Weston got up. He said, after a glance at Colgate to which the latter replied by an almost imperceptible nod, “Well, we must get on to the Cove.”

Lane said:

“Is that where—it happened?”

Weston nodded.

Lane said:

“Can—can I come with you?”

About to return a curt negative, Weston was forestalled by Poirot.

“But certainly,” said Poirot. “Accompany me there in a boat, Mr. Lane. We start immediately.”

Chapter Nine

Nine

For the second time that morning Patrick Redfern was rowing a boat into Pixy Cove. The other occupants of the boat were Hercule Poirot, very pale with a hand to his stomach, and Stephen Lane. Colonel Weston had taken the land route. Having been delayed on the way he arrived on the beach at the same time as the boat grounded. A police constable and a plainclothes sergeant were on the beach already. Weston was questioning the latter as the three from the boat walked up and joined him.

Sergeant Phillips said:

“I think I’ve been over every inch of the beach, sir.”

“Good, what did you find?”

“It’s all together here, sir, if you’d like to come and see.”

A small collection of objects was laid out neatly on a rock. There was a pair of scissors, an empty Gold Flake packet, five patent bottle tops, a number of used matches, three pieces of string, one or two fragments of newspaper, a fragment of a smashed pipe, four buttons, the drumstick bone of a chicken and an empty bottle of sunbathing oil.

Weston looked down appraisingly on the objects.

“H’m,” he said. “Rather moderate for a beach nowadays! Most people seem to confuse a beach with a public rubbish dump! Empty bottle’s been here some time by the way the label’s blurred—so have most of the other things, I should say. The scissors are new, though. Bright and shining. They weren’t out in yesterday’s rain! Where were they?”

“Close by the bottom of the ladder, sir. Also this bit of pipe.”

“H’m, probably dropped by someone going up or down. Nothing to say who they belong to?”

“No, sir. Quite an ordinary pair of nail scissors. Pipe’s a good quality brier—expensive.”

Poirot murmured thoughtfully:

“Captain Marshall told us, I think, that he had mislaid his pipe.”

Weston said:

“Marshall’s out of the picture. Anyway, he’s not the only person who smokes a pipe.”

Hercule Poirot was watching Stephen Lane as the latter’s hand went to his pocket and away again. He said pleasantly:

“You also smoke a pipe, do you not, Mr. Lane?”

The clergyman started. He looked at Poirot.

He said:

“Yes. Oh yes. My pipe is an old friend and companion.” Putting his hand into his pocket again he drew out a pipe, filled it with tobacco and lighted it.

Hercule Poirot moved away to where Redfern was standing, his eyes blank.

He said in a low voice: