Poirot said:
“Mr. Blatt, there is reason to believe that Mrs. Marshall went this morning to Pixy Cove to meet someone. Have you any idea who that someone might be?”
Mr. Blatt winked.
“It’s not a guess. It’s a certainty. Redfern!”
“It was not Mr. Redfern.”
Mr. Blatt seemed taken aback. He said hesitatingly:
“Then I don’t know… No, I can’t imagine….”
He went on, regaining a little of his aplomb:
“As I said before, it wasn’t me! No such luck! Let me see, couldn’t have been Gardener—his wife keeps far too sharp an eye on him! That old ass Barry? Rot! And it would hardly be the parson. Although, mind you, I’ve seen his Reverence watching her a good bit. All holy disapproval, but perhaps an eye for the contours all the same! Eh? Lot of hypocrites, most parsons. Did you read that case last month? Parson and the churchwarden’s daughter! Bit of an eye-opener.”
Mr. Blatt chuckled.
Colonel Weston said coldly:
“There is nothing you can think of that might help us?”
The other shook his head.
“No. Can’t think of a thing.” He added: “This will make a bit of a stir, I imagine. The Press will be on to it like hot cakes. There won’t be quite so much of this high-toned exclusiveness about the Jolly Roger in future. Jolly Roger indeed. Precious little jol
lity about it.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“You have not enjoyed your stay here?”
Mr. Blatt’s red face got slightly redder. He said:
“Well, no, I haven’t. The sailing’s all right and the scenery and the service and the food—but there’s no matiness in the place, you know what I mean! What I say is, my money’s as good as another man’s. We’re all here to enjoy ourselves. Then why not get together and do it? All these cliques and people sitting by themselves and giving you frosty good mornings—and good evenings—and yes, very pleasant weather. No joy de viver. Lot of stuck-up dummies!”
Mr. Blatt paused—by now very red indeed.
He wiped his forehead once more and said apologetically:
“Don’t pay any attention to me. I get all worked up.”
III
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“And what do we think of Mr. Blatt?”
Colonel Weston grinned and said:
“What do you think of him? You’ve seen more of him than I have.”
Poirot said softly:
“There are many of your English idioms that describe him. The rough diamond! The self-made man! The social climber! He is, as you choose to look at it, pathetic, ludicrous, blatant! It is a matter of opinion. But I think, too, that he is something else.”
“And what is that?”