Evil Under the Sun Read Free Page B

a minute or two, “Patrick Redfern’s a fool!”
    Hercule Poirot said nothing. He was gazing down the beach, but he was not looking at Patrick Redfern and Arlena Stuart.
    Miss Brewster said:
    â€œWell, I’d better go and get hold of my boat.”
    She left them.
    Major Barry turned his boiled gooseberry eyes with mild curiosity on Poirot.
    â€œWell, Poirot,” he said. “What are you thinking about? You’ve not opened your mouth. What do you think of the siren? Pretty hot?”
    Poirot said:
    â€œC’est possible.”
    â€œNow then, you old dog. I know you Frenchmen!”
    Poirot said coldly:
    â€œI am not a Frenchman!”
    â€œWell, don’t tell me you haven’t got an eye for a pretty girl! What do you think of her, eh?”
    Hercule Poirot said:
    â€œShe is not young.”
    â€œWhat does that matter? A woman’s as old as she looks! Her looks are all right.”
    Hercule Poirot nodded. He said:
    â€œYes, she is beautiful. But it is not beauty that counts in the end. It is not beauty that makes every head (except one) turn on the beach to look at her.”
    â€œIt’s IT, my boy,” said the Major. “That’s what it is—IT.”
    Then he said with sudden curiosity.
    â€œWhat are you looking at so steadily?”
    Hercule Poirot replied: “I am looking at the exception. At the one man who did not look up when she passed.”
    Major Barry followed his gaze to where it rested on a man of about forty, fair-haired and suntanned. He had a quiet pleasant face and was sitting on the beach smoking a pipe and reading The Times.
    â€œOh, that! ” said Major Barry. “That’s the husband, my boy. That’s Marshall.”
    Hercule Poirot said:
    â€œYes, I know.”
    Major Barry chuckled. He himself was a bachelor. He was accustomed to think of The Husband in three lights only—as “the Obstacle,” “the Inconvenience” or “the Safeguard.”
    He said:
    â€œSeems a nice fellow. Quiet. Wonder if my Times has come?”
    He got up and went up towards the hotel.
    Poirot’s glance shifted slowly to the face of Stephen Lane.
    Stephen Lane was watching Arlena Marshall and Patrick Redfern. He turned suddenly to Poirot. There was a stern fanatical light in his eyes.
    He said:
    â€œThat woman is evil through and through. Do you doubt it?”
    Poirot said slowly:
    â€œIt is difficult to be sure.”
    Stephen Lane said:
    â€œBut, man alive, don’t you feel it in the air? All round you? The presence of Evil.”
    Slowly, Hercule Poirot nodded his head.

Two
    W hen Rosamund Darnley came and sat down by him, Hercule Poirot made no attempt to disguise his pleasure.
    As he has since admitted, he admired Rosamund Darnley as much as any woman he had ever met. He liked her distinction, the graceful lines of her figure, the alert proud carriage of her head. He liked the neat sleek waves of her dark hair and the ironic quality of her smile.
    She was wearing a dress of some navy blue material with touches of white. It looked very simple owing to the expensive severity of its line. Rosamund Darnley as Rose Mond Ltd was one of London’s best-known dressmakers.
    She said:
    â€œI don’t think I like this place. I’m wondering why I came here!”
    â€œYou have been here before, have you not?”
    â€œYes, two years ago, at Easter. There weren’t so many people then.”
    Hercule Poirot looked at her. He said gently:
    â€œSomething has occurred to worry you. That is right, is it not?”
    She nodded. Her foot swung to and fro. She stared down at it. She said:
    â€œI’ve met a ghost. That’s what it is.”
    â€œA ghost, Mademoiselle?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThe ghost of what? Or of whom?”
    â€œOh, the ghost of myself.”
    Poirot asked gently:
    â€œWas it a painful ghost?”
    â€œUnexpectedly painful. It took me back, you