Evil Under the Sun (Hercule Poirot 24)

“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 fingerprints.”

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’t salt, sir. Not by a long way! Bitter taste! Seems to me it’s some kind of drug.”

II

“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 something does 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 Holmes v. the local police, is that it? Ha, ha! Lestrade—all that stuff. I’ll enjoy seeing you do a bit of fancy sleuthing.”