阳光下的罪恶28

II

Colonel Weston sighed, shook his head and said:

“Well, we can go into theories later. Got to get through these interviews now. Got to get it downin black and white where everyone was. I suppose we’d better see the Marshall girl now. Shemight be able to tell us something useful.”

Linda Marshall came into the room clumsily, knocking against the doorpost. She was breathingquickly and the pupils of her eyes were dilated. She looked like a startled young colt. ColonelWeston felt a kindly impulse towards her.

He thought:

“Poor kid—she’s nothing but a kid after all. This must have been a pretty bad shock to her.”

He drew up a chair and said in a reassuring voice.

“Sorry to put you through this, Miss—Linda, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Linda.”

Her voice had that indrawn breathy quality that is often characteristic of schoolgirls. Her handsrested helplessly on the table in front of him—pathetic hands, big and red, with large bones andlong wrists. Weston thought:

“A kid oughtn’t to be mixed up in this sort of thing.”

He said reassuringly.

“There’s nothing very alarming about all this. We just want you to tell us anything you knowthat might be useful, that’s all.”

Linda said:

“You mean—about Arlena?”

“Yes. Did you see her this morning at all?”

The girl shook her head.

“No. Arlena always gets down rather late. She has breakfast in bed.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“And you, Mademoiselle?”

“Oh, I get up. Breakfast in bed’s so stuffy.”

Weston said:

“Will you tell us what you did this morning?”

“Well, I had a bathe first and then breakfast, and then I went with Mrs. Redfern to Gull Cove.”

Weston said:

“What time did you and Mrs. Redfern start?”

“She said she’d be waiting for me in the hall at half-past ten. I was afraid I was going to be late,but it was all right. We started off at about three minutes to the half hour.”

Poirot said:

“And what did you do at Gull Cove?”

“Oh, I oiled myself and sunbathed and Mrs. Redfern sketched. Then, later, I went into the seaand Christine went back to the hotel to get changed for tennis.”

Weston said, keeping his voice quite casual:

“Do you remember what time that was?”

“When Mrs. Redfern went back to the hotel? Quarter to twelve.”

“Sure of that time—quarter to twelve?”

Linda, opening her eyes wide, said:

“Oh yes. I looked at my watch.”

“The watch you have on now?”

Linda glanced down at her wrist.

“Yes.”

Weston said:

“Mind if I see?”

She held our her wrist. He compared the watch with his own and with the hotel clock on thewall.

He said, smiling:

“Correct to a second. And after that you had a bathe?”

“Yes.”

“And you got back to the hotel—when?”

“Just about one o’clock. And—and then—I heard—about Arlena….”

Her voice changed.

Colonel Weston said:

“Did you—er—get on with your stepmother all right?”

She looked at him for a minute without replying. Then she said:

“Oh yes.”

Poirot asked:

“Did you like her, Mademoiselle?”

Linda said again:

“Oh yes.” She added: “Arlena was quite kind to me.”

Weston said with rather uneasy facetiousness.

“Not the cruel stepmother, eh?”

Linda shook her head without smiling.

Weston said:

“That’s good. That’s good. Sometimes, you know, there’s a bit of difficulty in families —jealousy—all that. Girl and her father great pals and then she resents it a bit when he’s all wrappedup in the new wife. You didn’t feel like that, eh?”

Linda stared at him. She said with obvious sincerity:

“Oh no.”

Weston said:

“I suppose your father was—er—very wrapped up in her?”

Linda said simply:

“I don’t know.”

Weston went on:

“All sorts of difficulties, as I say, arise in families. Quarrels—rows—that sort of thing. Ifhusband and wife get ratty with each other, that’s a bit awkward for a daughter too. Anything ofthat sort?”

Linda said clearly:

“Do you mean, did Father and Arlena quarrel?”

“Well—yes.”

Weston thought to himself:

“Rotten business—questioning a child about her father. Why is one a policeman? Damn it all,it’s got to be done, though.”

Linda said positively:

“Oh no.” She added: “Father doesn’t quarrel with people. He’s not like that at all.”

Weston said:

“Now, Miss Linda, I want you to think very carefully. Have you any idea at all who might havekilled your stepmother? Is there anything you’ve ever heard or anything you know that could helpus on that point?”

Linda was silent a minute. She seemed to be giving the question a serious unhurriedconsideration. She said at last.

“No, I don’t know who could have wanted to kill Arlena.” She added: “Except, of course, Mrs.

Redfern.”

Weston said:

“You think Mrs. Redfern wanted to kill her? Why?”

Linda said:

“Because her husband was in love with Arlena. But I don’t think she would really want to killher. I mean she’d just feel that she wished she was dead—and that isn’t the same thing at all, isit?”

Poirot said gently:

“No, it is not at all the same.”

Linda nodded. A queer sort of spasm passed across her face. She said:

“And anyway, Mrs. Redfern could never do a thing like that—kill anybody. She isn’t—she isn’tviolent, if you know what I mean.”

Weston and Poirot nodded. The latter said:

“I know exactly what you mean, my child, and I agree with you. Mrs. Redfern is not of thosewho, as your saying goes, ‘sees red.’ She would not be”—he leaned back half closing his eyes,picking his words with care—“shaken by a storm of feeling—seeing life narrowing in front of her—seeing a hated face—a hated white neck—feeling her hands clench—longing to feel them pressinto flesh—”

He stopped.

Linda moved jerkily back from the table. She said in a trembling voice:

“Can I go now? Is that all?”

Colonel Weston said:

“Yes, yes, that’s all. Thank you, Miss Linda.”

He got up to open the door for her. Then came back to the table and lit a cigarette.

“Phew,” he said. “Not a nice job, ours. I can tell you I felt a bit of a cad questioning that childabout the relations between her father and her stepmother. More or less inviting a daughter to put arope round her father’s neck. All the same, it had to be done. Murder is murder. And she’s theperson most likely to know the truth of things. I’m rather thankful, though, that she’d nothing totell us in that line.”

Poirot said:

“Yes, I thought you were.”

Weston said with an embarrassed cough:

“By the way, Poirot, you went a bit far, I thought at the end. All that hands sinking into fleshbusiness! Not quite the sort of idea to put into a kid’s head.”

Hercule Poirot looked at him with thoughtful eyes. He said:

“So you thought I put ideas into her head?”

“Well, didn’t you? Come now.”

Poirot shook his head.

Weston sheered away from the point. He said:

“On the whole we got very little useful stuff out of her. Except a more or less complete alibi forthe Redfern woman. If they were together from half past ten to a quarter to twelve that letsChristine Redfern out of it. Exit the jealous wife suspect.”

Poirot said:

“There are better reasons than that for leaving Mrs. Redfern out of it. It would, I am convinced,be physically impossible and mentally impossible for her to strangle anyone. She is cold ratherthan warm blooded, capable of deep devotion and unswerving constancy, but not of hot-bloodedpassion or rage. Moreover, her hands are far too small and delicate.”

Colgate said:

“I agree with M. Poirot. She’s out of it. Dr. Neasden says it was a full-sized pair of hands thatthrottled that dame.”

Weston said:

“Well, I suppose we’d better see the Redferns next. I expect he’s recovered a bit from the shocknow.”

 

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