He paused and then he said slowly:
“And now – here’s a third woman strangled – and a certain gentleman we won’t name right on the spot.”
He stopped. His small shrewd eyes came round to Poirot. He waited hopefully. Poirot’s lips moved. Inspector Colgate leaned forward. Poirot was murmuring:
“– so difficult to know what pieces are part of the fur rug and which are the cat’s tail.”
“I beg pardon, sir?” said Inspector Colgate, startled.
Poirot said quickly: “I apologize. I was following a train of thought of my own.”
“What’s this about a fur rug and a cat?”
“Nothing – nothing at all.” He paused. “Tell me, Inspector Colgate, if you suspected some one of telling lies – many, many lies, but you had no proof, what would you do?”
Inspector Colgate considered.
“It’s difficult, that is. But it’s my opinion that if any one tells enough lies, they’re bound to trip up in the end.”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, that is very true. You see, it is only in my mind that certain statements are lies. I think that they are lies, but I cannot know they are lies. But one might perhaps make a test – a test of one little not very noticeable lie. And if that were proved to be a lie – why then, one would know that all the rest were lies, too!”
Inspector Colgate looked at him curiously.
“Your mind works a funny way, doesn’t it, sir? But I daresay it comes out all right in the end. If you’ll excuse my asking, what put you on to asking about strangulation cases in general?”
Poirot said slowly:
“You have a word in your language – slick. This crime seemed to me a very slick crime! It made me wonder, if, perhaps, it was not a first attempt.”
Inspector Colgate said: “I see.”
Poirot went on: “I said to myself, let us examine the past crimes of a similar kind and if there is a crime that closely resembles this one – eh bien, we shall have there a very valuable clue.”
“You mean using the same method of death, sir?”
“No, no, I mean more than that. The death of Nellie Parsons for instance tells me nothing. But the death of Alice Corrigan – tell me, Inspector Colgate, do you not notice one striking form of similarity to this crime?”
Inspector Colgate turned the problem over in his mind.
He said at last: “No, sir, I can’t say that I do really. Unless it’s that in each case the husband has got a iron-cast alibi.”
Poirot said softly: “Ah, so you have noticed that?”
“Ha, Poirot. Glad to see you. Come in. Just the man I want.”
Hercule Poirot responded to the invitation. The Chief Constable pushed over a box of cigarettes, took one himself, and lighted it. Between puffs he said:
“I’ve decided, more or less, on a course of action. But I’d like your opinion on it before I act decisively.”
Hercule Poirot said: “Tell me, my friend.”
Weston said: “I’ve decided to call in Scotland Yard and hand the case over to them. In my opinion, although there have been grounds for suspicion against one or two people, the whole case hinges on dope smuggling. It seems clear to me that that place, Pixy’s Cove, was a definite rendezvous for the stuff.”
Poirot nodded.
“I agree.”
“Good man. And I’m pretty certain who our dope smuggler is. Horace Blatt.”
Again Poirot assented.
He said: “That, too, is indicated.”
“I see our minds have both worked the same way. Blatt used to go sailing in that boat of his. Sometimes he’d invite people to go with him, but most of the time he went out alone. He had some rather conspicuous red sails on that boat but we’ve found that he had some white sails as well stowed away. I think he sailed out on a good day to an appointed spot, and was met by another boat – sailing boat or motor yacht – something of the kind, and the stuff was handed over. Then Blatt would run ashore into Pixy’s Cove at a suitable time of day – ”
Hercule Poirot smiled: “Yes, yes, at half past one. The hour of the British lunch when every one is quite sure to be in the dining-room. The island is private. It is not a place where outsiders come for picnics. People take their tea sometimes from the hotel to Pixy’s Cove in the afternoon when the sun is on it, or if they want a picnic they would go somewhere far afield, many miles away.”
The Chief Constable nodded.
“Quite,” he said. “Therefore Blatt ran ashore there and stowed the stuff on that ledge in the cave. Somebody else was to pick it up there in due course.”
Poirot murmured: “There was a couple, you remember, who came to the island for lunch on the day of the murder? That would be a way of getting the stuff. Some summer visitors from a hotel on the Moor or at St Loo come over to Smuggler’s Island. They announce that they will have lunch. They walk round the island first. How easy to descend to the beach, pick up the sandwich box, place it, no doubt, in Madame’s bathing bag which she carries – and return for lunch to the hotel – a little late, perhaps, say at ten minutes to two, having enjoyed their walk whilst everyone else was in the dining room.”
Weston said: “Yes, it all sounds practicable enough. Now these dope organizations are pretty ruthless. If any one blundered in and got wise to things they wouldn’t make any bones about silencing that person. It seems to me that that is the right explanation of Arlena Marshall’s death. It’s possible that on that morning Blatt was actually at the cove stowing the stuff away. His accomplices were to come for it that very day. Arlena arrives on her float and sees him going into the cave with the box. She asks him about it and he kills her then and there and sheers off in his boat as quick as possible.”
Poirot said: “You think definitely that Blatt is the murderer?”
“It seems the most probable solution. Of course it’s possible that Arlena might have got on to the truth earlier, said something to Blatt about it and some other member of the gang fixed a fake appointment with her and did her in. As I say, I think the best course is to hand the case over to Scotland Yard. They’ve a far better chance than we have of proving Blatt’s connection with the gang.”
Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
Weston said: “You think that’s the wise thing to do – eh?”
Poirot was thoughtful.
He said at last: “It may be.”
“Dash it all, Poirot, have you got something up your sleeve, or haven’t you?”
Poirot said gravely: “If I have, I am not sure that I can prove it.”
Weston said: “Of course, I know that you and Colgate have other ideas. Seems a bit fantastic to me but I’m bound to admit there may be something in it. But even if you’re right, I still think it’s a case for the Yard. We’ll give them the facts and they can work in with the Surrey police. What I feel is that it isn’t really a case for us. It’s not sufficiently localized.” He paused. “What do you think, Poirot? What do you feel ought to be done about it?”
Poirot seemed lost in thought. At last he said:
“I know what I should like to do.”
“Yes, man.”
Poirot murmured: “I should like to go for a picnic.”
Colonel Weston stared at him.
Глава 11
Инспектор Колгейт докладывал главному констеблю:
– Я кое-что раскопал, сэр, и это самая настоящая сенсация. Речь идет о деньгах миссис Маршалл. Я встретился с ее поверенными. Могу сказать, для них это явилось полной неожиданностью. У меня есть доказательства версии о шантаже. Помните, что старик Эрскин завещал ей пятьдесят тысяч фунтов? Так вот, сейчас от них осталось всего около пятнадцати.
Главный констебль присвистнул.
– Ого! А куда подевалось остальное?
– Это самое интересное, сэр. Время от времени миссис Маршалл продавала по частям свое наследство, и всякий раз выручку брала наличными или ценными бумагами на предъявителя. Это говорит о том, что она с кем-то расплачивалась и не хотела, чтобы это можно было проследить. Шантаж, тут не может быть никаких сомнений.
Полковник Уэстон кивнул.
– Определенно, похоже на то. И шантажист здесь, в пансионате. То есть это один из троих мужчин. Есть что-нибудь свеженькое на них?
– Не могу сказать, сэр, что мне удалось найти что-либо определенное. Майор Барри – отставной военный, как он и говорит. Живет в маленькой квартире, получает пенсию и имеет небольшой доход от акций. Но в прошлом году он несколько раз клал на свой счет крупные суммы.
– Звучит многообещающе. Как он сам это объясняет?
– Говорит, что это выигрыши в тотализатор. Действительно, Барри посещает все крупные скачки. Ставки делает прямо на месте, учет не ведет.
Главный констебль кивнул.
– Опровергнуть это нелегко, – сказал он. – Но тут есть пища для размышлений.
– Далее, преподобный Стивен Лейн, – продолжал Колгейт. – Он самый настоящий священник – у него был приход в церкви Святой Елены, Уайтридж, Суррей. Оставил службу чуть больше года назад вследствие плохого здоровья. А плохое здоровье заключалось в том, что он попал в клинику для душевнобольных. Провел там больше года.
– Весьма любопытно, – сказал Уэстон.
– Да, сэр. Я попытался вытянуть что-либо из лечащего врача, но вы же знаете этих медиков – крайне трудно получить от них что-нибудь существенное. Однако, насколько я понял, наш преподобный был одержим дьяволом – особенно дьяволом в женском обличье: женщина на багряном звере, вавилонская блудница.
– Гм, – задумчиво пробормотал Уэстон, – в прошлом подобное уже становилось причиной убийства.
– Да, сэр. На мой взгляд, к Стивену Лейну нужно по крайней мере присмотреться повнимательнее. Покойная миссис Маршалл являла собой хороший пример того, что священник назвал бы «вавилонской блудницей» – волосы, поведение и все остальное. Мне кажется вполне возможным, что преподобный Лейн возомнил, будто ему предначертано очистить от нее мир. Это, конечно, если он совсем спятил.
– Никаких связей с шантажом?