Mrs Castle could hardly bring herself to say the word. She brought it out with the utmost reluctance.

Inspector Colgate said soothingly:

‘Yes, it’s a nasty business.’

‘And the newspapers.My hotel in the newspapers!’

Colgate said, with a faint grin.

‘Oh well, it’s advertisement, in a way.’

Mrs Castle drew herself up. Her bust heaved and whalebone creaked. She said icily:

‘That is not the kind of advertisement ay care about, Mr Colgate.’

Colonel Weston broke in. He said:

‘Now then, Mrs Castle, you’ve got a list of the guests staying here, as I asked you?’ 

‘Yes, sir.’

Colonel Weston pored over the hotel register. He looked over to Poirot who made the fourth member of the group assembled in the manageress’s office.

‘This is where you’ll probably be able to help us presently.’

He read down the names.

‘What about servants?’

Mrs Castle produced a second list.

‘There are four chambermaids, the head waiter and three under him and Henry in the bar. William does the boots and shoes. Then there’s the cook and two under her.’

‘What about the waiters?’

‘Well, sir, Albert, the Mater Dotel, came to me from the Vincent at Plymouth. He was there for some years. The three under him have been here for three years-one of them four. They are very naise lads and most respectable. Henry has been here since the hotel opened. He is quite an institution.’

Weston nodded. He said to Colgate:

‘Seems all right. You’ll check up on them, of course. Thank you, Mrs Castle.’

‘That will be all you require?’

‘For the moment, yes.’

Mrs Castle creaked out of the room.

Weston said: 

‘First thing to do is to talk with Captain Marshall.

Kenneth Marshall sat quietly answering the questions put to him. Apart from a slight hardening of his features he was quite calm. Seen here, with the sunlight falling on him from the window, you realized that he was a handsome man. Those straight features, the steady blue eyes, the firm mouth. His voice was low and pleasant.

Colonel Weston was saying:

‘I quite understand, Captain Marshall, what a terrible shock this must be to you. But you realize that I am anxious to get the fullest information as soon as possible.’

Marshall nodded.

He said:

‘I quite understand. Carry on.’

‘Mrs Marshall was your second wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you have been married how long?’

‘Just over four years.’

‘And her name before she was married?’

‘Helen Stuart. Her acting name was Arlena Stuart.’

‘She was an actress?’ 

‘She appeared in Revue and musical shows.’

‘Did she give up the stage on her marriage?’

‘No. She continued to appear. She actually retired only about a year and a half ago.’

‘Was there any special reason for her retirement?’

Kenneth Marshall appeared to consider.

‘No,’ he said. ‘She simply said that she was tired of it all.’

‘It was not-er-in obedience to your special wish?’

Marshall raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh, no.’

‘You were quite content for her to continue acting after your marriage?’

Marshall smiled very faintly.

‘I should have preferred her to give it up-that, yes. But I made no fuss about it.’

‘It caused no point of dissension between you?’

‘Certainly not. My wife was free to please herself.’

‘And-the marriage was a happy one?’

Kenneth Marshall said coldly:

‘Certainly.’

Colonel Weston paused a minute. Then he said:

‘Captain Marshall, have you any idea who could possibly have killed your wife?’

The answer came without the least hesitation.

‘None whatever.’ 

‘Had she any enemies?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Ah?’

The other went on quickly. He said:

‘Don’t misunderstand me, sir. My wife was an actress. She was also a very good-looking woman. In both capacities she aroused a certain amount of jealousy and envy. There were fusses over parts-there was rivalry from other women-there was a good deal, shall we say, of general envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness! But that is not to say that there was anyone who was capable of deliberately murdering her.’

Hercule Poirot spoke for the first time. He said:

‘What you really mean, Monsieur, is that her enemies were mostly or entirely,women?’

Kenneth Marshall looked across at him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That is so.’

The Chief Constable said:

‘You know of no man who had a grudge against her?’

‘No.’

‘Was she previously acquainted with anyone in this hotel?’

‘I believe she had met Mr Redfern before-at some cocktail party. Nobody else to my knowledge.’

Weston paused. He seemed to deliberate as to whether to pursue the subject. Then he decided against that course. He said:

‘We now come to this morning. When was the last time you saw your wife?’

Marshall paused a minute, then he said:

‘I looked in on my way down to breakfast-’

‘Excuse me, you occupied separate rooms?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what time was that?’

‘It must have been about nine o’clock.’

‘What was she doing?’

‘She was opening her letters.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘Nothing of any particular interest. Just goodmorning-and that it was a nice day-that sort of thing.’

‘What was her manner? Unusual at all?’

‘No, perfectly normal.’

‘She did not seem excited, or depressed, or upset in any way?’

‘I certainly didn’t notice it.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘Did she mention at all what were the contents of her letters?’

Again a faint smile appeared on Marshall’s lips. He said:

‘As far as I can remember, she said they were all bills.’ 

‘Your wife breakfasted in bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she always do that?’

‘Invariably.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘What time did she usually come downstairs?’

‘Oh! between ten and eleven-usually nearer eleven.’

Poirot went on:

‘If she was to descend at ten o’clock exactly, that would be rather surprising?’

‘Yes. She wasn’t often down as early as that.’

‘But she was this morning. Why do you think that was, Captain Marshall?’

Marshall said unemotionally:

‘Haven’t the least idea. Might have been the weather-extra fine day and all that.’

‘You missed her?’

Kenneth Marshall shifted a little in his chair. He said:

‘Looked in on her again after breakfast. Room was empty. I was a bit surprised.’

‘And then you came down on the beach and asked me if I had seen her?’

‘Er-yes.’ He added with a faint emphasis in his voice. ‘And you said you hadn’t…’

The innocent eyes of Hercule Poirot did not falter. Gently he caressed his large and flamboyant moustache. 

Weston asked:

‘Had you any special reason for wanting to find your wife this morning?’

Marshall shifted his glance amiably to the Chief Constable.

He said:

‘No, just wondered where she was, that’s all.’

Weston paused. He moved his chair slightly. His voice fell into a different key. He said:

‘Just now, Captain Marshall, you mentioned that your wife had a previous acquaintance with Mr Patrick Redfern. How well did your wife know Mr Redfern?’

Kenneth Marshall said:

‘Mind if I smoke?’ He felt through his pockets. ‘Dash! I’ve mislaid my pipe somewhere.’

Poirot offered him a cigarette which he accepted. Lighting it, he said:

‘You were asking about Redfern. My wife told me she had come across him at some cocktail party or other.’

‘He was, then, just a casual acquaintance?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Since then-’ the Chief Constable paused. ‘I understand that that acquaintanceship has ripened into something rather closer.’

Marshall said sharply:

‘You understand that, do you? Who told you so?’ 

‘It is the common gossip of the hotel.’

For a moment Marshall’s eyes went to Hercule Poirot. They dwelt on him with a kind of cold anger. He said:

‘Hotel gossip is usually a tissue of lies!’

‘Possibly. But I gather that Mr Redfern and your wife gave some grounds for the gossip.’

‘What grounds?’

‘They were constantly in each other’s company.’

‘Is that all?’

‘You do not deny that that was so?’

‘May have been. I really didn’t notice.’

‘You did not-excuse me, Captain Marshall-object to your wife’s friendship with Mr Redfern?’

‘I wasn’t in the habit of criticizing my wife’s conduct.’

‘You did not protest or object in any way?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Not even though it was becoming a subject of scandal and an estrangement was growing up between Mr Redfern and his wife?’

Kenneth Marshall said coldly:

‘I mind my own business and I expect other people to mind theirs. I don’t listen to gossip and tittle tattle.’

‘You won’t deny that Mr Redfern admired your wife?’ 

‘He probably did. Most men did. She was a very beautiful woman.’

‘But you yourself were persuaded that there was nothing serious in the affair?’

‘I never thought about it, I tell you.’

‘And suppose we have a witness who can testify that they were on terms of the greatest intimacy?’

Again those blue eyes went to Hercule Poirot. Again an expression of dislike showed on that usually impassive face.

Marshall said:

‘If you want to listen to these tales, listen to ’em. My wife’s dead and can’t defend herself.’

‘You mean that you, personally, don’t believe them?’

For the first time a faint dew of sweat was observable on Marshall’s brow. He said:

‘I don’t propose to believe anything of the kind.’

He went on:

‘Aren’t you getting a good way from the essentials of this business? What I believe or don’t believe is surely not relevant to the plain fact of murder?’

Hercule Poirot answered before either of the others could speak. He said:

‘You do not comprehend, Captain Marshall. There is no such thing as a plain fact of murder. Murder springs, nine times out of ten, out of the character and circumstances of the murdered person.Because the victim was the kind of person he or she was,therefore was he or she murdered! Until we can understand fully and completelyexactly what kind of a person Arlena Marshall was, we shall not be able to see clearly exactlythe kind of person who murdered her. From that springs the necessity of our questions.’