阳光下的罪恶27

Six

Colonel Weston was poring over the hotel register.

He read aloud:

“Major and Mrs. Cowan,

Miss Pamela Cowan,

Master Robert Cowan,

Master Evan Cowan,

Rydal’s Mount, Leatherhead.

Mr. and Mrs. Masterman,

Mr. Edward Masterman,

Miss Jennifer Masterman,

Mr. Roy Masterman,

Master Frederick Masterman,

5 Marlborough Avenue, London, N.W.

Mr. and Mrs. Gardener,

New York.

Mr. and Mrs. Redfern,

Crossgates, Seldon, Princes Risborough.

Major Barry,

18 Cardon St., St. James, London, S.W.1.

Mr. Horace Blatt,

5 Pickersgill Street, London, E.C.2.

M. Hercule Poirot,

Whitehaven Mansions, London, W.1.

Miss Rosamund Darnley,

8 Cardigan Court, W.1.

Miss Emily Brewster,

Southgates, Sunbury-on-Thames.

Rev. Stephen Lane,

London.

Captain and Mrs. Marshall,

Miss Linda Marshall,

73 Upcott Mansions, London, S.W.7.”

He stopped.

Inspector Colgate said:

“I think, sir, that we can wash out the first two entries. Mrs. Castle tells me that the Mastermansand the Cowans come here regularly every summer with their children. This morning they wentoff on an all-day excursion sailing, taking lunch with them. They left just after nine o’clock. Aman called Andrew Baston took them. We can check up from him, but I think we can put themright out of it.”

Weston nodded.

“I agree. Let’s eliminate everyone we can. Can you give us a pointer on any of the rest of them,Poirot?”

Poirot said:

“Superficially, that is easy. The Gardeners are a middle- aged married couple, pleasant,travelled. All the talking is done by the lady. The husband is acquiescent. He plays tennis and golfand has a form of dry humour that is attractive when one gets him to oneself.”

“Sounds quite O.K.”

“Next—the Redferns. Mr. Redfern is young, attractive to women, a magnificent swimmer, agood tennis player and accomplished dancer. His wife I have already spoken of to you. She isquiet, pretty in a washed-out way. She is, I think, devoted to her husband. She has something thatArlena Marshall did not have.”

“What is that?”

“Brains.”

Inspector Colgate sighed. He said:

“Brains don’t count for much when it comes to an infatuation, sir.”

“Perhaps not. And yet I do truly believe that in spite of his infatuation for Mrs. Marshall, PatrickRedfern really cares for his wife.”

“That may be, sir. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”

Poirot murmured.

“That is the pity of it! It is always the thing women find hardest to believe.”

He went on:

“Major Barry. Retired Indian Army. An admirer of women. A teller of long and boring stories.”

Inspector Colgate sighed.

“You needn’t go on. I’ve met a few, sir.”

“Mr. Horace Blatt. He is, apparently, a rich man. He talks a good deal—about Mr. Blatt. Hewants to be everybody’s friend. It is sad. For nobody likes him very much. And there is somethingelse. Mr. Blatt last night asked me a good many questions. Mr. Blatt was uneasy. Yes, there issomething not quite right about Mr. Blatt.”

He paused and went on with a change of voice:

“Next comes Miss Rosamund Darnley. Her business name is Rose Mond Ltd. She is acelebrated dressmaker. What can I say of her? She has brains and charm and chic. She is verypleasing to look at.” He paused and added. “And she is a very old friend of Captain Marshall’s.”

Weston sat up in his chair.

“Oh, she is, is she?”

“Yes. They had not met for some years.”

Weston asked:

“Did she know he was going to be down here?”

“She says not.”

Poirot paused and then went on.

“Who comes next? Miss Brewster. I find her just a little alarming.” He shook his head. “She hasa voice like a man’s. She is gruff and what you call hearty. She rows boats and has a handicap offour at golf.” He paused. “I think, though, that she has a good heart.”

Weston said:

“That leaves only the Reverend Stephen Lane. Who’s the Reverend Stephen Lane?”

“I can only tell you one thing. He is a man who is in a condition of great nervous tension. Alsohe is, I think, a fanatic.”

Inspector Colgate said:

“Oh, that kind of person.”

Weston said:

“And that’s the lot!” He looked at Poirot. “You seem very lost in thought, my friend?”

Poirot said:

“Yes. Because, you see, when Mrs. Marshall went off this morning and asked me not to tellanyone I had seen her, I jumped at once in my own mind to a certain conclusion. I thought that herfriendship with Patrick Redfern had made trouble between her and her husband. I thought that shewas going to meet Patrick Redfern somewhere, and that she did not want her husband to knowwhere she was.”

He paused.

“But that, you see, was where I was wrong. Because, although her husband appeared almostimmediately on the beach and asked if I had seen her, Patrick Redfern arrived also—and was mostpatently and obviously looking for her! And therefore, my friends, I am asking myself, who was itthat Arlena Marshall went off to meet?”

Inspector Colgate said:

“That fits in with my idea. A man from London or somewhere.”

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

“But, my friend, according to your theory, Arlena Marshall had broken with this mythical man.

Why, then, should she take such trouble and pains to meet him?”

Inspector Colgate shook his head. He said:

“Who do you think it was?”

“That is just what I cannot imagine. We have just read through the list of hotel guests. They areall middle-aged—dull. Which of them would Arlena Marshall prefer to Patrick Redfern? No, thatis impossible. And yet, all the same, she did go to meet someone—and that someone was notPatrick Redfern.”

Weston murmured:

“You don’t think she just went off by herself?”

Poirot shook his head.

“Mon cher,” he said. “It is very evident that you never met the dead woman. Somebody oncewrote a learned treatise on the difference that solitary confinement would mean to Beau Brummelor to a man like Newton. Arlena Marshall, my dear friend, would practically not exist in solitude.

She only lived in the light of a man’s admiration. No, Arlena Marshall went to meet someone thismorning. Who was it?”

 

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