阳光下的罪恶13

IV

Mr. Blatt said:

“So you’re the famous sleuth, eh?”

They were in the cocktail¹ bar, a favourite haunt of Mr. Blatt’s.

Hercule Poirot acknowledged the remark with his usual lack of modesty².

Mr. Blatt went on.

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

“No, no. I repose³ myself. I take the holiday.”

Mr. Blatt winked⁴.

“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 knownhow 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 hereholiday-making and nothing else.”

Poirot asked:

“And why should you suppose the contrary?”

Mr. Blatt closed 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 Deauvilleor 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. Hesaid:

“It is possible that you are right! There, at least, in wet weather there are the distractions⁵.”

“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 dowhat I please. My money’s as good as any man’s. I’ve seen a bit of life in the last few years, I cantell 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 eloquent⁶ hand.

“I, too, am not without observation. I should have expected you most certainly to chooseDeauville or Biarritz.”

“Instead of which, we’re both here, eh?”

Mr. Blatt gave a hoarse⁷ chuckle⁸.

“Don’t really know why I came here,” he mused⁹. “I think, you know, it sounded romantic. JollyRoger Hotel, Smugglers’ Island. That kind of address tickles¹⁰ you up, you know. Makes you thinkof when you were a boy. Pirates, smuggling¹¹, 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 ataste for that sort of thing never quite leaves you. I could have a tip-top yacht if I liked, butsomehow I don’t really fancy it. I like mucking about in that little yawl of mine. Redfern’s keen onsailing, too. He’s been out with me once or twice. Can’t get hold of him now—always hanginground 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! Ishould think Marshall’s got his hands full looking after her. All sorts of stories about her in herstage days—and after! Men go crazy about her. You’ll see, there’ll be a spot of trouble one ofthese days.”

Poirot asked: “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 amatter of fact, I know he is. Heard something about him. I’ve met that quiet sort. Never knowwhere 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 andself-consciously.

“And, as I say, sailing round this coast is good fun. Hullo, Redfern, have one with me? What’llyou have? Dry Martini? Right. What about you, M. 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 mytime 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’scottages 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 allsorts of stories of secret passages from the house to Pixy’s Cave. We were always looking for thatsecret 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 Cove¹². You can’t find the entrance to it easily. It’s among alot of piled up boulders¹³ at one end. Just a long thin crack. You can just squeeze through it. Inside itwidens out into quite a big cave. You can imagine what fun it was to a boy! An old fishermanshowed it to me. Nowadays, even the fishermen don’t know about it. I asked one the other daywhy 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 the pixy’s cave at Sheepstor on the Moor¹⁴. You’resupposed 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 lore¹⁵ on Dartmoor still. There are tors that are said to pixy-ridden, and Iexpect 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 commonsense¹⁶ 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 meditatively¹⁷:

“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! Nothingbut thrillers¹⁸ or Wild West stories.”

Poirot said:

“You mean that he has still the mentality¹⁹ of a boy?”

“Well, don’t you think so, sir?”

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

“I haven’t either. I’ve been out sailing with him once or twice—but he doesn’t really likehaving anyone 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 across between Margate and Le Touquet.”

Poirot said nothing for a minute or two. He was studying the laughing face of his companionvery attentively²⁰. He said suddenly and unexpectedly:

“I think, M. 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, ifyou would know tranquillity²¹, avoid women.’”

Patrick Redfern said:

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

“I do know. Your wife is a very charming, a very accomplished²² woman. She is, I think, veryfond 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 arecapable of complicating²³ life unbearably²⁴. 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 bringyour wife?”

Patrick Redfern said angrily:

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Hercule Poirot said calmly:

“You know perfectly²⁵. I am not so foolish as to argue with an infatuated man. I utter only theword 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’redown 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.

 

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