She had her own blue-eyed boy! And if you ask me, Marshall was getting wise to it."
"Have you any evidence for that?"
"Saw him give young Redfern a dirty look once or twice.
Dark horse, Marshall.
Looks very meek and mild and as though he were half asleep all the time - but that's not his reputation in the City.
I've heard a thing or two about him.
Nearly had up for assault once.
Mind you, the fellow in question had put up a pretty dirty deal.
Marshall had trusted him and the fellow had let him down cold.
Particularly dirty business, I believe.
Marshall went for him and half killed him.
Fellow didn't prosecute - too afraid of what might come out.
I give you that for what it's worth."
"So you think it possible," said Poirot, "that Captain Marshall strangled his wife?"
"Not at all.
Never said anything of the sort.
Just letting you know that he's the sort of fellow who could go berserk on occasions."
Poirot said: "Mr Blatt, there is reason to believe that Mrs Marshall went this morning to Pixy Cove to meet some one.
Have you any idea who that some one 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 the case last month? Parson and the Churchwarden's daughter? Bit of an eyeopener."
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 jollity about it."
Hercule Poirot murmured: "You have not enjoyed your stay here?"
Mr Blatt's 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 mateyness 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." 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?" Hercule Poirot, his eyes raised to the ceiling, murmured: "I think that he is - nervous!"
Inspector Colgate said: "I've got those times worked out.
From the hotel to the ladder down to Pixy Cove three minutes. That's walking till you are out of sight of the hotel and then running like hell."
Weston raised his eyebrows. He said: "That's quicker than I thought."
"Down ladder to beach one minute and three quarters.