Evil Under the Sun (Hercule Poirot 24)

Mr. Blatt came to anchor in a chair, pulled out a cigarette case and offered it to Colonel Weston, who shook his head.

He said, with a slight smile:

“I’m an inveterate pipe smoker.”

“Same here. I smoke cigarettes as well—but nothing beats a pipe.”

Colonel Weston said with suddenly geniality:

“Then light up, man.”

Blatt shook his head.

“Not got my pipe on me at the moment. But put me wise about all this. All I’ve heard so far is that Mrs. Marshall was found murdered on one of the beaches here.”

“On Pixy Cove,” said Colonel Weston, watching him.

But Mr. Blatt merely asked excitedly:

“And she was strangled?”

“Yes, Mr. Blatt.”

“Nasty—very nasty. Mind you, she asked for it! Hot stuff—trés moustarde—eh, M. Poirot? Any idea who did it, or mustn’t I ask that?”

With a faint smile Colonel Weston said:

“Well, you know, it’s we who are supposed to ask the questions.”

Mr. Blatt waved his cigarette.

“Sorry—sorry—my mistake. Go ahead.”

“You went out sailing this morning. At what time?”

“Left here at a quarter to ten.”

“Was any one with you?”

“Not a soul. All on my little lonesome.”

“And where did you go?”

“Along the coast in the direction of Plymouth. Took lunch with me. Not much wind so I didn’t actually get very far.”

After another question or two, Weston asked:

“Now about the Marshalls? Do you know anything that might help us?”

“Well, I’ve given you my opinion. Crime passionnel! All I can tell you is, it wasn’t me! The fair Arlena had no use for me. Nothing doing in that quarter. She had her own blue-eyed boy! And if you ask me, Marshall was getting wise to it.”

“Have you any evidence for that?”

“Saw him give young Redfern a dirty look once or twice. Dark horse, Marshall. Looks very meek and mild and as though he were half asleep all the time—but that’s not his reputation in the City. I’ve heard a thing or two about him. Nearly had up for assault once. Mind you, the fellow in question had put up a pretty dirty deal. Marshall had trusted him and the fellow had let him down cold. Particularly dirty business, I believe. Marshall went for him and half-killed him. Fellow didn’t prosecute—too afraid of what might come out. I give you that for what it’s worth.”

“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.”