Poirot asked:

“And why should you suppose the contrary?”

Mr. Blatt closed one eye.

He said:

“I’m a man of the world. I know the cut of a fellow’s jib. A man like you would be at Deauville or Le Touquet or down at Juan les Pins. That’s your—what’s the phrase?—spiritual home.”

Poirot sighed. He looked out of the window. Rain was falling and mist encircled the island. He said:

“It is possible that you are right! There, at least, in wet weather there are the distractions.”

“Good old Casino!” said Mr. Blatt. “You know, I’ve had to work pretty hard most of my life. No time for holidays or kickshaws. I meant to make good and I have made good. Now I can do what I please. My money’s as good as any man’s. I’ve seen a bit of life in the last few years, I can tell you.”

Poirot murmured:

“Ah, yes?”

“Don’t know why I came to this place,” Mr. Blatt continued.

Poirot observed:

“I, too, wondered?”

“Eh, what’s that?”

Poirot waved an eloquent hand.

“I, too, am not without observation. I should have expected you most certainly to choose Deauville or Biarritz.”

“Instead of which, we’re both here, eh?”

Mr. Blatt gave a hoarse chuckle.

“Don’t really know why I came here,” he mused. “I think, you know, it sounded romantic. Jolly Roger Hotel, Smugglers’ Island. That kind of address tickles you up, you know. Makes you think of when you were a boy. Pirates, smuggling, all that.”

He laughed, rather self-consciously.

“I used to sail quite a bit as a boy. Not this part of the world. Off the East coast. Funny how a taste for that sort of thing never quite leaves you. I could have a tip-top yacht if I liked, but somehow I don’t really fancy it. I like mucking about in that little yawl of mine. Redfern’s keen on sailing, too. He’s been out with me once or twice. Can’t get hold of him now—always hanging round that red-haired wife of Marshall’s.”

He paused, then lowering his voice, he went on:

“Mostly a dried up lot of sticks in this hotel! Mrs. Marshall’s about the only lively spot! I should think Marshall’s got his hands full looking after her. All sorts of stories about her in her stage days—and after! Men go crazy about her. You’ll see, there’ll be a spot of trouble one of these days.”

Poirot asked: “What kind of trouble?”

Horace Blatt replied:

“That depends. I’d say, looking at Marshall, that he’s a man with a funny kind of temper. As a matter of fact, I know he is. Heard something about him. I’ve met that quiet sort. Never know where you are with that kind. Redfern had better look out—”

He broke off, as the subject of his words came into the bar. He went on speaking loudly and self-consciously.

“And, as I say, sailing round this coast is good fun. Hullo, Redfern, have one with me? What’ll you have? Dry Martini? Right. What about you, M. Poirot?”