II

There was one very important person (in his own estimation at least) staying at the Jolly Roger.

Hercule Poirot, resplendent in a white duck suit, with a panama hat tilted¹ over his eyes, hismoustaches magnificently befurled, lay back in an improved type of deck chair and surveyed thebathing beach. A series of terraces led down to it from the hotel. On the beach itself were floats,lilos, rubber and canvas boats, balls and rubber toys. There was a long springboard and three raftsat varying distances from the shore.

Of the bathers, some were in the sea, some were lying stretched out in the sun, and some wereanointing themselves carefully with oil.

On the terrace immediately above, the nonbathers sat and commented on the weather, the scenein front of them, the news in the morning papers and any other subject that appealed to them.

On Poirot’s left a ceaseless flow of conversation poured in a gentle monotone from the lips ofMrs. Gardener while at the same time her needles clacked as she knitted vigorously. Beyond her,her husband, Odell C. Gardener, lay in a hammock chair, his hat tilted forward over his nose, andoccasionally uttered a brief statement when called upon to do so.

On Poirot’s right, Miss Brewster, a tough athletic² woman with grizzled hair and a pleasantweather-beaten face, made gruff comments. The result sounded rather like a sheepdog whose shortstentorian barks interrupted the ceaseless yapping of a Pomeranian.

Mrs. Gardener was saying:

“And so I said to Mr. Gardener, why, I said, sightseeing is all very well, and I do like to do aplace thoroughly³. But, after all, I said, we’ve done England pretty well and all I want now is to getto some quiet spot by the seaside and just relax. That’s what I said, wasn’t it, Odell? Just relax. Ifeel I must relax, I said. That’s so, isn’t it, Odell?”

Mr. Gardener, from behind his hat, murmured:

“Yes, darling.”

Mrs. Gardener pursued the theme.

“And so, when I mentioned it to Mr. Kelso, at Cook’s—He’s arranged all our itinerary⁴ for usand been most helpful in every way. I don’t really know what we’d have done without him!—well, as I say, when I mentioned it to him, Mr. Kelso said that we couldn’t do better than comehere. A most picturesque⁵ spot, he said, quite out of the world, and at the same time verycomfortable and most exclusive in every way. And, of course, Mr. Gardener, he chipped in thereand said what about the sanitary⁶ arrangements? Because, if you’ll believe me, M. Poirot, a sister ofMr. Gardener’s went to stay at a guesthouse once, very exclusive they said it was, and in the heartof the moors⁷, but would you believe me, nothing but an earth closet! So naturally that made Mr.

Gardener suspicious of these out-of-the-world places, didn’t it, Odell?”

“Why, yes, darling,” said Gardener.

“But Mr. Kelso reassured⁸ us at once. The sanitation⁹, he said, was absolutely the latest word, andthe cooking was excellent. And I’m sure that’s so. And what I like about it is, it’s intime, if youknow what I mean. Being a small place we all talk to each other and everybody knows everybody.

If there is a fault about the British it is that they’re inclined to be a bit standoffish until they’veknown you a couple of years. After that nobody could be nicer. Mr. Kelso said that interestingpeople came here, and I see he was right. There’s you, M. Poirot and Miss Darnley. Oh! I was justtickled to death when I found out who you were, wasn’t I, Odell?”

“You were, darling.”

“Ha!” said Miss Brewster, breaking in explosively. “What a thrill, eh, M. Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot raised his hands in deprecation. But it was no more than a polite gesture. Mrs.

Gardener flowed smoothly¹⁰ on.

“You see, M. Poirot, I’d heard a lot about you from Cornelia Robson who was at Badenhof. Mr.

Gardener and I were at Badenhof in May. And of course Cornelia told us all about that business inEgypt when Linnet Ridgeway was killed. She said you were wonderful and I’ve always beensimply crazy to meet you, haven’t I, Odell?”

“Yes, darling.”

“And then Miss Darnley, too. I get a lot of my things at Rose Mond’s and of course she is RoseMond, isn’t she? I think her clothes are ever so clever. Such a marvellous line. That dress I had onlast night was one of hers. She’s just a lovely woman in every way, I think.”

From beyond Miss Brewster, Major Barry, who had been sitting with protuberant¹¹ eyes glued tothe bathers, grunted¹² out:

“Distinguished lookin’ gal¹³!”

Mrs. Gardener clacked her needles.

“I’ve just got to confess one thing, M. Poirot. It gave me a kind of a turn meeting you here—notthat I wasn’t just thrilled to meet you, because I was. Mr. Gardener knows that. But it just came tome that you might be here—well, professionally. You know what I mean? Well, I’m just terriblysensitive, as Mr. Gardener will tell you, and I just couldn’t bear it if I was to be mixed up in crimeof any kind. You see—”

Mr. Gardener cleared his throat. He said:

“You see, M. Poirot, Mrs. Gardener is very sensitive.”

The hands of Hercule Poirot shot into the air.

“But let me assure you, Madame, that I am here simply in the same way that you are hereyourselves—to enjoy myself—to spend the holiday. I do not think of crime even.”

Miss Brewster said again, giving her short gruff bark:

“No bodies on Smugglers’ Island.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“Ah! but that, it is not strictly¹⁴ true.” He pointed¹⁵ downward. “Regard them there, lying out inrows. What are they? They are not men and women. There is nothing personal about them. Theyare just—bodies!”

Major Barry said appreciatively:

“Good-looking fillies, some of ’em. Bit on the thin side, perhaps.”

Poirot cried:

“Yes, but what appeal is there? What mystery? I, I am old, of the old school, When I wasyoung, one saw barely the ankle. The glimpse of a foamy¹⁶ petticoat, how alluring¹⁷! The gentleswelling of the calf—a knee—a beribboned garter—”

“Naughty, naughty!” said Major Barry hoarsely¹⁸.

“Much more sensible—the things we wear nowadays,” said Miss Brewster.

“Why, yes, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Gardener. “I do think, you know, that our girls and boysnowadays lead a much more natural healthy life. They just romp¹⁹ about together and they—well,they—” Mrs. Gardener blushed slightly for she had a nice mind—“they think nothing of it, if youknow what I mean?”

“I do know,” said Hercule Poirot. “It is deplorable!”

“Deplorable?” squeaked²⁰ Mrs. Gardener.

“To remove all the romance—all the mystery! Today everything is standardized²¹!” He waved ahand towards the recumbent figures. “That reminds me very much of the Morgue in Paris.”

“M. Poirot!” Mrs. Gardener was scandalized.

“Bodies—arranged on slabs—like butcher’s meat!”

“But M. Poirot, isn’t that too far-fetched for words?”

Hercule Poirot admitted:

“It may be, yes.”

“All the same,” Mrs. Gardener knitted with energy, “I’m inclined to agree with you on onepoint. These girls that lie out like that in the sun will grow hair on their legs and arms. I’ve said soto Irene—that’s my daughter, M. Poirot. Irene, I said to her, if you lie out like that in the sun,you’ll have hair all over you, hair on your arms and hair on your legs and hair on your bosom²², andwhat will you look like then? I said to her. Didn’t I, Odell?”

“Yes, darling,” said Mr. Gardener.

Everyone was silent, perhaps making a mental picture of Irene when the worst had happened.

Mrs. Gardener rolled up her knitting and said:

“I wonder now—”

Mr. Gardener said:

“Yes, darling?”

He struggled out of the hammock chair and took Mrs. Gardener’s knitting and her book. Heasked:

“What about joining us for a drink, Miss Brewster?”

“Not just now, thanks.”

The Gardeners went up to the hotel.

Miss Brewster said:

“American husbands are wonderful!”

 

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