Again Poirot assented. He said:
“That, too, is indicated.”
“I see our minds have both worked the same way. Blatt used to go sailing in that boat of his. Sometimes he’d invite people to go with him, but most of the time he went out alone. He had some rather conspicuous red sails on that boat, but we’ve found that he had some white sails as well stowed away. I think he sailed out on a good day to an appointed spot, and was met by another boat—sailing boat or motor yacht—something of the kind and the stuff was handed over. Then Blatt would run ashore into Pixy Cove at a suitable time of day—”
Hercule Poirot smiled:
“Yes, yes, at half past one. The hour of the British lunch when everyone is quite sure to be in the dining room. The island is private. It is not a place where outsiders come for picnics. People take their tea sometimes from the hotel to Pixy Cove in the afternoon when the sun is on it, or if they want a picnic they would go somewhere far af
ield, many miles away.”
The Chief Constable nodded.
“Quite,” he said. “Therefore, Blatt ran ashore there and stowed the stuff on that ledge in the cave. Somebody else was to pick it up there in due course.”
Poirot murmured:
“There was a couple, you remember, who came to the island for lunch on the day of the murder? That would be a way of getting the stuff. Some summer visitors from a hotel on the Moor or at St. Loo come over to Smugglers’ Island. They announce that they will have lunch. They walk round the island first. How easy to descend to the beach, pick up the sandwich box, place it, no doubt, in Madame’s bathing bag which she carries—and return for lunch to the hotel—a little late, perhaps, say at ten minutes to two, having enjoyed their walk whilst everyone else was in the dining room.”
Weston said:
“Yes, it all sounds practicable enough. Now these dope organizations are pretty ruthless. If any one blundered in and got wise to things they wouldn’t make any bones about silencing that person. It seems to me that that is the right explanation of Arlena Marshall’s death. It’s possible that on that morning Blatt was actually at the cove stowing the stuff away. His accomplices were to come for it that very day. Arlena arrives on her float and sees him going into the cave with the box. She asks him about it and he kills her then and there and sheers off in his boat as quick as possible.”
Poirot said:
“You think definitely that Blatt is the murderer?”
“It seems the most probable solution. Of course it’s possible that Arlena might have got on to the truth earlier, said something to Blatt about it, and some other member of the gang fixed a fake appointment with her and did her in. As I say, I think the best course is to hand the case over to Scotland Yard. They’ve a far better chance than we have of proving Blatt’s connection with the gang.”
Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
Weston said:
“You think that’s the wise thing to do—eh?”
Poirot was thoughtful. He said at last: “It may be.”
“Dash it all, Poirot, have you got something up your sleeve, or haven’t you?”
Poirot said gravely:
“If I have, I am not sure that I can prove it.”
Weston said:
“Of course, I know that you and Colgate have other ideas. Seems a bit fantastic to me, but I’m bound to admit there may be something in it. But even if you’re right. I still think it’s a case for the Yard. We’ll give them the facts and they can work in with the Surrey police. What I feel is that it isn’t really a case for us. It’s not sufficiently localized.”
He paused.
“What do you think, Poirot? What do you feel ought to be done about it?”
Poirot seemed lost in thought. At last he said:
“I know what I should like to do.”
“Yes, man.”
Poirot murmured: