If anybody had been there to observe the gentle-looking elderly lady who stood meditatively on the loggia outside her bungalow, they would have thought she had nothing more on her mind than deliberation on how to arrange her time that day—An expedition, perhaps, to Castle Cliff—a visit to Jamestown—a nice drive and lunch at Pelican Point—or just a quiet morning on the beach—
But the gentle old lady was deliberating quite other matters—she was in militant mood.
“Something has got to be done,” said Miss Marple to herself.
Moreover, she was convinced that there was no time to be lost—There was urgency.
But who was there that she could convince of that fact? Given time, she thought she could find out the truth by herself.
She had found out a good deal. But not enough—not nearly enough. And time was short.
She realized, bitterly, that here on this Paradise of an island, she had none of her usual allies.
She thought regretfully of her friends in England—Sir Henry Clithering—always willing to listen indulgently—his godson Dermot, who in spite of his increased status at Scotland Yard was still ready to believe that when Miss Marple voiced an opinion there was usually something behind it.
But would that soft-voiced native police officer pay any attention to an old lady’s urgency? Dr. Graham? But Dr. Graham was not what she needed—too gentle and hesitant, certainly not a man of quick decisions and rapid actions.
Miss Marple, feeling rather like a humble deputy of the Almighty, almost cried aloud her need in Biblical phrasing.
Who will go for me?
Whom shall I send?
The sound that reached her ears a moment later was not instantly recognized by her as an answer to prayer—far from it—At the back of her mind it registered only as a man possibly calling his dog.
“Hi!”
Miss Marple, lost in perplexity, paid no attention.
“Hi!” The volume thus increased, Miss Marple looked vaguely round.
“HI!” called Mr. Rafiel impatiently. He added—“You there—”
Miss Marple had not at first realized that Mr. Rafiel’s “Hi You” was addressed to her. It was not a method that anyone had ever used before to summon her. It was certainly not a gentlemanly mode of address. Miss Marple did not resent it, because people seldom did resent Mr. Rafiel’s somewhat arbitrary method of doing things. He was a law unto himself and people accepted him as such. Miss Marple looked across the intervening space between her bungalow and his. Mr. Rafiel was sitting outside on his loggia and he beckoned her.
“You were calling me?” she asked.
“Of course I was calling you,” said Mr. Rafiel. “Who did you think I was calling—a cat? Come over here.”
Miss Marple looked round for her handbag, picked it up, and crossed the intervening space.
“I can’t come to you unless someone helps me,” explained Mr. Rafiel, “so you’ve got to come to me.”
“Oh yes,” said Miss Marple, “I quite understand that.”
Mr. Rafiel pointed to an adjacent chair. “Sit down,” he said, “I want to talk to you. Something damned odd is going on in this island.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Miss Marple, taking the chair as indicated. By sheer habit she drew her knitting out of her bag.
“Don’t start knitting again,” said Mr. Rafiel, “I can’t stand it. I hate women knitting. It irritates me.”
Miss Marple returned her knitting to her bag. She did this with no undue air of meekness, rather with the air of one who makes allowances for a fractious patient.
“There’s a lot of chit-chat going on,” said Mr. Rafiel, “and I bet you’re in the forefront of it. You and the parson and his sister.”
“It is, perhaps, only natural that there should be chit-chat,” said Miss Marple with spirit, “given the circumstances.”
“This Island girl gets herself knifed. Found in the bushes. Might be ordinary enough. That chap she was living with might have got jealous of another man—or he’d got himself another girl and she got jealous and they had a row. Sex in the tropics. That sort of stuff. What do you say?”
“No,” said Miss Marple, shaking her head.
“The authorities don’t think so, either.”
“They would say more to you,” pointed out Miss Marple, “than they would say to me.”
“All the same, I bet you know more about it than I do. You’ve listened to the tittle-tattle.”
“Certainly I have,” said Miss Marple.
“Nothing much else to do, have you, except listen to tittle-tattle?”
“It is often informative and useful.”
“D’you know,” said Mr. Rafiel, studying her attentively. “I made a mistake about you. I don’t often make mistakes about people. There’s a lot more to you than I thought there was. All these rumours about Major Palgrave and the stories he told. You think he was bumped off, don’t you?”
“I very much fear so,” said Miss Marple.
“Well, he was,” said Mr. Rafiel.
Miss Marple drew a deep breath. “That is definite, is it?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s definite enough. I had it from Daventry. I’m not breaking a confidence because the facts of the autopsy will have to come out. You told Graham something, he went to Daventry, Daventry went to the Administrator, the CID were informed, and between them they agreed that things looked fishy, so they dug up old Palgrave and had a look.”
“And they found?” Miss Marple paused interrogatively.
“They found he’d had a lethal dose of something that only a doctor could pronounce properly. As far as I remember it sounds vaguely like di-flor, hexagonal-ethylcarbenzol. That’s not the right name. But that’s roughly what it sounds like. The police doctor put it that way so that nobody should know, I suppose, what it really was. The stuff’s probably got some quite simple nice easy name like Evipan or Veronal or Easton’s Syrup or something of that kind. This is its official name to baffle laymen with. Anyway, a sizeable dose of it, I gather, would produce death, and the signs would be much the same as those of high blood pressure aggravated by over-indulgence in alcohol on a gay evening. In fact, it all looked perfectly natural and nobody questioned it for a moment. Just said ‘poor old chap’ and buried him quick. Now they wonder if he ever had high blood pressure at all. Did he ever say he had to you?”
“No.”
“Exactly! And yet everyone seems to have taken it as a fact.”
“Apparently he told people he had.”
“It’s like seeing ghosts,” said Mr. Rafiel. “You never meet the chap who’s seen the ghost himself. It’s always the second cousin of his aunt, or a friend, or a friend of a friend. But leave that for a moment. They thought he had blood pressure, because there was a bottle of tablets controlling blood pressure found in his room but—and now we’re coming to the point—I gather that this girl who was killed went about saying that that bottle was put there by somebody else, and that actually it belonged to that fellow Greg.”
“Mr. Dyson has got blood pressure. His wife mentioned it,” said Miss Marple.
“So it was put in Palgrave’s room to suggest that he suffered from blood pressure and to make his death seem natural.”
“Exactly,” said Miss Marple. “And the story was put about, very cleverly, that he had frequently mentioned to people that he had high blood pressure. But you know, it’s very easy to put about a story. Very easy. I’ve seen a lot of it in my time.”
“I bet you have,” said Mr. Rafiel.
“It only needs a murmur here and there,” said Miss Marple. “You don’t say it of your own knowledge, you just say that Mrs. B. told you that Colonel C. told her. It’s always at second hand or third hand or fourth hand and it’s very difficult to find out who was the original whisperer. Oh yes, it can be done. And the people you say it to go on and repeat it to others as if they know it of their own knowledge.”
“Somebody’s been clever,” said Mr. Rafiel thoughtfully.
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “I think somebody’s been quite clever.”
“This girl saw something, or knew something and tried blackmail, I suppose,” said Mr. Rafiel.
“She mayn’t have thought of it as blackmail,” said Miss Marple. “In these large hotels, there are often things the maids know that some people would rather not have repeated. And so they hand out a larger tip or a little present of money. The girl possibly didn’t realize at first the importance of what she knew.”
“Still, she got a knife in her back all right,” said Mr. Rafiel brutally.
“Yes. Evidently someone couldn’t afford to let her talk.”
“Well? Let’s hear what you think about it all.”
Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully.
“Why should you think I know any more than you do, Mr. Rafiel?”
“Probably you don’t,” said Mr. Rafiel, “but I’m interested to hear your ideas about what you do know.”
“But why?”
“There’s not very much to do out here,” said Mr. Rafiel, “except make money.”
Miss Marple looked slightly surprised.
“Make money? Out here?”
“You can send out half a dozen cables in code every day if you like,” said Mr. Rafiel. “That’s how I amuse myself.”
“Take-over bids?” Miss Marple asked doubtfully, in the tone of one who speaks a foreign language.
“That kind of thing,” agreed Mr. Rafiel. “Pitting your wits against other people’s wits. The trouble is it doesn’t occupy enough time, so I’ve got interested in this business. It’s aroused my curiosity. Palgrave spent a good deal of his time talking to you. Nobody else would be bothered with him, I expect. What did he say?”
“He told me a good many stories,” said Miss Marple.
“I know he did. Damn’ boring, most of them. And you hadn’t only got to hear them once. If you got anywhere within range you heard them three or four times over.”
“I know,” said Miss Marple. “I’m afraid that does happen when gentlemen get older.”
Mr. Rafiel looked at her very sharply.
“I don’t tell stories,” he said. “Go on. It started with one of Palgrave’s stories, did it?”
“He said he knew a murderer,” said Miss Marple. “There’s nothing really special about that,” she added in her gentle voice, “because I suppose it happens to nearly everybody.”
“I don’t follow you,” said Mr. Rafiel.
“I don’t mean specifically,” said Miss Marple, “but surely, Mr. Rafiel, if you cast over in your mind your recollections of various events in your life, hasn’t there nearly always been an occasion when somebody has made some careless reference such as ‘Oh yes I knew the So-and-So’s quite well—he died very suddenly and they always say his wife did him in, but I dare say that’s just gossip.’ You’ve heard people say something like that, haven’t you?”
“Well, I suppose so—yes, something of the kind. But not—well, not seriously.”
“Exactly,” said Miss Marple, “but Major Palgrave was a very serious man. I think he enjoyed telling this story. He said he had a snapshot of the murderer. He was going to show it to me but—actually—he didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because he saw something,” said Miss Marple. “Saw someone, I suspect. His face got very red and he shoved back the snapshot into his wallet and began talking on another subject.”
“Who did he see?”
“I’ve thought about that a good deal,” said Miss Marple. “I was sitting outside my bungalow, and he was sitting nearly opposite me and—whatever he saw, he saw over my right shoulder.”
“Someone coming along the path then from behind you on the right, the path from the creek and the car park—”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone coming along the path?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Dyson and Colonel and Mrs. Hillingdon.”
“Anybody else?”
“Not that I can find out. Of course, your bungalow would also be in his line of vision….”
“Ah. Then we include—shall we say—Esther Walters and my chap, Jackson. Is that right? Either of them, I suppose, might have come out of the bungalow and gone back inside again without your seeing them.”
“They might have,” said Miss Marple, “I didn’t turn my head at once.”
“The Dysons, the Hillingdons, Esther, Jackson. One of them’s a murderer. Or, of course, myself,” he added; obviously as an afterthought.
Miss Marple smiled faintly.
“And he spoke of the murderer as a man?”
“Yes.”
“Right. That cuts out Evelyn Hillingdon, Lucky and Esther Walters. So your murderer, allowing that all this far-fetched nonsense is true, your murderer is Dyson, Hillingdon or my smooth-tongued Jackson.”
“Or yourself,” said Miss Marple.
Mr. Rafiel ignored this last point.
“Don’t say things to irritate me,” he said. “I’ll tell you the first thing that strikes me, and which you don’t seem to have thought of. If it’s one of those three, why the devil didn’t old Palgrave recognize him before? Dash it all, they’ve all been sitting round looking at each other for the last two weeks. That doesn’t seem to make sense.”
“I think it could,” said Miss Marple.
“Well, tell me how.”
“You see, in Major Palgrave’s story he hadn’t seen this man himself at any time. It was a story told to him by a doctor. The doctor gave him the snapshot as a curiosity. Major Palgrave may have looked at the snapshot fairly closely at the time but after that he’d just stack it away in his wallet and keep it as a souvenir. Occasionally, perhaps, he’d take it out and show it to someone he was telling the story to. And another thing, Mr. Rafiel, we don’t know how long ago this happened. He didn’t give me any indication of that when he was telling the story. I mean this may have been a story he’s been telling to people for years. Five years—ten years—longer still perhaps. Some of his tiger stories go back about twenty years.”
“They would!” said Mr. Rafiel.
“So I don’t suppose for a moment that Major Palgrave would recognize the face in the snapshot if he came across the man casually. What I think happened, what I’m almost sure must have happened, is that as he told his story he fumbled for the snapshot, took it out, looked down at it studying the face and then looked up to see the same face, or one with a strong resemblance, coming towards him from a distance of about ten or twelve feet away.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Rafiel consideringly, “yes, that’s possible.”
“He was taken aback,” said Miss Marple, “and he shoved it back in his wallet and began to talk loudly about something else.”
“He couldn’t have been sure,” said Mr. Rafiel, shrewdly.
“No,” said Miss Marple, “he couldn’t have been sure. But of course afterwards he would have studied the snapshot very carefully and would have looked at the man and tried to make up his mind whether it was just a likeness or whether it could actually be the same person.”
Mr. Rafiel reflected a moment or two, then he shook his head.
“There’s something wrong here. The motive’s inadequate. Absolutely inadequate. He was speaking to you loudly, was he?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “quite loudly. He always did.”
“True enough. Yes, he did shout. So whoever was approaching would hear what he said?”
“I should imagine you could hear it for quite a good radius round.”
Mr. Rafiel shook his head again. He said, “It’s fantastic, too fantastic. Anybody would laugh at such a story. Here’s an old booby telling a story about another story somebody told him, and showing a snapshot, and all of it centring round a murder which had taken place years ago! Or at any rate, a year or two. How on earth can that worry the man in question? No evidence, just a bit of hearsay, a story at third hand. He could even admit a likeness, he could say: ‘Yes, I do look rather like that fellow, don’t I! Ha, ha!’ Nobody’s going to take old Palgrave’s identification seriously. Don’t tell me so, because I won’t believe it. No, the chap, if it was the chap, had nothing to fear—nothing whatever. It’s the kind of accusation he can just laugh off. Why on earth should he proceed to murder old Palgrave? It’s absolutely unnecessary. You must see that.”
“Oh I do see that,” said Miss Marple. “I couldn’t agree with you more. That’s what makes me uneasy. So very uneasy that I really couldn’t sleep last night.”
Mr. Rafiel stared at her. “Let’s hear what’s on your mind,” he said quietly.
“I may be entirely wrong,” said Miss Marple hesitantly.
“Probably you are,” said Mr. Rafiel with his usual lack of courtesy, “but at any rate let’s hear what you’ve thought up in the small hours.”
“There could be a very powerful motive if—”
“If what?”
“If there was going to be—quite soon—another murder.”
Mr. Rafiel stared at her. He tried to pull himself up a little in his chair.
“Let’s get this clear,” he said.
“I am so bad at explaining.” Miss Marple spoke rapidly and rather incoherently. A pink flush rose to her cheeks. “Supposing there was a murder planned. If you remember, the story Major Palgrave told me concerned a man whose wife died under suspicious circumstances. Then, after a certain lapse of time, there was another murder under exactly the same circumstances. A man of a different name had a wife who died in much the same way and the doctor who was telling it recognized him as the same man, although he’d changed his name. Well, it does look, doesn’t it, as though this murderer might be the kind of murderer who made a habit of the thing?”
“You mean like Smith, Brides in the Bath, that kind of thing. Yes.”
“As far as I can make out,” said Miss Marple, “and from what I have heard and read, a man who does a wicked thing like this and gets away with it the first time, is, alas, encouraged. He thinks it’s easy, he thinks he’s clever. And so he repeats it. And in the end, as you say, like Smith and the Brides in the Bath, it becomes a habit. Each time in a different place and each time the man changes his name. But the crimes themselves are all very much alike. So it seems to me, although I may be quite wrong—”
“But you don’t think you are wrong, do you?” Mr. Rafiel put in shrewdly.
Miss Marple went on without answering. “—that if that were so and if this—this person had got things all lined up for a murder out here, for getting rid of another wife, say, and if this is crime three or four, well then, the Major’s story would matter because the murderer couldn’t afford to have any similarity pointed out. If you remember, that was exactly the way Smith got caught. The circumstances of a crime attracted the attention of somebody who compared it with a newspaper clipping of some other case. So you do see, don’t you, that if this wicked person has got a crime planned, arranged, and shortly about to take place, he couldn’t afford to let Major Palgrave go about telling this story and showing that snapshot.”
She stopped and looked appealingly at Mr. Rafiel.
“So you see he had to do something very quickly, as quickly as possible.”
Mr. Rafiel spoke. “In fact, that very same night, eh?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple.
“Quick work,” said Mr. Rafiel, “but it could be done. Put the tablets in old Palgrave’s room, spread the blood pressure rumour about and add a little of our fourteen-syllable drug to a Planters Punch. Is that it?”
“Yes—But that’s all over—we needn’t worry about it. It’s the future. It’s now. With Major Palgrave out of the way and the snapshot destroyed, this man will go on with his murder as planned.”
Mr. Rafiel whistled.
“You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?”
Miss Marple nodded. She said in a most unaccustomed voice, firm and almost dictatorial, “And we’ve got to stop it. You’ve got to stop it, Mr. Rafiel.”
“Me?” said Mr. Rafiel, astonished, “Why me?”
“Because you’re rich and important,” said Miss Marple, simply. “People will take notice of what you say or suggest. They wouldn’t listen to me for a moment. They would say that I was an old lady imagining things.”
“They might at that,” said Mr. Rafiel. “More fools if they did. I must say, though, that nobody would think you had any brains in your head to hear your usual line of talk. Actually, you’ve got a logical mind. Very few women have.” He shifted himself uncomfortably in his chair. “Where the hell’s Esther or Jackson?” he said. “I need resettling. No, it’s no good your doing it. You’re not strong enough. I don’t know what they mean, leaving me alone like this.”
“I’ll go and find them.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll stay here—and thrash this out. Which of them is it? The egregious Greg? The quiet Edward Hillingdon or my fellow Jackson? It’s got to be one of the three, hasn’t it?”
Chapter 16.Miss Marple seeks assistance