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awful, isn’t he? Always saying how rich he is and making the most terrible jokes.”
    Christine said:
    â€œPoor man. One really feels rather sorry for him.”
    Linda didn’t agree. She didn’t see anything to be sorry for in Mr. Blatt. She was young and ruthless.
    She walked with Christine Redfern out of the shop and down towards the causeway.
    She was busy with her own thoughts. She liked Christine Redfern. She and Rosamund Darnley were the only bearable people on the island in Linda’s opinion. Neither of them talked much to her for one thing. Now, as they walked, Christine didn’t say anything. That, Linda thought, was sensible. If you hadn’t anything worth saying why go chattering all the time?
    She lost herself in her own perplexities.
    She said suddenly:
    â€œMrs. Redfern, have you ever felt that everything’s so awful—so terrible—that you’ll—oh, burst …?”
    The words were almost comic, but Linda’s face, drawn and anxious, was not. Christine Redfern, looking at her at first vaguely, with scarcely comprehending eyes, certainly saw nothing to laugh at….
    She caught her breath sharply.
    She said:
    â€œYes—yes—I have felt—just that….”
    IV
    Mr. Blatt said:
    â€œSo you’re the famous sleuth, eh?”
    They were in the cocktail bar, a favourite haunt of Mr. Blatt’s.
    Hercule Poirot acknowledged the remark with his usual lack of modesty.
    Mr. Blatt went on.
    â€œAnd what are you doing down here—on a job?”
    â€œNo, no. I repose myself. I take the holiday.”
    Mr. Blatt winked.
    â€œYou’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you?”
    Poirot replied:
    â€œNot necessarily.”
    Horace Blatt said:
    â€œOh! Come now. As a matter of fact you’d be safe enough with me. I don’t repeat all I hear! Learnt to keep my mouth shut years ago. Shouldn’t have got on the way I have if I hadn’t known how to do that. But you know what most people are—yap, yap, yap about everything they hear! Now you can’t afford that in your trade! That’s why you’ve got to keep it up that you’re here holiday-making and nothing else.”
    Poirot asked:
    â€œAnd why should you suppose the contrary?”
    Mr. Blatt closed one eye.
    He said:
    â€œI’m a man of the world. I know the cut of a fellow’s jib. A man like you would be at Deauville or Le Touquet or down at Juan les Pins. That’s your—what’s the phrase?—spiritual home.”
    Poirot sighed. He looked out of the window. Rain was falling and mist encircled the island. He said:
    â€œIt is possible that you are right! There, at least, in wet weather there are the distractions.”
    â€œGood old Casino!” said Mr. Blatt. “You know, I’ve had to work pretty hard most of my life. No time for holidays or kickshaws. I meant to make good and I have made good. Now I can do what I please. My money’s as good as any man’s. I’ve seen a bit of life in the last few years, I can tell you.”
    Poirot murmured:
    â€œAh, yes?”
    â€œDon’t know why I came to this place,” Mr. Blatt continued.
    Poirot observed:
    â€œI, too, wondered?”
    â€œEh, what’s that?”
    Poirot waved an eloquent hand.
    â€œI, too, am not without observation. I should have expected you most certainly to choose Deauville or Biarritz.”
    â€œInstead of which, we’re both here, eh?”
    Mr. Blatt gave a hoarse chuckle.
    â€œDon’t really know why I came here,” he mused. “I think, you know, it sounded romantic. Jolly Roger Hotel, Smugglers’ Island. That kind of address tickles you up, you know. Makes you think of when you were a boy. Pirates, smuggling, all that.”
    He laughed, rather self-consciously.
    â€œI used to sail quite a bit as a boy. Not this part of the world. Off the East coast. Funny how a taste for that sort of thing never