“And the newspapers. My hotel in the newspapers!”
Colgate said, with a faint grin.
“Oh well, it’s advertisement, in a way.”
Mrs. Castle drew herself up. Her bust heaved and whalebone creaked. She said icily:
“That is not the kind of advertisement ay care about, Mr. Colgate.”
Colonel Weston broke in. He said:
“Now then, Mrs. Castle, you’ve got a list of the guests staying here, as I asked you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Weston pored over the hotel register. He looked over to Poirot who made the fourth member of the group assembled in the manageress’s office.
“This is where you’ll probably be able to help us presently.”
He read down the names.
“What about servants?”
Mrs. Castle produced a second list.
“There are four chambermaids, the head waiter and three under him and Henry in the bar. William does the boots and shoes. Then there’s the cook and two under her.”
“What about the waiters?”
“Well, sir, Albert, the Mater Dotel, came to me from the Vincent at Plymouth. He was there for some years. The three under him have been here for three years—one of them four. They are very naise lads and most respectable. Henry has been here since the hotel opened. He is quite an institution.”
Weston nodded. He said to Colgate:
“Seems all right. You’ll check up on them, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Castle.”
“That will be all you require?”
“For the moment, yes.”
Mrs. Castle creaked out of the room.
Weston said:
“First thing to do is to talk with Captain Marshall.
IV
Kenneth Marshall sat quietly answering the questions put to him. Apart from a slight hardening of his features he was quite calm. Seen here, with the sunlight falling on him from the window, you realized that he was a handsome man. Those straight features, the steady blue eyes, the firm mouth. His voice was low and pleasant.
Colonel Weston was saying:
“I quite understand, Captain Marshall, what a terrible shock this must be to you. But you realize that I am anxious to get the fullest information as soon as possible.”
Marshall nodded.
He said:
“I quite understand. Carry on.”
“Mrs. Marshall was your second wife?”
“Yes.”
“And you have been married how long?”
“Just over four years.”
“And her name before she was married?”
“Helen Stuart. Her acting name was Arlena Stuart.”
“She was an actress?”
“She appeared in Revue and musical shows.”
“Did she give up the stage on her marriage?”
“No. She continued to appear. She actually retired only about a year and a half ago.”
“Was there any special reason for her retirement?”
Kenneth Marshall appeared to consider.
“No,” he said. “She simply said that she was tired of it all.”
“It was not—er—in obedience to your special wish?”
Marshall raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, no.”
“You were quite content for her to continue acting after your marriage?”
Marshall smiled very faintly.
“I should have preferred her to give it up—that, yes. But I made no fuss about it.”
“It caused no point of dissension between you?”
“Certainly not. My wife was free to please herself.”
“And—the marriage was a happy one?”
“Kenneth Marshall said coldly:
“Certainly.”
Colonel Weston paused a minute. Then he said:
“Captain Marshall, have you any idea who could possibly have killed your wife?”
The answer came without the least hesitation.
“None whatever.”
“Had she any enemies?”
“Possibly.”
“Ah?”
The other went on quickly. He said:
“Don’t misunderstand me, sir. My wife was an actress. She was also a very good-looking woman. In both capacities she aroused a certain amount of jealousy and envy. There were fusses over parts—there was rivalry from other women—there was a good deal, shall we say, of general envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness! But that is not to say that there was anyone who was capable of deliberately murdering her.”
Hercule Poirot spoke for the first time. He said:
“What you really mean, Monsieur, is that her enemies were mostly or entirely, women?”
Kenneth Marshall looked across at him.
“Yes,” he said. “That is so.”
The Chief Constable said:
“You know of no man who had a grudge against her?”
“No.”
“Was she previously acquainted with anyone in this hotel?”
“I believe she had met Mr. Redfern before—at some cocktail party. Nobody else to my knowledge.”
Weston paused. He seemed to deliberate as to whether to pursue the subject. Then he decided against that course. He said:
“We now come to this morning. When was the last time you saw your wife?”
Marshall paused a minute, then he said:
“I looked in on my way down to breakfast—”
“Excuse me, you occupied separate rooms?”
“Yes.”
“And what time was that?”
“It must have been about nine o’clock.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was opening her letters.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Nothing of any particular interest. Just good morning—and that it was a nice day—that sort of thing.”
“What was her manner? Unusual at all?”
“No, perfectly normal.”
“She did not seem excited, or depressed, or upset in any way?”
“I certainly didn’t notice it.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Did she mention at all what were the contents of her letters?”
Again a faint smile appeared on Marshall’s lips. He said:
“As far as I can remember, she said they were all bills.”
“Your wife breakfasted in bed?”
“Yes.”
“Did she always do that?”
“Invariably.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“What time did she usually come downstairs?”
“Oh! between ten and eleven—usually nearer eleven.”
Poirot went on:
“If she was to descend at ten o’clock exactly, that would be rather surprising?”
“Yes. She wasn’t often down as early as that.”
“But she was this morning. Why do you think that was, Captain Marshall?”
Marshall said unemotionally:
“Haven’t the least idea. Might have been the weather—extra fine day and all that.”
“You missed her?”
Kenneth Marshall shifted a little in his chair. He said:
“Looked in on her again after breakfast. Room was empty. I was a bit surprised.”
“And then you came down on the beach and asked me if I had seen her?”
“Er—yes.” He added with a faint emphasis in his voice. “And you said you hadn’t….”
The innocent eyes of Hercule Poirot did not falter. Gently he caressed his large and flamboyant moustache.
Weston asked:
“Had you any special reason for wanting to find your wife this morning?”
Marshall shifted his glance amiably to the Chief Constable.
He said:
“No, just wondered where she was, that’s all.”
Weston paused. He moved his chair slightly. His voice fell into a different key. He said:
“Just now, Captain M
arshall, you mentioned that your wife had a previous acquaintance with Mr. Patrick Redfern. How well did your wife know Mr. Redfern?”
Kenneth Marshall said:
“Mind if I smoke?” He felt through his pockets. “Dash! I’ve mislaid my pipe somewhere.”
Poirot offered him a cigarette which he accepted. Lighting it, he said:
“You were asking about Redfern. My wife told me she had come across him at some cocktail party or other.”
“He was, then, just a casual acquaintance?”
“I believe so.”
“Since then—” the Chief Constable paused. “I understand that that acquaintanceship has ripened into something rather closer.”
Marshall said sharply:
“You understand that, do you? Who told you so?”
“It is the common gossip of the hotel.”
For a moment Marshall’s eyes went to Hercule Poirot. They dwelt on him with a kind of cold anger. He said:
“Hotel gossip is usually a tissue of lies!”
“Possibly. But I gather that Mr. Redfern and your wife gave some grounds for the gossip.”
“What grounds?”
“They were constantly in each other’s company.”
“Is that all?”
“You do not deny that that was so?”
“May have been. I really didn’t notice.”
“You did not—excuse me, Captain Marshall—object to your wife’s friendship with Mr. Redfern?”
“I wasn’t in the habit of criticizing my wife’s conduct.”
“You did not protest or object in any way?”
“Certainly not.”
“Not even though it was becoming a subject of scandal and an estrangement was growing up between Mr. Redfern and his wife?”
Kenneth Marshall said coldly:
“I mind my own business and I expect other people to mind theirs. I don’t listen to gossip and tittle-tattle.”
“You won’t deny that Mr. Redfern admired your wife?”
“He probably did. Most men did. She was a very beautiful woman.”
“But you yourself were persuaded that there was nothing serious in the affair?”
“I never thought about it, I tell you.”
“And suppose we have a witness who can testify that they were on terms of the greatest intimacy?”
Again those blue eyes went to Hercule Poirot. Again an expression of dislike showed on that usually impassive face.
Marshall said:
“If you want to listen to these tales, listen to ’em. My wife’s dead and can’t defend herself.”
“You mean that you, personally, don’t believe them?”
For the first time a faint dew of sweat was observable on Marshall’s brow. He said:
“I don’t propose to believe anything of the kind.”
He went on:
“Aren’t you getting a good way from the essentials of this business? What I believe or don’t believe is surely not relevant to the plain fact of murder?”
Hercule Poirot answered before either of the others could speak. He said:
“You do not comprehend, Captain Marshall. There is no such thing as a plain fact of murder. Murder springs, nine times out of ten, out of the character and circumstances of the murdered person. Because the victim was the kind of person he or she was, therefore was he or she murdered! Until we can understand fully and completely exactly what kind of a person Arlena Marshall was, we shall not be able to see clearly exactly the kind of person who murdered her. From that springs the necessity of our questions.”
Marshall turned to the Chief Constable. He said:
“That your view, too?”
Weston boggled a little. He said:
“Well, up to a point—that is to say—”
Marshall gave a short laugh. He said:
“Thought you wouldn’t agree. This character stuff is M. Poirot’s specialty, I believe.”
Poirot said, smiling:
“You can at least congratulate yourself on having done nothing to assist me!”
“What do you mean?”
“What have you told us about your wife? Exactly nothing at all. You have told us only what everyone could see for themselves. That she was beautiful and admired. Nothing more.”
Kenneth Marshall shrugged his shoulders. He said simply:
“You’re crazy.”
He looked towards the Chief Constable and said with emphasis:
“Anything else, sir, that you’d like me to tell you?”
“Yes, Captain Marshall, your own movements this morning, please.”
Kenneth Marshall nodded. He had clearly expected this.
He said:
“I breakfasted downstairs about nine o’clock as usual and read the paper. As I told you I went up to my wife’s room afterwards and found she had gone out. I came down to the beach, saw M. Poirot and asked if he had seen her. Then I had a quick bathe and went up to the hotel again. It was then, let me see, about twenty to eleven—yes, just about that. I saw the clock in the lounge. It was just after twenty minutes to. I went up to my room, but the chambermaid hadn’t quite finished it. I asked her to finish as quickly as she could. I had some letters to type which I wanted to get off by the post. I went downstairs again and had a word or two with Henry in the bar. I went up again to my room at ten minutes to eleven. There I typed my letters. I typed until ten minutes to twelve. I then changed into tennis kit as I had a date to play tennis at twelve. We’d booked the court the day before.”
“Who was we?”
“Mrs. Redfern, Miss Darnley, Mr. Gardener and myself. I came down at twelve o’clock and went up to the court. Miss Darnley was there and Mr. Gardener. Mrs. Redfern arrived a few minutes later. We played tennis for an hour. Just as we came into the hotel afterwards I—I—got the news.”
“Thank you, Captain Marshall. Just as a matter of form, is there anyone who can corroborate the fact that you were typing in your room between—er—ten minutes to eleven and ten minutes to twelve?”
Kenneth Marshall said with a faint smile:
“Have you got some idea that I killed my own wife? Let me see now. The chambermaid was about doing the rooms. She must have heard the typewriter going. And then there are the letters themselves. With all this upset I haven’t posted them. I should imagine they are as good evidence as anything.”
He took three letters from his pocket. They were addressed, but not stamped. He said:
“Their contents, by the way, are strictly confidential. But when it’s a case of murder, one is forced to trust in the discretion of the police. They contain lists of figures and various financial statements. I think you will find that if you put one of your men on to type them out, he won’t do it in much under an hour.”
He paused.
“Satisfied, I hope?”
Weston said smoothly.
“It is no question of suspicion. Everyone on the island will be asked to account for his or her movements between a quarter to eleven and twenty minutes to twelve this morning.”
Kenneth Marshall said:
“Quite.”
Weston said:
“One more thing, Captain Marshall. Do you know anything about the way your wife was likely to have disposed of any property she had?”
“You mean a will? I don’t think she ever made a will.”
“But you are not sure?”
“Her solicitors are Barkett, Markett & Applegood, Bedford Square. They saw to all her contracts, etc. But I’m fairly certain she never made a will. She said once that doing a thing like that would give her the shivers.”
“In that case, if she has died intestate, you, as her husband, succeed to her property.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Had she any near relatives?”
“I don’t think so. If she had, she never mentioned them. I know that her father and mother died when she was a child and she had no brothers or sisters.”
“In any case,
I suppose, she had nothing very much to leave?”
Kenneth Marshall said coldly:
“On the contrary. Only two years ago, Sir Robert Erskine, who was an old friend of hers, died and left her most of his fortune. It amounted, I think, to about fifty thousand pounds.”
Inspector Colgate looked up. An alertness came into his glance. Up to now he had been silent. Now he asked:
“Then actually, Captain Marshall, your wife was a rich woman?”
Kenneth Marshall shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose she was really.”
“And you still say she did not make a will?”
“You can ask the solicitors. But I’m pretty certain she didn’t. As I tell you, she thought it unlucky.”
There was a pause then Marshall added:
“Is there anything further?”
Weston shook his head.
“Don’t think so—eh Colgate? No. Once more, Captain Marshall, let me offer you all my sympathy in your loss.”
Marshall blinked. He said jerkily:
“Oh—thanks.”
He went out.
V
The three men looked at each other.
Weston said:
“Cool customer. Not giving anything away, is he? What do you make of him, Colgate?”
The Inspector shook his head.
“It’s difficult to tell. He’s not the kind that shows anything. That sort makes a bad impression in the witness-box, and yet it’s a bit unfair on them really. Sometimes they’re as cut up as anything and yet can’t show it. That kind of manner made the jury bring in a verdict of Guilty against Wallace. It wasn’t the evidence. They just couldn’t believe that a man could lose his wife and talk and act so coolly about it.”
Weston turned to Poirot.
“What do you think, Poirot?”
Hercule Poirot raised his hands.
He said:
“What can one say? He is the closed box—the fastened oyster. He has chosen his rôle. He has heard nothing, he has seen nothing, he knows nothing!”
“We’ve got a choice of motives,” said Colgate. “There’s jealousy and there’s the money motive. Of course, in a way, a husband’s the obvious suspect. One naturally thinks of him first. If he knew his missus was carrying on with the other chap—”
Poirot interrupted.
He said:
“I think he knew that.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Listen, my friend. Last night I had been talking with Mrs. Redfern on Sunny Ledge. I came down from there to the hotel and on my way I saw those two together—Mrs. Marshall and Patrick Redfern. And a moment or two after I met Captain Marshall. His face was very stiff. It says nothing—but nothing at all! It is almost too blank, if you understand me. Oh! he knew all right.”
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