Problem at Pollensa Bay

‘Ah! Another question. He did not suspect you of robbing him of his adopted daughter?’

‘Oh, so you know about me and Di?’ He laughed in an embarrassed fashion.

‘It is so, then?’

Marshall nodded.

‘But the old man didn’t know anything about it. Di wouldn’t have him told. I suppose she was right. He’d have gone up like a—a basketful of rockets. I should have been chucked out of a job, and that would have been that.’

‘And instead what was your plan?’

‘Well, upon my word, sir, I hardly know. I left things to Di. She said she’d fix it. As a matter of fact I was looking out for a job. If I could have got one I would have chucked this up.’

‘And mademoiselle would have married you? But M. Lytcham Roche might have stopped her allowance. Mademoiselle Diana is, I should say, fond of money.’

Marshall looked rather uncomfortable.

‘I’d have tried to make it up to her, sir.’

Geoffrey Keene came into the room. ‘The police are just going and would like to see you, M. Poirot.’

‘Merci. I will come.’

In the study were a stalwart inspector and the police surgeon.

‘Mr Poirot?’ said the inspector. ‘We’ve heard of you, sir. I’m Inspector Reeves.’

‘You are most amiable,’ said Poirot, shaking hands. ‘You do not need my co-operation, no?’ He gave a little laugh.

‘Not this time, sir. All plain sailing.’

‘The case is perfectly straightforward, then?’ demanded Poirot.

‘Absolutely. Door and window locked, key of door in dead man’s pocket. Manner very strange the past few days. No doubt about it.’

‘Everything quite—natural?’

The doctor grunted.

‘Must have been sitting at a damned queer angle for the bullet to have hit that mirror. But suicide’s a queer business.’

‘You found the bullet?’

‘Yes, here.’ The doctor held it out. ‘Near the wall below the mirror. Pistol was Mr Roche’s own. Kept it in the drawer of the desk always. Something behind it all, I daresay, but what that is we shall never know.’

Poirot nodded.

The body had been carried to a bedroom. The police now took their leave. Poirot stood at the front door looking after them. A sound made him turn. Harry Dalehouse was close behind him.

‘Have you, by any chance, a strong flashlight, my friend?’ asked Poirot.

‘Yes, I’ll get it for you.’

When he returned with it Joan Ashby was with him.

‘You may accompany me if you like,’ said Poirot graciously.

He stepped out of the front door and turned to the right, stopping before the study window. About six feet of grass separated it from the path. Poirot bent down, playing the flashlight on the grass. He straightened himself and shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘not there.’

Then he paused and slowly his figure stiffened. On either side of the grass was a deep flower border. Poirot’s attention was focused on the right hand border, full of Michaelmas daisies and dahlias. His torch was directed on the front of the bed. Distinct on the soft mould were footprints.

‘Four of them,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Two going toward the window, two coming from it.’

‘A gardener,’ suggested Joan.

‘But no, mademoiselle, but no. Employ your eyes. These shoes are small, dainty, high-heeled, the shoes of a woman. Mademoiselle Diana mentioned having been out in the garden. Do you know if she went downstairs before you did, mademoiselle?’

Joan shook her head.

‘I can’t remember. I was in such a hurry because the gong went, and I thought I’d heard the first one. I do seem to remember that her room door was open as I went past, but I’m not sure. Mrs Lytcham Roche’s was shut, I know.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot.

Something in his voice made Harry look up sharply, but Poirot was merely frowning gently to himself.

In the doorway they met Diana Cleves.

‘The police have gone,’ she said. ‘It’s all—over.’

She gave a deep sigh.

‘May I request one little word with you, mademoiselle?’

She led the way into the morning room, and Poirot followed, shutting the door.

‘Well?’ She looked a little surprised.

‘One little question, mademoiselle. Were you tonight at any time in the flower border outside the study window?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘About seven o’clock and again just before dinner.’

‘I do not understand,’ he said.

‘I can’t see that there is anything to “understand”, as you call it,’ she said coldly. ‘I was picking Michaelmas daisies—for the table. I always do the flowers. That was about seven o’clock.’

‘And afterward—later?’