ve. There were several rough boulders near the head of the ladder, he noted, forming easy concealment for anyone who proposed to descend to the beach below. Of the beach itself little could be seen from the top owing to the overhang of the cliff.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head gravely.
The pieces of his jig-saw were fitting into position.
Mentally he went over those pieces, considering each as a detached item.
A morning on the bathing beach some few days before Arlena Marshall’s death.
One, two, three, four, five separate remarks uttered on that morning.
The evening of a bridge game. He, Patrick Redfern and Rosamund Darnley had been at the table. Christine had wandered out while dummy and had overheard a certain conversation. Who else had been in the lounge at that time? Who had been absent?
The evening before the crime. The conversation he had had with Christine on the cliff and the scene he had witnessed on his way back to the hotel.
Gabrielle No. 8.
A pair of scissors.
A broken pipe stem.
A bottle thrown from a window.
A green calendar.
A packet of candles.
A mirror and a typewriter.
A skein of magenta wool.
A girl’s wristwatch.
Bathwater rushing down the waste pipe.
Each of these unrelated facts must fit into its appointed place. There must be no loose ends.
And then, with each concrete fact fitted into position, on to the next stop: his own belief in the presence of evil on the island.
Evil…
He looked down at a typewritten paper in his hands.
Nellie Parsons—found strangled in a lonely copse near Chobham. No clue to her murderer ever discovered.
Nellie Parsons?
Alice Corrigan.
He read very carefully the details of Alice Corrigan’s death.
III
To Hercule Poirot, sitting on the ledge overlooking the sea, came Inspector Colgate.
Poirot liked Inspector Colgate. He liked his rugged face, his shrewd eyes, and his slow unhurried manner.
Inspector Colgate sat down. He said, glancing down at the typewritten sheets in Poirot’s hand: