‘So you think it possible,’ said Poirot, ‘that Captain Marshall strangled his wife?’

‘Not at all. Never said anything of the sort. Just letting you know that he’s the sort of fellow who could go berserk on occasions.’

Poirot said:

‘Mr Blatt, there is reason to believe that Mrs Marshall went this morning to Pixy Cove to meet someone. Have you any idea who that someone might be?’

Mr Blatt winked.

‘It’s not a guess. It’s a certainty. Redfern!’ 

‘It was not Mr Redfern.’

Mr Blatt seemed taken aback. He said hesitatingly:

‘Then I don’t know…No, I can’t imagine…’

He went on, regaining a little of his aplomb:

‘As I said before, it wasn’tme! No such luck! Let me see, couldn’t have been Gardener-his wife keeps far too sharp an eye on him! That old ass Barry? Rot! And it would hardly be the parson. Although, mind you, I’ve seen his Reverence watching her a good bit. All holy disapproval, but perhaps an eye for the contours all the same! Eh? Lot of hypocrites, most parsons. Did you read that case last month? Parson and the churchwarden’s daughter! Bit of an eye-opener.’

Mr Blatt chuckled.

Colonel Weston said coldly:

‘There is nothing you can think of that might help us?’

The other shook his head.

‘No. Can’t think of a thing.’ He added: ‘This will make a bit of a stir, I imagine. The Press will be on to it like hot cakes. There won’t be quite so much of this high-toned exclusiveness about the Jolly Roger in future. Jolly Roger indeed. Precious little jollity about it.’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘You have not enjoyed your stay here?’

Mr Blatt’s red face got slightly redder. He said: 

‘Well, no, I haven’t. The sailing’s all right and the scenery and the service and the food-but there’s nomatiness in the place, you know what I mean! What I say is, my money’s as good as another man’s. We’re all here to enjoy ourselves. Then why not get together anddo it? All these cliques and people sitting by themselves and giving you frosty good-mornings-and good-evenings-and yes, very pleasant weather. No joy de viver. Lot of stuck-up dummies!’

Mr Blatt paused-by now very red indeed.

He wiped his forehead once more and said apologetically:

‘Don’t pay any attention to me. I get all worked up.’

Hercule Poirot murmured:

‘And what do we think of Mr Blatt?’

Colonel Weston grinned and said:

‘What doyou think of him? You’ve seen more of him than I have.’

Poirot said softly:

‘There are many of your English idioms that describe him. The rough diamond! The self-made man! The social climber! He is, as you choose to look at it, pathetic, ludicrous, blatant! It is a matter of opinion. But I think, too, that he is something else.’

‘And what is that?’

Hercule Poirot, his eyes raised to the ceiling, murmured:

‘I think that he is-nervous!’

Inspector Colgate said:

‘I’ve got those times worked out. From the hotel to the ladder down to Pixy Cove three minutes. That’s walking till you are out of sight of the hotel and then running like hell.’

Weston raised his eyebrows. He said:

‘That’s quicker than I thought.’

‘Down ladder to beach one minute and three-quarters. Up same two minutes. That’s P.C. Flint. He’s a bit of an athlete. Walking and taking the ladder in the normal way, the whole business takes close on a quarter of an hour.’

Weston nodded. He said:

‘There’s another thing we must go into, the pipe question.’

Colgate said:

‘Blatt smokes a pipe, so does Marshall, so does the parson. Redfern smokes cigarettes, the American prefers a cigar. Major Barry doesn’t smoke at all. There’s one pipe in Marshall’s room, two in Blatt’s, and one in the parson’s. Chambermaid says Marshall has two pipes. The other chambermaid isn’t a very bright girl. Doesn’t know how many pipes the other two have. Says vaguely she’s noticed two or three about in their rooms.’

Weston nodded.

‘Anything else?’

‘I’ve checked up on the staff. They all seem quite O.K. Henry, in the bar, checks Marshall’s statement about seeing him at ten to eleven. William, the beach attendant, was down repairing the ladder on the rocks by the hotel most of the morning. He seems all right. George marked the tennis court and then bedded out some plants round by the dining-room. Neither of them would have seen anyone who came across the causeway to the island.’

‘When was the causeway uncovered?’

‘Round about 9.30, sir.’

Weston pulled at his moustache.

‘It’s possible somebody did come that way. We’ve got a new angle, Colgate.’

He told of the discovery of the sandwich box in the cave.

There was a tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ said Weston.

It was Captain Marshall.

He said:

‘Can you tell me what arrangements I can make about the funeral?’

‘I think we shall manage the inquest for the day after tomorrow, Captain Marshall.’

‘Thank you.’

Inspector Colgate said:

‘Excuse me, sir, allow me to return you these.’

He handed over the three letters.

Kenneth Marshall smiled rather sardonically.

He said:

‘Has the police department been testing the speed of my typing? I hope my character is cleared.’

Colonel Weston said pleasantly.

‘Yes, Captain Marshall, I think we can give you a clean bill of health. Those sheets take fully an hour to type. Moreover you were heard typing them by the chambermaid up till five minutes to eleven and you were seen by another witness at twenty minutes past.’

Captain Marshall murmured:

‘Really? That all seems very satisfactory!’ 

‘Yes. Miss Darnley came to your room at twenty minutes past eleven. You were so busy typing that you did not observe her entry.’

Kenneth Marshall’s face took on an impassive expression. He said:

‘Does Miss Darnley say that?’ He paused. ‘As a matter of fact she is wrong. Idid see her, though she may not be aware of the fact. I saw her in the mirror.’

Poirot murmured:

‘But you did not interrupt your typing?’

Marshall said shortly:

‘No. I wanted to get finished.’

He paused a minute, then, in an abrupt voice, he said:

‘Nothing more I can do for you?’

‘No, thank you, Captain Marshall.’

Kenneth Marshall nodded and went out.

Weston said with a sigh:

‘There goes our most hopeful suspect-cleared! Hullo, here’s Neasden.’

The doctor came in with a trace of excitement in his manner. He said:

‘That’s a nice little death lot you sent me along.’

‘What is it?’

‘What is it? Diamorphine Hydrochloride. Stuff that’s usually called Heroin.’ 

Inspector Colgate whistled. He said:

‘Now we’re getting places, all right! Depend upon it, this dope stunt is at the bottom of the whole business.’