Читать книгу Evil Under the Sun - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 8

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 tilted over his eyes, his moustaches magnificently befurled, lay back in an improved type of deck-chair and surveyed the bathing 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 rafts at varying distances from the shore.

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

On the terrace immediately above, the non-bathers sat and commented on the weather, the scene in 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 of Mrs 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, and occasionally uttered a brief statement when called upon to do so.

On Poirot’s right, Miss Brewster, a tough athletic woman with grizzled hair and a pleasant weather-beaten face, made gruff comments. The result sounded rather like a sheepdog whose short stentorian 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 a place thoroughly. But, after all, I said, we’ve done England pretty well and all I want now is to get to some quiet spot by the seaside and just relax. That’s what I said, wasn’t it, Odell? Just relax. I feel 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 itinerary for us and 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 come here. A most picturesque spot, he said, quite out of the world, and at the same time very comfortable and most exclusive in every way. And, of course, Mr Gardener, he chipped in there and said what about the sanitary arrangements? Because, if you’ll believe me, M. Poirot, a sister of Mr Gardener’s went to stay at a guesthouse once, very exclusive they said it was, and in the heart of the moors, 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 reassured us at once. The sanitation, he said, was absolutely the latest word, and the cooking was excellent. And I’m sure that’s so. And what I like about it is, it’s intime, if you know 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 stand-offish until they’ve known you a couple of years. After that nobody could be nicer. Mr Kelso said that interesting people came here, and I see he was right. There’s you, M. Poirot and Miss Darnley. Oh! I was just tickled 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 smoothly on.

‘You see, M. Poirot, I’d heard a lot about you from Cornelia Robson who was. Mr Gardener and I were at Badenhof in May. And of course Cornelia told us all about that business in Egypt when Linnet Ridgeway was killed. She said you were wonderful and I’ve always been simply 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 Rose Mond, isn’t she? I think her clothes are ever so clever. Such a marvellous line. That dress I had on last 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 protuberant eyes glued to the bathers, grunted out:

‘Distinguished lookin’ gal!’

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—not that I wasn’t just thrilled to meet you, because I was. Mr Gardener knows that. But it just came to me that you might be here—well, professionally. You know what I mean? Well, I’m just terribly sensitive, as Mr Gardener will tell you, and I just couldn’t bear it if I was to be mixed up in crime of 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 here yourselves—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 strictly true.’ He pointed downward. ‘Regard them there, lying out in rows. What are they? They are not men and women. There is nothing personal about them. They are 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 was young, one saw barely the ankle. The glimpse of a foamy petticoat, how alluring! The gentle swelling of the calf—a knee—a beribboned garter—’

‘Naughty, naughty!’ said Major Barry hoarsely.

‘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 boys nowadays lead a much more natural healthy life. They just romp about together and they—well, they—’ Mrs Gardener blushed slightly for she had a nice mind—‘they think nothing of it, if you know what I mean?’

‘I do know,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘It is deplorable!’

‘Deplorable?’ squeaked Mrs Gardener.

‘To remove all the romance—all the mystery! Today everything is standardized!’ He waved a hand 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 one point. These girls that lie out like that in the sun will grow hair on their legs and arms. I’ve said so to 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 bosom, and what 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. He asked:

‘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!’