“Yes, that’s how it came about.”
Weston said:
“Captain Marshall has implied that until you both met down here you did not know each other well. Is that the truth, Mr. Redfern?”
Again Patrick Redfern hesitated a minute. Then he said:
“Well—not exactly. As a matter of fact I saw a fair amount of her one way and another.”
“Without Captain Marshall’s knowledge?”
Redfern flushed slightly. He said:
“I don’t know whether he knew about it or not.”
Hercule Poirot spoke. He murmured:
“And was it also without your wife’s knowledge, Mr. Redfern?”
“I believe I mentioned to my wife that I had met the famous Arlena Stuart.”
Poirot persisted.
“But she did not know how often you were seeing her?”
“Well, perhaps not.”
Weston said:
“Did you and Mrs. Marshall arrange to meet down here?”
Redfern was silent a minute or two. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh well,” he said, “I suppose it’s bound to come out now. It’s no good my fencing with you. I was crazy about the woman—mad—infatuated—anything you like. She wanted me to come down here. I demurred a bit and then I agreed. I—I—well, I would have agreed to do any mortal thing she liked. She had that kind of effect on people.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“You paint a very clear picture of her. She was the eternal Circe. Just that!”
Patrick Redfern said bitterly:
“She turned men into swine all right!” He went on: “I’m being frank with you, gentlemen. I’m not going to hide anything. What’s the use? As I say, I was infatuated with her. Whether she cared for me or not, I don’t know. She pretended to, but I think she was one of those women who lose interest in a man once they’ve got him body and soul. She knew she’d got me all right. This morning, when I found her there on the beach, dead, it was as though”—he paused—“as though something had hit me straight between the eyes. I was dazed—knocked out!”
Poirot leaned forward. “And now?”
Patrick Redfern met his eyes squarely.
He said:
“I’ve told you the truth. What I want to ask is this—how much of it has got to be made public? It’s not as though it could have any bearing on her death. And if it all comes out, it’s going to be pretty rough on my wife.”
“Oh, I know,” he went on quickly. “You think I haven’t thought much about her up to now? Perhaps that’s true. But, though I may sound the worst kind of hypocrite, the real truth is that I care for my wife—care for her very deeply. The other”—he twitched his shoulders—“it was a madness—the kind of idiotic fool thing men do—but Christine is different. She’s real. Badly as I’ve treated her, I’ve known all along, deep down, that she was the person who really counted.” He paused—sighed—and said rather pathetically: “I wish I could make you believe that.”
Hercule Poirot leant forward. He said:
“But I do believe it. Yes, yes, I do believe it!”
Patrick Redfern looked at him gratefully. He said: