The time passed….
With a start Linda shoved the book back in the shelf as Christine Redfern’s voice said:
“What are you reading, Linda?”
Linda said hurriedly:
“Nothing. I’m looking for a book.”
She pulled out The Marriage of William Ashe at random and advanced to the counter fumbling for twopence.
Christine said:
“Mr. Blatt just drove me home—after nearly running over me first. I really felt I couldn’t walk all across the causeway with him, so I said I had to buy some things.”
Linda said:
“He’s awful, isn’t he? Always saying how rich he is and making the most terrible jokes.”
Christine said:
“Poor 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:
“Mrs. 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:
“Yes—yes—I have felt—just that….”
IV
Mr. Blatt said:
“So 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.
“And what are you doing down here—on a job?”
“No, no. I repose myself. I take the holiday.”