Colonel Weston grunted and said:
“Something in that. It’s the women who’ve got their knife into her here all right.”
Poirot went on.
“It seems to be hardly possible that this crime was committed by a woman. What does the medical evidence say?”
Weston grunted again. He said:
“Neasden’s pretty confident that she was strangled by a man. Big hands—powerful grip. It’s just possible, of course, that an unusually athletic woman might have done it—but it’s damned unlikely.”
Poirot nodded.
“Exactly. Arsenic in a cup of tea—a box of poisoned chocolates—a knife—even a pistol—but strangulation—no! It is a man we have to look for.”
“And immediately,” he went on, “it becomes more difficult. There are two people here in this hotel who have a motive for wishing Arlena Marshall out of the way—but both of them are women.”
Colonel Weston asked:
“Redfern’s wife is one of them, I suppose?”
“Yes. Mrs. Redfern might have made up her mind to kill Arlena Stuart. She had, let us say, ample cause. I think, too, that it would be possible for Mrs. Redfern to commit a murder. But not this kind of murder. For all her unhappiness and jealousy, she is not, I should say, a woman of strong passions. In love, she would be devoted and loyal—not passionate. As I said just now—arsenic in the teacup, possibly—strangulation, no. I am sure, also, that she is physically incapable of committing this crime, her hands and feet are small, below the average.”
Weston nodded. He said:
“This isn’t a woman’s crime. No, a man did this.”
Inspector Colgate coughed.
“Let me put forward a solution, sir. Say that prior to meeting this Mr. Redfern the lady had had another affair with someone—call him X. She turns X down for Mr. Redfern. X is mad with rage and jealousy. He follows her down here, stays somewhere in the neighbourhood, comes over to the island, does her in. It’s a possibility!”
Weston said:
“It’s possible, all right. And if it’s true, it ought to be easy to prove. Did he come on foot or in a boat? The latter seems more likely. If so, he must have hired a boat somewhere. You’d better make inquiries.”
He looked across at Poirot.
“What do you think of Colgate’s suggestion?”
Poirot said slowly:
“It leaves, somehow, too much to chance. And besides—somewhere the picture is not true. I cannot, you see, imagine this man…the man who is mad with rage and jealousy.”
Colgate said:
“People did go potty about her, though, sir. Look at Redfern.”
“Yes, yes… But all the same—”
Colgate looked at him questioningly.
Poirot shook his head.
He said, frowning:
“Somewhere, there is something that we have missed….”
Six