons, on the mainland opposite the hotel.

 

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