Caribbean Mystery - Agatha Christie [3]
“Well, a bit of a coincidence—eh? Same sort of story. My chap said—‘I had a case rather like that. Name of Jones (or whatever the name was)—What was your man’s name?’ ‘Can’t remember. Robinson I think. Certainly not Jones.’
“Well, the chaps looked at each other and said it was pretty odd. And then my chap pulled out a snapshot. He showed it to the second chap. ‘That’s the fellow,’ he said—‘I’d gone along the next day to check up on the particulars, and I noticed a magnificent species of hibiscus just by the front door, a variety I’d never seen before in this country. My camera was in the car and I took a photo. Just as I snapped the shutter the husband came out of the front door so I got him as well. Don’t think he realized it. I asked him about the hibiscus but he couldn’t tell me its name.’ Second medico looked at the snap. He said: ‘It’s a bit out of focus—But I could swear—at any rate I’m almost sure—it’s the same man.’
“Don’t know if they followed it up. But if so they didn’t get anywhere. Expect Mr. Jones or Robinson covered his tracks too well. But queer story, isn’t it? Wouldn’t think things like that could happen.”
“Oh, yes, I would,” said Miss Marple placidly. “Practically every day.”
“Oh, come, come. That’s a bit fantastic.”
“If a man gets a formula that works—he won’t stop. He’ll go on.”
“Brides in the bath—eh?”
“That kind of thing, yes.”
“Doctor let me have that snap just as a curiosity—”
Major Palgrave began fumbling through an overstuffed wallet murmuring to himself: “Lots of things in here—don’t know why I keep all these things….”
Miss Marple thought she did know. They were part of the Major’s stock-in-trade. They illustrated his repertoire of stories. The story he had just told, or so she suspected, had not been originally like that—it had been worked up a good deal in repeated telling.
The Major was still shuffling and muttering—“Forgotten all about that business. Good-looking woman she was, you’d never suspect—now where—Ah—that takes my mind back—what tusks! I must show you—”
He stopped—sorted out a small photographic print and peered down at it.
“Like to see the picture of a murderer?”
He was about to pass it to her when his movement was suddenly arrested. Looking more like a stuffed frog than ever, Major Palgrave appeared to be staring fixedly over her right shoulder—from whence came the sound of approaching footsteps and voices.
“Well, I’m damned—I mean—” He stuffed everything back into his wallet and crammed it into his pocket.
His face went an even deeper shade of purplish red—He exclaimed in a loud, artificial voice:
“As I was saying—I’d like to have shown you those elephant tusks—Biggest elephant I’ve ever shot—Ah, hallo!” His voice took on a somewhat spurious hearty note.
“Look who’s here! The great quartette—Flora and Fauna—What luck have you had today—Eh?”
The approaching footsteps resolved themselves into four of the hotel guests whom Miss Marple already knew by sight. They consisted of two married couples and though Miss Marple was not as yet acquainted with their surnames, she knew that the big man with the upstanding bush of thick grey hair was addressed as “Greg,” that the golden blonde woman, his wife, was known as Lucky—and that the other married couple, the dark lean man and the handsome but rather weather-beaten woman, were Edward and Evelyn. They were botanists, she understood, and also interested in birds.
“No luck at all,” said Greg—“At least no luck in getting what we were after.”
“Don’t know if you know Miss Marple? Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon and Greg and Lucky Dyson.”
They greeted her pleasantly and Lucky said loudly that she’d die if she didn’t have a drink at once or sooner.
Greg hailed Tim Kendal who was sitting a little way away with his wife poring over account books.
“Hi, Tim. Get us some drinks.” He addressed the others. “Planters Punch?”
They agreed.
“Same for you, Miss Marple?”
Miss Marple said Thank you, but she would prefer fresh lime.
“Fresh lime it is,” said Tim Kendal, “and five Planters Punches.”
“Join us, Tim?”
“Wish