For the second time that morning Patrick Redfern was rowing a boat into Pixy Cove. The other occupants of the boat were Hercule Poirot, very pale with a hand to his stomach, and Stephen Lane. Colonel Weston had taken the land route. Having been delayed on the way he arrived on the beach at the same time as the boat grounded. A police constable and a plainclothes sergeant were on the beach already. Weston was questioning the latter as the three from the boat walked up and joined him.

Sergeant Phillips said:

‘I think I’ve been over every inch of the beach, sir.’

‘Good, what did you find?’

‘It’s all together here, sir, if you’d like to come and see.’

A small collection of objects was laid out neatly on a rock. There was a pair of scissors, an empty Gold Flake packet, five patent bottle tops, a number of used matches, three pieces of string, one or two fragments of newspaper, a fragment of a smashed pipe, four buttons, the drumstick bone of a chicken and an empty bottle of sun-bathing oil.

Weston looked down appraisingly on the objects.

‘H’m,’ he said. ‘Rather moderate for a beach nowadays! Most people seem to confuse a beach with a public rubbish dump! Empty bottle’s been here some time by the way the label’s blurred-so have most of the other things, I should say. The scissors are new, though. Bright and shining.They weren’t out in yesterday’s rain! Where were they?’

‘Close by the bottom of the ladder, sir. Also this bit of pipe.’

‘H’m, probably dropped by someone going up or down. Nothing to say who they belong to?’

‘No, sir. Quite an ordinary pair of nail scissors. Pipe’s a good quality brier-expensive.’

Poirot murmured thoughtfully:

‘Captain Marshall told us, I think, that he had mislaid his pipe.’

Weston said:

‘Marshall’s out of the picture. Anyway, he’s not the only person who smokes a pipe.’

Hercule Poirot was watching Stephen Lane as the latter’s hand went to his pocket and away again. He said pleasantly:

‘You also smoke a pipe, do you not, Mr Lane?’

The clergyman started. He looked at Poirot.

He said:

‘Yes. Oh yes. My pipe is an old friend and companion.’ Putting his hand into his pocket again he drew out a pipe, filled it with tobacco and lighted it.

Hercule Poirot moved away to where Redfern was standing, his eyes blank.

He said in a low voice:

‘I’m glad-they’ve takenher away…’

Stephen Lane asked:

‘Where was she found?’

The Sergeant said cheerfully:

‘Just about where you’re standing, sir.’

Lane moved swiftly aside. He stared at the spot he had just vacated.

The Sergeant went on:

‘Place where the float was drawn up agrees with putting the time she arrived here at 10.45. That’s going by the tide. It’s turned now.’

‘Photography all done?’ asked Weston.

‘Yes, sir.’

Weston turned to Redfern.

‘Now then, man, where’s the entrance to this cave of yours?’ 

Patrick Redfern was still staring down at the beach where Lane had been standing. It was as though he was seeing that sprawling body that was no longer there.

Weston’s words recalled him to himself.

He said: ‘It’s over here.’

He led the way to where a great mass of tumbled-down rocks were massed picturesquely against the cliff side. He went straight to where two big rocks, side by side, showed a straight narrow cleft between them. He said:

‘The entrance is here.’

Weston said:

‘Here? Doesn’t look as though a man could squeeze through.’

‘It’s deceptive, you’ll find, sir. It can just be done.’

Weston inserted himself gingerly into the cleft. It was not as narrow as it looked. Inside, the space widened and proved to be a fairly roomy recess with room to stand upright and to move about.

Hercule Poirot and Stephen Lane joined the Chief Constable. The other stayed outside. Light filtered in through the opening, but Weston had also got a powerful torch which he played freely over the interior.

He observed:

‘Handy place. You’d never suspect it from the outside.’ 

He played the torch carefully over the floor.

Hercule Poirot was delicately sniffing the air.

Noticing this, Weston said:

‘Air quite fresh, not fishy or seaweedy, but of course this place is well above high water mark.’

But to Poirot’s sensitive nose, the air was more than fresh. It was delicately scented. He knew two people who used that elusive perfume…

‘Weston’s torch came to rest. He said:

‘Don’t see anything out of the way in here.’

Poirot’s eyes rose to a ledge a little way above his head. He murmured:

‘One might perhaps see that there is nothing up there?’

Weston said: ‘If there’s anything up there it would have to be deliberately put there. Still, we’d better have a look.’

Poirot said to Lane:

‘You are, I think, the tallest of us, Monsieur. Could we venture to ask you to make sure there is nothing resting on that ledge?’

Lane stretched up, but he could not quite reach to the back of the shelf. Then, seeing a crevice in the rock, he inserted a toe in it and pulled himself up by one hand.

He said:

‘Hullo, there’s a box up here.’ 

In a minute or two they were out in the sunshine examining the clergyman’s find.

Weston said:

‘Careful, don’t handle it more than you can help. May be finger-prints.’

It was a dark-green tin box and bore the word Sandwiches on it.

Sergeant Phillips said:

‘Left from some picnic or other, I suppose.’

He opened the lid with his handkerchief.

Inside were small tin containers marked salt, pepper, mustard and two larger square tins evidently for sandwiches. Sergeant Phillips lifted the lid of the salt container. It was full to the brim. He raised the next one, commenting:

‘H’m, got salt in the pepper one too.’

The mustard compartment also contained salt.

His face suddenly alert, the police sergeant opened one of the bigger square tins. That, too, contained the same white crystalline powder.

Very gingerly, Sergeant Phillips dipped a finger in and applied it to his tongue.

His face changed. He said-and his voice was excited:

‘This isn’tsalt, sir. Not by a long way! Bitter taste! Seems to me it’s some kind ofdrug.’

‘The third angle,’ said Colonel Weston with a groan.

They were back at the hotel again.

The Chief Constable went on:

‘If by any chance there’s a dope gang mixed up in this, it opens up several possibilities. First of all, the dead woman may have been in with the gang herself. Think that’s likely?’

Hercule Poirot said cautiously:

‘It is possible.’

‘She may have been a drug addict?’

Poirot shook his head.

He said:

‘I should doubt that. She had steady nerves, radiant health, there were no marks of hypodermic injections (not that that proves anything. Some people sniff the stuff). No, I do not think she took drugs.’

‘In that case,’ said Weston, ‘she may have run into the business accidentally, and she was deliberately silenced by the people running the show. We’ll know presently just what the stuff is. I’ve sent it to Neasden. If we’re on to some dope ring, they’re not the people to stick at trifles-’

He broke off as the door opened and Mr Horace Blatt came briskly into the room. 

Mr Blatt was looking hot. He was wiping the perspiration from his forehead. His big hearty voice billowed out and filled the small room.

‘Just this minute got back and heard the news! You the Chief Constable? They told me you were in here. My name’s Blatt-Horace Blatt. Any way I can help you? Don’t suppose so. I’ve been out in my boat since early this morning. Missed the whole blinking show. The one day that somethingdoes happen in this out-of-the-way spot, I’m not there. Just like life, that, isn’t it? Hullo, Poirot, didn’t see you at first. So you’re in on this? Oh well, I suppose you would be. Sherlock Holmesv. the local police, is that it? Ha, ha! Lestrade-all that stuff. I’ll enjoy seeing you do a bit of fancy sleuthing.’

Mr Blatt came to anchor in a chair, pulled out a cigarette case and offered it to Colonel Weston, who shook his head.

He said, with a slight smile:

‘I’m an inveterate pipe smoker.’

‘Same here. I smoke cigarettes as well-but nothing beats a pipe.’

Colonel Weston said with suddenly geniality:

‘Then light up, man.’

Blatt shook his head.

‘Not got my pipe on me at the moment. But put me wise about all this. All I’ve heard so far is that Mrs Marshall was found murdered on one of the beaches here.’

‘On Pixy Cove,’ said Colonel Weston, watching him.

But Mr Blatt merely asked excitedly:

‘And she was strangled?’

‘Yes, Mr Blatt.’

‘Nasty-very nasty. Mind you, she asked for it! Hot stuff-tres moustarde-eh, M. Poirot? Any idea who did it, or mustn’t I ask that?’

With a faint smile Colonel Weston said:

‘Well, you know, it’s we who are supposed to ask the questions.’

Mr Blatt waved his cigarette.

‘Sorry-sorry-my mistake. Go ahead.’

‘You went out sailing this morning. At what time?’

‘Left here at a quarter to ten.’

‘Was any one with you?’

‘Not a soul. All on my little lonesome.’

‘And where did you go?’

‘Along the coast in the direction of Plymouth. Took lunch with me. Not much wind so I didn’t actually get very far.’

After another question or two, Weston asked:

‘Now about the Marshalls? Do you know anything that might help us?’

‘Well, I’ve given you my opinion.Crime passionnel! All I can tell you is, it wasn’tme! The fair Arlena had no use for me. Nothing doing in that quarter. She had her own blue-eyed boy! And if you ask me, Marshall was getting wise to it.’

‘Have you any evidence for that?’

‘Saw him give young Redfern a dirty look once or twice. Dark horse, Marshall. Looks very meek and mild and as though he were half asleep all the time-but that’s not his reputation in the City. I’ve heard a thing or two about him. Nearly had up for assault once. Mind you, the fellow in question had put up a pretty dirty deal. Marshall had trusted him and the fellow had let him down cold. Particularly dirty business, I believe. Marshall went for him and half killed him. Fellow didn’t prosecute-too afraid of what might come out. I give you that for what it’s worth.’