Evil Under the Sun by Agatha Christie Page A

was wearing beach pyjamas of a loose floppy pattern with long sleeves and wide legs. They were made of some green material with a yellow design. Rosamund’s tongue itched to tell her that yellow and green were the most unbecoming colours possible for her fair, slightly anaemic complexion. It always annoyed Rosamund when people had no clothes sense.
    She thought: “If I dressed that girl, I’d soon make her husband sit up and take notice. However much of a fool Arlena is, she does know how to dress. This wretched girl looks just like a wilting lettuce.”
    Aloud she said:
    â€œHave a nice time. I’m going to Sunny Ledge with a book.”
    IV
    Hercule Poirot breakfasted in his room as usual off coffee and rolls.
    The beauty of the morning, however, tempted him to leave the hotel earlier than usual. It was ten o’clock, at least half an hour before his usual appearance, when he descended to the bathing beach. The beach itself was empty save for one person.
    That person was Arlena Marshall.
    Clad in her white bathing dress, the green Chinese hat on her head, she was trying to launch a white wooden float. Poirot came gallantly to the rescue, completely immersing a pair of white suède shoes in doing so.
    She thanked him with one of those sideways glances of hers.
    Just as she was pushing off, she called him.
    â€œM. Poirot?”
    Poirot leaped to the water’s edge.
    â€œMadame.”
    Arlena Marshall said:
    â€œDo something for me, will you?”
    â€œAnything.”
    She smiled at him. She murmured:
    â€œDon’t tell any one where I am.” She made her glance appealing. “Every one will follow me about so. I just want for once to be alone. ”
    She paddled off vigorously.
    Poirot walked up the beach. He murmured to himself:
    â€œ Ah ça, jamais! That, par exemple, I do not believe.”
    He doubted if Arlena Stuart, to give her her stage name, had ever wanted to be alone in her life.
    Hercule Poirot, that man of the world, knew better. Arlena Marshall was doubtless keeping a rendezvous, and Poirot had a very good idea with whom.
    Or thought he had, but there he found himself proved wrong.
    For just as she floated rounded the point of the bay and disappeared out of sight, Patrick Redfern closely followed by Kenneth Marshall, came striding down the beach from the hotel.
    Marshall nodded to Poirot, “’Morning, Poirot. Seen my wife anywhere about?”
    Poirot’s answer was diplomatic.
    â€œHas Madame then risen so early?”
    Marshall said:
    â€œShe’s not in her room.” He looked up at the sky. “Lovely day. I shall have a bathe right away. Got a lot of typing to do this morning.”
    Patrick Redfern, less openly, was looking up and down the beach. He sat down near Poirot and prepared to wait for the arrival of his lady.
    Poirot said:
    â€œAnd Madame Redfern? Has she too risen early?”
    Patrick Redfern said:
    â€œChristine? Oh, she’s going off sketching. She’s rather keen on art just now.”
    He spoke impatiently, his mind clearly elsewhere. As time passed he displayed his impatience for Arlena’s arrival only too crudely. At every footstep he turned an eager head to see who it was coming down from the hotel.
    Disappointment followed disappointment.
    First Mr. and Mrs. Gardener complete with knitting and book and then Miss Brewster arrived.
    Mrs. Gardener, industrious as ever, settled herself in her chair, and began to knit vigorously and talk at the same time.
    â€œWell. M. Poirot. The beach seems very deserted this morning. Where is everybody?”
    Poirot replied that the Mastermans and the Cowans, two families with young people in them, had gone off on an all-day sailing excursion.
    â€œWhy that certainly does make all the difference, not having them about laughing and calling out. And only one person bathing, Captain Marshall.”
    Marshall had just finished his swim. He came up the beach swinging his