Evil Under the Sun (Hercule Poirot 24)

Abruptly, Christine Redfern got up and went into the hotel.

V

There was an uncomfortable little silence after she had left.

Then Emily Brewster said:

“It’s rather too bad. She’s a nice little thing. They’ve only been married a year or two.”

“Gal I was speaking of,” said Major Barry, “the one in Simla. She upset a couple of really happy marriages. Seemed a pity, what?”

“There’s a type of woman,” said Miss Brewster, “who likes smashing up homes.” She added after a minute or two, “Patrick Redfern’s a fool!”

Hercule Poirot said nothing. He was gazing down the beach, but he was not looking at Patrick Redfern and Arlena Stuart.

Miss Brewster said:

“Well, I’d better go and get hold of my boat.”

She left them.

Major Barry turned his boiled gooseberry eyes with mild curiosity on Poirot.

“Well, Poirot,” he said. “What are you thinking about? You’ve not opened your mouth. What do you think of the siren? Pretty hot?”

Poirot said:

“C’est possible.”

“Now then, you old dog. I know you Frenchmen!”

Poirot said coldly:

“I am not a Frenchman!”

“Well, don’t tell me you haven’t got an eye for a pretty girl! What do you think of her, eh?”

Hercule Poirot said:

“She is not young.”

“What does that matter? A woman’s as old as she looks! Her looks are all right.”

Hercule Poirot nodded. He said:

“Yes, she is beautiful. But it is not beauty that counts in the end. It is not beauty that makes every head (except one) turn on the beach to look at her.”

“It’s IT, my boy,” said the Major. “That’s what it is—IT.”

Then he said with sudden curiosity.

“What are you looking at so steadily?”

Hercule Poirot replied: “I am looking at the exception. At the one man who did not look up when she passed.”

Major

Barry followed his gaze to where it rested on a man of about forty, fair-haired and suntanned. He had a quiet pleasant face and was sitting on the beach smoking a pipe and reading The Times.