Evil Under the Sun. Agatha Christie
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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 a bounder, doesn’t he?’
‘Well,’ said Christine and hesitated. ‘Perhaps a little peculiar.’
‘What I say is,’ said Mr Blatt, ‘what’s wrong with Scotland Yard? Buy British every time for me.’
He reached the bottom of the hill and with a triumphant fanfare of the horn ran the car into the Jolly Roger’s garage, which was situated, for tidal reasons, on the mainland opposite the hotel.
III
Linda Marshall was in the small shop which catered for the wants of visitors to Leathercombe Bay. One side of it was devoted to shelves on which were books which could be borrowed for the sum of twopence. The newest of them was ten years old, some were twenty years old and others older still.
Linda took first one and then another doubtfully from the shelf and glanced into it. She decided that she couldn’t possibly read The Four Feathers or Vice Versa. She took out a small squat volume in brown calf.
The time passed …
With a start Linda shoved the book back in the shelf as Christine Redfern’s voice said:
‘What are you reading, Linda?’
Linda said hurriedly:
‘Nothing. I’m looking for a book.’
She pulled out The Marriage of William Ashe at random and advanced to the counter fumbling for twopence.
Christine said:
‘Mr Blatt just drove me home—after nearly running over me first. I really felt I couldn’t walk all across the causeway with him, so I said I had to buy some things.’
Linda said:
‘He’s awful, isn’t he? Always saying how rich he is and making the most terrible jokes.’
Christine said:
‘Poor man. One really feels rather sorry for him.’
Linda didn’t agree. She didn’t see anything to be sorry for in Mr Blatt. She was young and ruthless.
She walked with Christine Redfern out of the shop and down towards the causeway.
She was busy with her own thoughts. She liked Christine Redfern. She and Rosamund Darnley were the only bearable people on the island in Linda’s opinion. Neither of them talked much to her for one thing. Now, as they walked, Christine didn’t say anything. That, Linda thought, was sensible. If you hadn’t anything worth saying why go chattering all the time?
She lost herself in her own perplexities.
She said suddenly:
‘Mrs Redfern, have you ever felt that everything’s so awful—so terrible—that you’ll—oh, burst…?’
The words were almost comic, but Linda’s face, drawn and anxious, was not. Christine Redfern, looking at her at first vaguely, with scarcely comprehending eyes, certainly saw nothing to laugh at …
She caught her breath sharply.
She said:
‘Yes—yes—I have felt—just that …’
IV
Mr Blatt said:
‘So you’re the famous sleuth, eh?’
They were in the cocktail bar, a favourite haunt of Mr Blatt’s.
Hercule Poirot acknowledged the remark with his usual lack of modesty.
Mr Blatt went on.
‘And what are you doing down here—on a job?’
‘No, no. I repose myself. I take the holiday.’
Mr Blatt winked.
‘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 known how 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 here holiday-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 Deauville or 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. He said:
‘It is possible that you are right! There, at least, in wet weather there are the distractions.’
‘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 do what I please. My money’s as good as any man’s. I’ve seen a bit of life in the last few years, I can tell 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 eloquent hand.
‘I, too, am not without observation. I should have expected you most certainly to choose Deauville or Biarritz.’
‘Instead of which, we’re both here, eh?’
Mr Blatt gave a hoarse chuckle.
‘Don’t really know why I came here,’ he mused. ‘I think, you know, it sounded romantic. Jolly Roger Hotel, Smugglers’ Island. That kind of address tickles you up, you know. Makes you think of when you were a boy. Pirates, smuggling, 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 a taste for that sort of thing never quite leaves you. I could have a tip-top yacht if I liked, but somehow I don’t really fancy it. I like mucking about in that little yawl of mine. Redfern’s keen on sailing, too. He’s been out with me once or twice. Can’t get hold