Mrs. Gardener clacked her needles.
“I’ve just got to confess one thing, M. Poirot. It gave me a kind of a turn meeting you here—not that I wasn’t just thrilled to meet you, because I was. Mr. Gardener knows that. But it just came to me that you might be here—well, professionally. You know what I mean? Well, I’m just terribly sensitive, as Mr. Gardener will tell you, and I just couldn’t bear it if I was to be mixed up in crime of any kind. You see—”
Mr. Gardener cleared his throat. He said:
“You see, M. Poirot, Mrs. Gardener is very sensitive.”
&
nbsp; The hands of Hercule Poirot shot into the air.
“But let me assure you, Madame, that I am here simply in the same way that you are here yourselves—to enjoy myself—to spend the holiday. I do not think of crime even.”
Miss Brewster said again, giving her short gruff bark:
“No bodies on Smugglers’ Island.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Ah! but that, it is not strictly true.” He pointed downward. “Regard them there, lying out in rows. What are they? They are not men and women. There is nothing personal about them. They are just—bodies!”
Major Barry said appreciatively:
“Good-looking fillies, some of ’em. Bit on the thin side, perhaps.”
Poirot cried:
“Yes, but what appeal is there? What mystery? I, I am old, of the old school, When I was young, one saw barely the ankle. The glimpse of a foamy petticoat, how alluring! The gentle swelling of the calf—a knee—a beribboned garter—”
“Naughty, naughty!” said Major Barry hoarsely.
“Much more sensible—the things we wear nowadays,” said Miss Brewster.
“Why, yes, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Gardener. “I do think, you know, that our girls and boys nowadays lead a much more natural healthy life. They just romp about together and they—well, they—” Mrs. Gardener blushed slightly for she had a nice mind—“they think nothing of it, if you know what I mean?”
“I do know,” said Hercule Poirot. “It is deplorable!”
“Deplorable?” squeaked Mrs. Gardener.
“To remove all the romance—all the mystery! Today everything is standardized!” He waved a hand towards the recumbent figures. “That reminds me very much of the Morgue in Paris.”
“M. Poirot!” Mrs. Gardener was scandalized.
“Bodies—arranged on slabs—like butcher’s meat!”
“But M. Poirot, isn’t that too far-fetched for words?”
Hercule Poirot admitted:
“It may be, yes.”
“All the same,” Mrs. Gardener knitted with energy, “I’m inclined to agree with you on one point. These girls that lie out like that in the sun will grow hair on their legs and arms. I’ve said so to Irene—that’s my daughter, M. Poirot. Irene, I said to her, if you lie out like that in the sun, you’ll have hair all over you, hair on your arms and hair on your legs and hair on your bosom, and what will you look like then? I said to her. Didn’t I, Odell?”
“Yes, darling,” said Mr. Gardener.
Everyone was silent, perhaps making a mental picture of Irene when the worst had happened.
Mrs. Gardener rolled up her knitting and said: