Evil Under the Sun

‘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 goodmorning-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 Marshall, 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!’