Evil Under the Sun (Hercule Poirot 24)

“I won’t listen to you. I won’t listen.”

She ran across the beach, swift as a young gazelle and went flying up the zigzag path.

Poirot shook his head. He looked grave and troubled.

Eleven

Inspector Colgate was reporting to the Chief Constable.

“I’ve got on to one thing, sir, and something pretty sensational. It’s about Mrs. Marshall’s money. I’ve been into it with her lawyers. I’d say it’s a bit of a shock to them. I’ve got proof of the blackmail story. You remember she was left fifty thousand pounds by old Erskine? Well, all that’s left of that is about fifteen thousand.”

The Chief Constable whistled.

“Whew, what’s become of the rest?”

“That’s the interesting point, sir. She’s sold out stuff from time to time, and each time she’s handled it in cash or negotiable securities—that’s to say she’s handed out money to someone that she didn’t want traced. Blackmail all right.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“Certainly looks like it. And the blackmailer is here in this hotel. That means it must be one of those three men. Got anything fresh on any of them?”

“Can’t say I’ve got anything definite, sir. Major Barry’s a retired Army man, as he says. Lives in a small flat, has a pension and a small income from stocks. But he’s paid in pretty considerable sums into his account in the last year.”

“That sounds promising. What’s his explanation?”

“Says they’re betting gains. It’s perfectly true that he goes to all the large race meetings. Places his bets on the course too, doesn’t run an account.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“Hard to disprove that,” he said. “But it’s suggestive.”

Colgate went on.

“Next, the Reverend Stephen Lane. He’s bona fide all right—had a living at St. Helen’s, Whiteridge, Surrey—resigned his living just over a year ago owing to ill health. His ill health amounted to his going into a nursing home for mental patients. He was there for over a year.”

“Interesting,” said Weston.

“Yes, sir. I tried to get as much as I could out of the doctor in charge but you know what these medicos are—it’s difficult to pin them down to anything you can get hold of. But as far as I can make out, his reverence’s trouble was an obsession about the devil—especially the devil in the guise of a woman—scarlet woman—whore of Babylon.”

“H’m,” said Weston. “There have been precedents for murder there.”

“Yes, sir. It seems to me that Stephen Lane is at least a possibility. The late Mrs. Marshall was a pretty good example of what a clergyman would call a Scarlet Woman—hair and goings on and all. Seems to me it’s not impossible he may have felt it his appointed task to dispose of her. That is if he is really batty.”

“Nothing to fit in with the blackmail theory?”

“No, sir, I think we can wash him out as far as that’s concerned. Has some private means of his own, but not very much, and no sudden increase lately.”

“What about his story of his movements on the day of the crime?”

“Can’t get any confirmation of them. Nobody remembers meeting a parson in the lanes. As to the book at the church, the last entry was three days before and nobody had looked at it for about a fortnight. He could have quite easily gone over the day before, say, or even a couple of days before, and dated his entry the 25th.”

Weston nodded. He said:

“And the third man?”

“Horace Blatt? It’s my opinion, sir, that there’s definitely something fishy there. Pays income tax on a sum far exceeding what he makes out of his hardware business. And mind you, he’s a slippery customer. He could probably cook up a reasonable statement—he gambles a bit on the Stock Exchange, and he’s in with one or two shady deals. Oh, yes, there may be plausible explanations, but there’s no getting away from it that he’s been making pretty big sums from unexplained sources for some years now.”

“In fact,” said Weston, “the idea is that Mr. Horace Blatt is a successful blackmailer by profession?”