Evil Under the Sun - Agatha Christie [1]
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 standoffish 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 at Badenhof. 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