Evil Under the Sun

He said:

‘That’s just it.’

Rosamund said:

‘I see.’

II

Mr Horace Blatt, returning to Leathercombe Bay down a narrow twisting lane, nearly ran down Mrs Redfern at a corner.

As she flattened herself into the hedge, Mr Blatt brought his Sunbeam to a halt by applying the brakes vigorously.

‘Hullo-ullo-ullo,’ said Mr Blatt cheerfully.

He was a large man with a red face and a fringe of reddish hair round a shining bald spot.

It was Mr Blatt’s apparent ambition to be the life and soul of any place he happened to be in. The Jolly Roger Hotel, in his opinion, given somewhat loudly, needed brightening up. He was puzzled at the way people seemed to melt and disappear when he himself arrived on the scene.

‘Nearly made you into strawberry jam, didn’t I?’ said Mr Blatt gaily.

Christine Redfern said:

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Jump in,’ said Mr Blatt.

‘Oh, thanks—I think I’ll walk.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Blatt. ‘What’s a car for?’

Yielding to necessity Christine Redfern got in.

Mr Blatt restarted the engine which had stopped owing to the suddenness with which he had previously pulled up.

Mr Blatt inquired:

‘And what are you doing walking about all alone? That’s all wrong, a nice-looking girl like you.’

Christine said hurriedly:

‘Oh! I like being alone.’

Mr Blatt gave her a terrific dig with his elbow, nearly sending the car into the hedge at the same time.

‘Girls always say that,’ he said. ‘They don’t mean it. You know, that place, the Jolly Roger, wants a bit of livening up. Nothing jolly about it. No life in it. Of course there’s a good amount of duds staying there. A lot of kids, to begin with and a lot of old fogeys too. There’s that old Anglo-Indian bore and that athletic parson and those yapping Americans and that foreigner with the moustache—makes me laugh that moustache of his! I should say he’s a hairdresser, something of that sort.’

Christine shook 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: