Evil Under the Sun Page #10

into her original costume.

It was about five past 12.

Madame Redfern bids her husband a

hunted farewell. The clock is ticking.

She runs back across the island

to rejoin the path

leading from Gull Bay

to the hotel.

She has one more

task to perform.

She must get rid of the

incriminating bottle of suntan stain.

The bottle that no one

would admit throwing.

So she hams it over the cliff I

But has the bad luck to have the event

witnessed by Monsieur Brewster,

whom it almost hit.

She reaches the hotel,

15.

I myself timed the journey.

But then I was not running like

a young gazelle, for obvious reasons.

Madame Redfern now takes the bath,

heard by Monsieur Gardner,

the bath no one would admit to taking,

in order to wash off the suntan.

She changes into tennis clothes

and appears on the court

a few minutes late it is true,

but unruffled and smiling,

a picture of innocence.

Yes, Monsieur and Madame Redfern,

I blame myself for not having seen

through your little charades earlier.

But then, unfortunately,

not even Hercule Poirot is perfect.

From the moment you arrived,

you started playing out a series

of carefully rehearsed scenes,

in such a manner

that all might hear or see.

Together, there were

scenes of hysterical jealousy

played close to open windows.

You don't want to talk!

Look here!

Can't I even speak to a pretty woman

without you jumping to the conclusion

that I'm having an affair with her?

But you are, aren't you?

A part, you, madame,

took every opportunity

to give the impression

that you are a physically frail woman

who's no good at sports

and who had to hide her skin away

from the sun

because it blistered

and made her look like, what was it?

An Italian ice cream?

And who was altogether to be pitied as

a poor little helpless abandoned wife.

Whilst you, monsieur,

took elaborately indiscreet pains

to advertise your romance,

instead of trying to conceal it

as any prudent lover would.

I think you will all agree

that it was a most audacious plan,

brilliantly executed.

Oh, yes, brilliantly.

But the one thing you have failed to

supply, Monsieur Poirot, is motive.

Why on earth should

I kill Arlena?

I absolutely adored her.

Adultery may be reprehensible,

but it certainly is not criminal.

No, monsieur, you did not adore her,

you adored her money.

And, more especially, the magnificent

diamond offered her by Sir Horace Blatt.

Those who teach Latin to small

boys are not exactly overpaid.

You're not at all the romantic figure

you like to present.

You are a hardened adventurer

and a vicious swindler,

who had absolutely no moral compunction

in borrowing the diamond

from Madame Arlena

and of substituting a paste copy.

Oh, pray, do continue, Monsieur Poirot.

Oh, yes, monsieur, politeness

is very much part of the act.

You knew that

your deception would be discovered.

Too bloody right.

And you had to eliminate the

only witness capable of exposing you.

And what better opportunity than on

holiday, in a small exclusive island,

where you could plan

and execute her murder?

Picture to yourself the scene,

mes amis.

The half-lit grotto.

Madame Arlena slowly

returning to consciousness

and the so solicitous Monsieur Patrick

preparing le moment juste to strike.

Oh, Patrick.

Suddenly, his hands

are around her throat.

She struggles,

and it is the end of poor, foolish,

beautiful,

gullible Arlena Marshall.

And that, mesdames,

mademoiselle, messieurs

is the story of the murder of

Arlena Marshall.

The only thing they had not foreseen

was the presence on this island

of Hercule Poirot.

The well-known romancer

and teller of tales.

Excellent plot line. imaginatively

conceived. Good, clear narrative style.

I'll give you nine out of ten, Poirot.

I'm deducting one mark

for total absence of proof.

Is that true?

We've sat here and listened to all that

and you can't prove a word of it?

Unfortunately, Monsieur Redfern

is absolutely right.

I haven't a shred of evidence.

Although that is

unquestionably what happened.

I don't think we need to sit here

and be insulted by

this fanciful little mountebank.

Come along, darling.

Shall we go and pack?

Just give us five minutes, Mr Poirot,

and I'm sure we'll be able to work out

how you did it.

After all, where were you

at the time of the murder?

You've let that pair get off scot-free

and I haven't even got my diamond back!

You've made a right cock-up, Poirot.

Oh, how very kind of you to see us off!

Well, goodbye, my dear friends.

I don't think there'll be any necessity

to leave a forwarding address.

Just a moment, Mr Redfern.

Haven't you forgotten something?

Why pay, Patrick?

They've done nothing but insult us.

Oh, we must pay it, darling.

After all, we wouldn't want anybody to

think we were cheats now, would we?

- I know you'll take a cheque.

- Certainly.

Of course, I also know that you're

thinking the cheque may well bounce,

but I'm afraid

that's as good as it gets.

Here you are, dear. I've put

a little extra on for the inconvenience.

Thank you so much.

Would you mind me saying something,

Miss Castle?

Your ensemble does absolutely

nothing for you. Goodbye.

Un instant, s'il vous plait,

Monsieur Ruben

- Monsieur Felix Ruber?

- Who did you say?

- Ruber?

- Who the hell is Ruber?

Felix Ruber is the widower of

Alice Ruber,

whose strangled body had been

discovered on the Yorkshire moors

some months ago.

I was called in by the Trojan Insurance

Company to examine the police report.

In the event of Mrs Ruber's death,

her husband was a beneficiary of

a large sum of money.

The police were satisfied that it was

the work of a madman or a tramp

and so was I, since the

only possible suspect,

the husband, had a cast-iron alibi,

which had been established

by a woman-hiker

who had found the body

earlier in the day.

But last night I asked myself.

A strangulation,

an innocent witness, a change of time.

Could the similarity in the pattern of

the events here on the island

and those on the moors

be a mere coincidence?

No, mes amis,

the lonely hiker

was none other than

Madame Christine Redfern.

While Monsieur Ruber

was on a train,

undoubtedly attracting attention to his

presence before potential witnesses.

The bigamous Monsieur

Ruber was now free

to return to his surviving

wife, Madame Redfern.

You were clever enough to avoid putting

your signature in the hotel register,

but, you know, the signature on

this cheque is really quite good enough.

Different names, of course.

Here on the claim form

for Alice Ruber's insurance policy,

it appears as Felix Ruber,

and here on the hotel cheque

it appears as Patrick Redfern.

Different names, but, monsieur,

undeniably the same handwriting.

My God.

You were wrong to tell me that

little joke about Giuseppe Verdi

being called Joe Green in English,

or that you had once you taught Latin

to small boys.

It was at that moment that I realised

Rate this script:4.5 / 2 votes