Very, very gently Miss Marple raised her head. The windows of the bungalow were low. Shielding herself slightly with a festoon of creeper she peered inside . . .
Jackson was on his knees before a suitcase.
The lid of the suitcase was up and Miss Marple could see that it was a specially fitted affair containing compartments filled with various kinds of papers.
Jackson was looking through the papers, occasionally drawing documents out of long envelopes. Miss Marple did not remain at her observation post for long. All she wanted was to know what Jackson was doing. She knew now. Jackson was snooping. Whether he was looking for something in particular, or whether he was just indulging his natural instincts, she had no means of judging. But it confirmed her in her belief that Arthur Jackson and Jonas Parry had strong affinities in other things than facial resemblance.
Her problem was now to withdraw. Very carefully she dropped down again and crept along the flowerbed until she was clear of the window. She returned to her bungalow and carefully put away the shoe and the heel that she had detached from it. She looked at them with affection. A good device which she could use on another day if necessary. She resumed her own sandal shoes, and went thoughtfully down to the beach again.
Choosing a moment when Esther Walters was in the water. Miss Marple moved into the chair Esther had vacated.
Greg and Lucky were laughing and talking with Señora de Caspearo and making a good deal of noise.
Miss Marple spoke very quietly, almost under her breath, without looking at Mr. Rafter.
“Do you know that Jackson snoops?”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Mr. Rafter. “Caught him at it, did you?”
“I managed to observe him through a window. He had one of your suitcases open and was looking through your papers.”
“Must have managed to get hold of a key to it. Resourceful fellow. He’ll be disappointed though. Nothing he gets hold of in that way will do him a mite of good.”
“He’s coming down now,” said Miss Marple, glancing up towards the hotel.
“Time for that idiotic sea dip of mine.” He spoke again—very quietly. “As for you—don’t be too enterprising. We don’t want to be attending your funeral next. Remember your age, and be careful. There’s somebody about who isn’t too scrupulous, remember?”
20
NIGHT ALARM
EVENING came. The lights came up on the terrace. People dined and talked and laughed, albeit less loudly and merrily than they had a day or two ago. The steel band played. But the dancing ended early. People yawned, went off to bed. The lights went out. There was darkness and stillness. The Golden Palm Tree slept . . .
“Evelyn. Evelyn!” The whisper came sharp and urgent.
Evelyn Hillingdon stirred and turned on her pillow.
“Evelyn. Please wake up.”
Evelyn Hillingdon sat up abruptly. Tim Kendal was standing in the doorway. She stared at him in surprise.
”Evelyn, please, could you come? It’s—Molly. She’s ill. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. I think she must have taken something.”
Evelyn was quick, decisive.
“All right, Tim. I’ll come. You go back to her. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Tim Kendal disappeared. Evelyn slipped out of bed, threw on a dressing gown and looked across at the other bed. Her husband, it seemed, had not been awakened. He lay there, his head turned away, breathing quietly. Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then decided not to disturb him. She went out of the door and walked rapidly to the main building and beyond it to the Kendals’ bungalow. She caught up with Tim in the doorway.
Molly lay in bed. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was clearly not natural. Evelyn bent over her, rolled up an eyelid, felt her pulse and then looked at the bedside table. There was a glass there which had been used. Beside it was an empty phial of tablets. She picked it up.
“They were her sleeping pills,” said Tim, “but that bottle was half full yesterday or the day before. I think she must have taken the lot.”