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Poirot asked: ‘What kind of trouble?’
Horace Blatt replied:
‘That depends. I’d say, looking at Marshall, that he’s a man with a funny kind of temper. As a matter of fact, I know he is. Heard something about him. I’ve met that quiet sort. Never know where you are with that kind. Redfern had better look out—’
He broke off, as the subject of his words came into the bar. He went on speaking loudly and self-consciously.
‘And, as I say, sailing round this coast is good fun. Hullo, Redfern, have one with me? What’ll you have? Dry Martini? Right. What about you, M. Poirot?’
Poirot shook his head.
Patrick Redfern sat down and said:
‘Sailing? It’s the best fun in the world. Wish I could do more of it. Used to spend most of my time as a boy in a sailing dinghy round this coast.’
Poirot said:
‘Then you know this part of the world well?’
‘Rather! I knew this place before there was a hotel on it. There were just a few fishermen’s cottages at Leathercombe Bay and a tumbledown old house, all shut up, on the island.’
‘There was a house here?’
‘Oh, yes, but it hadn’t been lived in for years. Was practically falling down. There used to be all sorts of stories of secret passages from the house to Pixy’s Cave. We were always looking for that secret passage, I remember.’
Horace Blatt spilt his drink. He cursed, mopped himself and asked:
‘What is this Pixy’s Cave?’
Patrick said:
‘Oh, don’t you know it? It’s on Pixy Cove. You can’t find the entrance to it easily. It’s among a lot of piled up boulders at one end. Just a long thin crack. You can just squeeze through it. Inside it widens out into quite a big cave. You can imagine what fun it was to a boy! An old fisherman showed it to me. Nowadays, even the fishermen don’t know about it. I asked one the other day why the place was called Pixy Cove and he couldn’t tell me.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘But I still do not understand. What is this pixy?’
Patrick Redfern said:
‘Oh! that’s typically Devonshire. There’s the pixy’s cave at Sheepstor on the Moor. You’re supposed to leave a pin, you know, as a present for the pixy. A pixy is a kind of moor spirit.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Ah! but it is interesting, that.’
Patrick Redfern went on.
‘There’s a lot of pixy lore on Dartmoor still. There are tors that are said to pixy ridden, and I expect that farmers coming home after a thick night still complain of being pixy led.’
Horace Blatt said:
‘You mean when they’ve had a couple?’
Patrick Redfern said with a smile:
‘That’s certainly the commonsense explanation!’
Blatt looked at his watch. He said:
‘I’m going in to dinner. On the whole, Redfern, pirates are my favourites, not pixies.’
Patrick Redfern said with a laugh as the other went out:
‘Faith, I’d like to see the old boy pixy led himself!’
Poirot observed meditatively:
‘For a hard-bitten business man, M. Blatt seems to have a very romantic imagination.’
Patrick Redfern said:
‘That’s because he’s only half educated. Or so my wife says. Look at what he reads! Nothing but thrillers or Wild West stories.’
Poirot said:
‘You mean that he has still the mentality of a boy?’
‘Well, don’t you think so, sir?’
‘Me, I have not seen very much of him.’
‘I haven’t either. I’ve been out sailing with him once or twice—but he doesn’t really like having anyone with him. He prefers to be on his own.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘That is indeed curious. It is singularly unlike his practice on land.’
Redfern laughed. He said:
‘I know. We all have a bit of trouble keeping out of his way. He’d like to turn this place into a cross between Margate and Le Touquet.’
Poirot said nothing for a minute or two. He was studying the laughing face of his companion very attentively. He said suddenly and unexpectedly:
‘I think, M. Redfern, that you enjoy living.’
Patrick stared at him, surprised.
‘Indeed I do. Why not?’
‘Why not indeed,’ agreed Poirot. ‘I make you my felicitation on the fact.’
Smiling a little, Patrick Redfern said:
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘That is why, as an older man, a very much older man, I venture to offer you a piece of advice.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘A very wise friend of mine in the Police Force said to me years ago: “Hercule, my friend, if you would know tranquillity, avoid women.” ’
Patrick Redfern said:
‘I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that, sir. I’m married, you know.’
‘I do know. Your wife is a very charming, a very accomplished woman. She is, I think, very fond of you.’
Patrick Redfern said sharply:
‘I’m very fond of her.’
‘Ah,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘I am delighted to hear it.’
Patrick’s brow was suddenly like thunder.
‘Look here, M. Poirot, what are you getting at?’
‘Les Femmes.’ Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘I know something of them. They are capable of complicating life unbearably. And the English, they conduct their affairs indescribably. If it was necessary for you to come here, M. Redfern, why, in the name of heaven, did you bring your wife?’
Patrick Redfern said angrily:
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Hercule Poirot said calmly:
‘You know perfectly. I am not so foolish as to argue with an infatuated man. I utter only the word of caution.’
‘You’ve been listening to these damned scandal-mongers. Mrs Gardener, the Brewster woman—nothing to do but to clack their tongues all day. Just because a woman’s good-looking—they’re down on her like a sack of coals.’
Hercule Poirot got up. He murmured:
‘Are you really as young as all that?’
Shaking his head, he left the bar. Patrick Redfern stared angrily after him.
V
Hercule Poirot paused in the hall on his way from the dining-room. The doors were open—a breath of soft night air came in.
The rain had stopped and the mist had dispersed. It was a fine night again.
Hercule Poirot found Mrs Redfern in her favourite seat on the cliff ledge. He stopped by her and said:
‘This seat is damp. You should not sit here. You will catch the chill.’
‘No, I shan’t. And what does it matter anyway.’
‘Tscha, tscha, you are not a child! You are an educated woman. You must look at things sensibly.’
She said coldly:
‘I can assure you I never take cold.’
Poirot said:
‘It has been a wet day. The wind blew, the rain came down, and the mist was everywhere so that one could not see through it. Eh bien, what is it like now? The mists have rolled away, the sky is clear and up above the stars shine. That is like life, Madame.’
Christine said in a low fierce voice:
‘Do you know what I am most sick of in this place?’
‘What, Madame?’
‘Pity.’
She brought the word out like the flick of a whip.
She went on:
‘Do you think I don’t know? That I can’t see? All the time people are saying: “Poor Mrs Redfern—that poor little woman.” And anyway I’m not little, I’m tall. They say little because they are sorry for me. And I can’t bear it!’
Cautiously, Hercule Poirot spread his handkerchief on the seat and sat down. He said thoughtfully:
‘There is something in that.’
‘That woman—’ said Christine and stopped.
Poirot said gravely:
‘Will you allow me to tell you something, Madame? Something that is as true as the stars above us? The Arlena Stuarts—or Arlena Marshalls—of this world—do not count.’
Christine Redfern said:
‘Nonsense.’
‘I assure you, it is true. Their Empire is of the moment and for the moment. To count—really and truly to count—a woman must have goodness or brains.’
Christine said scornfully:
