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“One could go right across the island without going through the hotel at all.” He added: “But one might still be seen from a window.”

“What window?”

“Two of the public bathrooms look out that way—north—and the staff bathroom, and the cloakrooms on the ground floor. Also the billiard room.”

Poirot nodded. He said:

“And all the former have frosted glass windows, and one does not play billiards on a fine morning.”

“Exactly.”

Weston paused and said:

“If he did it, that’s the way he went.”

“You mean Captain Marshall?”

“Yes. Blackmail, or no blackmail. I still feel it points to him. And his manner—well, his manner is unfortunate.”

Hercule Poirot said dryly:

“Perhaps—but a manner does not make a murderer!”

Weston said:

“Then you think he’s out of it?”

Poirot shook his head. He said:

“No, I would not say that.”

Weston said:

“We’ll see what Colgate can make out of the typewriting alibi. In the meantime I’ve got the chambermaid of this floor waiting to be interviewed. A good deal may depend on her evidence.”

The chambermaid was a woman of thirty, brisk, efficient and intelligent. Her answers came readily.

Captain Marshall had come up to his room not long after ten-thirty. She was then finishing the room. He had asked her to be as quick as possible. She had not seen him come back but she had heard the sound of the typewriter a little later. She put it at about five minutes to eleven. She was then in Mr. and Mrs. Redfern’s room. After she had done that she moved on to Miss Darnley’s room at the end of the corridor. She could not hear the typewriter from there. She went to Miss Darnley’s room, as near as she could say, at just after eleven o’clock. She remembered hearing Leathercombe Church strike the hour as she went in. At a quarter past eleven she had gone downstairs for her eleven o’clock cup of tea and “snack.” Afterwards she had gone to do the rooms in the other wing of the hotel. In answer to the Chief Constable’s question she explained that she had done the rooms in this corridor in the following order:

Miss Linda Marshall’s, the two public bathrooms, Mrs. Marshall’s room and private bath, Captain Marshall’s room. Mr. and Mrs. Redfern’s room and private bath, Miss Darnley’s room and private bath. Captain Marshall’s and Miss Marshall’s rooms had no adjoining bathrooms.

During the time she was in Miss Darnley’s room and bathroom she had not heard any one pass the door or go out by the staircase to the rocks, but it was quite likely she wouldn’t have heard if any one went quietly.

Weston then directed his questions to the subject of Mrs. Marshall.

No, Mrs. Marshall wasn’t one for rising early as a rule. She, Gladys Narracott, had been surprised to find the door open and Mrs. Marshall gone down at just after ten. Something quite unusual, that was.

“Did Mrs. Marshall always have her breakfast in bed?”

“Oh yes, sir, always. Not very much of it either. Just tea and orange juice and one piece of toast. Slimming like so many ladies.”

No, she hadn’t noticed anything unusual in Mrs. Marshall’s manner that morning. She’d seemed quite as usual.

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“What did you think of Mrs. Marshall, Mademoiselle?”

Gladys Narracott stared at him. She said:

“Well, that’s hardly for me to say, is it, sir?”

“But yes, it is for you to say. We are anxious—very anxious—to hear your impression.”

Gladys gave a slightly uneasy glance towards the Chief Constable, who endeavoured to make his face sympathetic and approving, though actually he felt slightly embarrassed by his foreign colleague’s methods of approach. He said:

“Er—yes, certainly. Go ahead.”

For the first time Gladys Narracott’s brisk efficiency deserted her. Her fingers fumbled with her print dress. She said:

“Well, Mrs. Marshall—she wasn’t exactly a lady, as you might say. What I mean is she was more like an actress.”

Colonel Weston said:

“She was an actress.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I’m saying. She just went on exactly as she felt like it. She didn’t—well, she didn’t trouble to be polite if she