Three-Act Tragedy Read online

  ‘I don’t see—’ began Mr Satterthwaite.

  Poirot swept on:

  ‘I will prove that to you some time by a little experiment. Let us pass on to another and most important matter. It is vital, you see (and you will see, I am sure, you have the sympathetic heart and the delicate understanding), that I must not play the part of what you call the spoilsport.’

  ‘You mean—’ began Mr Satterthwaite with the beginning of a smile.

  ‘That Sir Charles must have the star part! He is used to it. And, moreover, it is expected of him by someone else. Am I not right? It does not please mademoiselle at all that I come to concern myself in this matter.’

  ‘You are what we call “quick in the uptake”, M. Poirot.’

  ‘Ah, that, it leaps to the eye! I am of a very susceptible nature—I wish to assist a love affair—not to hinder it. You and I, my friend, must work together in this—to the honour and glory of Charles Cartwright; is it not so? When the case is solved—’

  ‘If—’ said Mr Satterthwaite mildly.

  ‘When! I do not permit myself to fail.’

  ‘Never?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite searchingly.

  ‘There have been times,’ said Poirot with dignity, ‘when for a short time, I have been what I suppose you would call slow in the take-up. I have not perceived the truth as soon as I might have done.’

  ‘But you’ve never failed altogether?’

  The persistence of Mr Satterthwaite was curiosity, pure and simple. He wondered…

  ‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘Once. Long ago, in Belgium. We will not talk of it…’

  ‘Mr Satterthwaite, his curiosity (and his malice) satisfied, hastened to change the subject.

  ‘Just so. You were saying that when the case is solved—’

  ‘Sir Charles will have solved it. That is essential. I shall have been a little cog in the wheel,’ he spread out his hands. ‘Now and then, here and there, I shall say a little word—just one little word—a hint, no more. I desire no honour—no renown. I have all the renown I need.’

  Mr Satterthwaite studied him with interest. He was amused by the naïve conceit, the immense egoism of the little man. But he did not make the easy mistake of considering it mere empty boasting. An Englishman is usually modest about what he does well, sometimes pleased with himself over something he does badly; but a Latin has a truer appreciation of his own powers. If he is clever he sees no reason for concealing the fact.

  ‘I should like to know,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘it would interest me very much—just what do you yourself hope to get out of this business? Is it the excitement of the chase?’

  Poirot shook his head.

  ‘No—no—it is not that. Like the chien de chasse, I follow the scent, and I get excited, and once on the scent I cannot be called off it. All that is true. But there is more…It is—how shall I put it?—a passion for getting at the truth. In all the world there is nothing so curious and so interesting and so beautiful as truth…’

  There was silence for a little while after Poirot’s words.

  Then he took up the paper on which Mr Satterthwaite had carefully copied out the seven names, and read them aloud.

  ‘Mrs Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Wills, Miss Sutcliffe, Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Miss Lytton Gore, Oliver Manders.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘suggestive, is it not?’

  ‘What is suggestive about it?’

  ‘The order in which the names occur.’

  ‘I don’t think there is anything suggestive about it. We just wrote the names down without any particular order about it.’

  ‘Exactly. The list is headed by Mrs Dacres. I deduce from that that she is considered the most likely person to have committed the crime.’

  ‘Not the most likely,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘The least unlikely would express it better.’

  ‘And a third phrase would express it better still. She is perhaps the person you would all prefer to have committed the crime.’

  Mr Satterthwaite opened his lips impulsively, then met the gentle quizzical gaze of Poirot’s shining green eyes, and altered what he had been about to say.

  ‘I wonder—perhaps, M. Poirot, you are right—unconsciously that may be true.’

  ‘I would like to ask you something, Mr Satterthwaite.’

  ‘Certainly—certainly,’ Mr Satterthwaite answered complacently.

  ‘From what you have told me, I gather that Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore went together to interview Mrs Babbington.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did not accompany them?’

  ‘No. Three would have been rather a crowd.’

  Poirot smiled.

  ‘And also, perhaps, your inclinations led you elsewhere. You had, as they say, different fish to fry. Where did you go, Mr Satterthwaite?’

  ‘I had tea with Lady Mary Lytton Gore,’ said Mr Satterthwaite stiffly.

  ‘And what did you talk about?’

  ‘She was so good as to confide in me some of the troubles of her early married life.’

  He repeated the substance of Lady Mary’s story. Poirot nodded his head sympathetically.

  ‘That is so true to life—the idealistic young girl who marries the bad hat and will listen to nobody. But did you talk of nothing else? Did you, for instance, not speak of Mr Oliver Manders?’

  ‘As a matter of fact we did.’

  ‘And you learnt about him—what?’

  Mr Satterthwaite repeated what Lady Mary had told him. Then he said:

  ‘What made you think we had talked of him?’

  ‘Because you went there for that reason. Oh, yes, do not protest. You may hope that Mrs Dacres or her husband committed the crime, but you think that young Manders did.’

  He stilled Mr Satterthwaite’s protests.

  ‘Yes, yes, you have the secretive nature. You have your ideas, but you like keeping them to yourself. I have sympathy with you. I do the same myself…’

  ‘I don’t suspect him—that’s absurd. But I just wanted to know more about him.’

  ‘That is as I say. He is your instinctive choice. I, too, am interested in that young man. I was interested in him on the night of the dinner here, because I saw—’

  ‘What did you see?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite eagerly.

  ‘I saw that there were two people at least (perhaps more) who were playing a part. One was Sir Charles.’ He smiled. ‘He was playing the naval officer, am I not right? That is quite natural. A great actor does not cease to act because he is not on the stage any more. But young Manders, he too was acting. He was playing the part of the bored and blaséyoung man—but in reality he was neither bored nor blasé—he was very keenly alive. And therefore, my friend, I noticed him.’

  ‘How did you know I’d been wondering about him?’

  ‘In many little ways. You had been interested in that accident of his that brought him to Melfort Abbey that night. You had not gone with Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore to see Mrs Babbington. Why? Because you wanted to follow out some line of your own unobserved. You went to Lady Mary’s to find out about someone. Who? It could only be someone local. Oliver Manders. And then, most characteristic, you put his name at the bottom of the list. Who are really the least likely suspects in your mind—Lady Mary and Mademoiselle Egg—but you put his name after theirs, because he is your dark horse, and you want to keep him to yourself.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Am I really that kind of man?’

  ‘Précisément. You have shrewd judgment and observation, and you like keeping its results to yourself. Your opinions of people are your private collection. You do not display them for all the world to see.’

  ‘I believe,’ began Mr Satterthwaite, but he was interrupted by the return of Sir Charles.

  The actor came in with a springing buoyant step.

  ‘Brrr,’ he said. ‘It’s a wild night.’

  He poured himself out a whisky and soda.

  Mr Satterthwaite and Poirot both
declined.

  ‘Well,’ said Sir Charles, ‘let’s map out our plan of campaign. Where’s that list, Satterthwaite? Ah, thanks. Now M. Poirot, Counsel’s opinion, if you please. How shall we divide up the spadework?’

  ‘How would you suggest yourself, Sir Charles?’

  ‘Well, we might divide these people up—division of labour—eh? First, there’s Mrs Dacres. Egg seems rather keen to take her on. She seems to think that anyone so perfectly turned out won’t get impartial treatment from mere males. It seems quite a good idea to approach her through the professional side. Satterthwaite and I might work the other gambit as well if it seemed advisable. Then there’s Dacres. I know some of his racing pals. I daresay I could pick up something that way. Then there’s Angela Sutcliffe.’

  ‘That also seems to be your work, Cartwright,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘You know her pretty well, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I’d rather somebody else tackled her…Firstly,’ he smiled ruefully, ‘I shall be accused of not putting my back into the job, and secondly—well—she’s a friend—you understand?’

  ‘Parfaitement, parfaitement—you feel the natural delicacy. It is most understandable. This good Mr Satterthwaite—he will replace you in the task.’

  ‘Lady Mary and Egg—they don’t count, of course. What about young Manders? His presence on the night of Tollie’s death was an accident; still, I suppose we ought to include him.’

  ‘Mr Satterthwaite will look after young Manders,’ said Poirot. ‘But I think, Sir Charles, you have missed out a name on your list. You have passed over Miss Muriel Wills.’

  ‘So I have. Well, if Satterthwaite takes on Manders, I’ll take on Miss Wills. Is that settled? Any suggestions, M. Poirot?’

  ‘No, no—I do not think so. I shall be interested to hear your results.’

  ‘Of course—that goes without saying. Another idea: If we procured photographs of these people we might use them in making inquiries in Gilling.’

  ‘Excellent,’ approved Poirot. ‘There was something—ah, yes, your friend, Sir Bartholomew, he did not drink cocktails, but he did drink the port?’

  ‘Yes, he had a particular weakness for port.’

  ‘It seems odd to me that he did not taste anything unusual. Pure nicotine has a most pungent and unpleasant taste.’

  ‘You’ve got to remember,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that there probably wasn’t any nicotine in the port. The contents of the glass were analysed, remember.’

  ‘Ah, yes—foolish of me. But, however it was administered—nicotine has a very disagreeable taste.’

  ‘I don’t know that that would matter,’ said Sir Charles slowly. ‘Tollie had a very bad go of influenza last spring, and it left him with his sense of taste and smell a good deal impaired.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘That might account for it. That simplifies things considerably.’

  Sir Charles went to the window and looked out.

  ‘Still blowing a gale. I’ll send for your things, M. Poirot. The Rose and Crown is all very well for enthusiastic artists, but I think you’d prefer proper sanitation and a comfortable bed.’

  ‘You are extremely amiable, Sir Charles.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll see to it now.’

  He left the room.

  Poirot looked at Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘If I may permit myself a suggestion.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Poirot leaned forward, and said in a low voice:

  ‘Ask young Manders why he faked an accident. Tell him the police suspect him—and see what he says.’

  Chapter 6

  Cynthia Dacres

  The showrooms of Ambrosine, Ltd, were very pure in appearance. The walls were a shade just off white—the thick pile carpet was so neutral as to be almost colourless—so was the upholstery. Chromium gleamed here and there, and on one wall was a gigantic geometric design in vivid blue and lemon yellow. The room had been designed by Mr Sydney Sandford—the newest and youngest decorator of the moment.

  Egg Lytton Gore sat in an arm-chair of modern design—faintly reminiscent of a dentist’s chair, and watched exquisite snake-like young women with beautiful bored faces pass sinuously before her. Egg was principally concerned with endeavouring to appear as though fifty or sixty pounds was a mere bagatelle to pay for a dress.

  Mrs Dacres, looking as usual marvellously unreal, was (as Egg put it to herself) doing her stuff.

  ‘Now, do you like this? Those shoulder knots—rather amusing, don’t you think? And the waistline’s rather penetrating. I shouldn’t have the red lead colour, though—I should have it in the new colour—Espanol—most attractive—like mustard, with a dash of cayenne in it. How do you like Vin Ordinaire? Rather absurd, isn’t it? Quite penetrating and ridiculous. Clothes simply must not be serious nowadays.’

  ‘It’s very difficult to decide,’ said Egg. ‘You see’—she became confidential—‘I’ve never been able to afford any clothes before. We were always so dreadfully poor. I remembered how simply marvellous you looked that night at Crow’s Nest, and I thought, “Now that I’ve got money to spend, I shall go to Mrs Dacres and ask her to advise me.” I did admire you so much that night.’

  ‘My dear, how charming of you. I simply adore dressing a young girl. It’s so important that girls shouldn’t look raw—if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Nothing raw about you,’ thought Egg ungratefully. ‘Cooked to a turn, you are.’

  ‘You’ve got so much personality,’ continued Mrs Dacres. ‘You mustn’t have anything at all ordinary. Your clothes must be simple and penetrating—and just faintly visible. You understand? Do you want several things?’

  ‘I thought about four evening frocks, and a couple of day things, and a sports suit or two—that sort of thing.’

  The honey of Mrs Dacres’s manner became sweeter. It was fortunate that she did not know that at that moment Egg’s bank balance was exactly fifteen pounds twelve shillings, and that the said balance had got to last her until December.

  More girls in gowns filed past Egg. In the intervals of technical conversation, Egg interspersed other matters.

  ‘I suppose you’ve never been to Crow’s Nest since?’ she said.

  ‘No. My dear, I couldn’t. It was so upsetting—and, anyway, I always think Cornwall is rather terribly artisty…I simply cannot bear artists. Their bodies are always such a curious shape.’

  ‘It was a shattering business, wasn’t it?’ said Egg. ‘Old Mr Babbington was rather a pet, too.’

  ‘Quite a period piece, I should imagine,’ said Mrs Dacres.

  ‘You’d met him before somewhere, hadn’t you?’

  ‘That dear old dug-out? Had I? I don’t remember.’

  ‘I think I remember his saying so,’ said Egg. ‘Not in Cornwall, though. I think it was at a place called Gilling.’

  ‘Was it?’ Mrs Dacres’s eyes were vague. ‘No, Marcelle—Petite Scandale is what I want—the Jenny model—and after that blue Patou.’

  ‘Wasn’t it extraordinary,’ said Egg, ‘about Sir Bartholomew being poisoned?’

  ‘My dear, it was too penetrating for words! It’s done me a world of good. All sorts of dreadful women come and order frocks from me just for the sensation. Now this Patou model would be perfect for you. Look at that perfectly useless and ridiculous frill—it makes the whole thing adorable. Young without being tiresome. Yes, poor Sir Bartholomew’s death has been rather a godsend to me. There’s just an off-chance, you see, that I might have murdered him. I’ve rather played up to that. Extraordinary fat women come and positively goggle at me. Too penetrating. And then, you see—’

  But she was interrupted by the advent of a monumental American, evidently a valued client.

  While the American was unburdening herself of her requirements, which sounded comprehensive and expensive, Egg managed to make an unobtrusive exit, telling the young lady who had succeeded Mrs Dacres that she would think it over before making a final choice.
/>   As she emerged into Bruton Street, Egg glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes to one. Before very long she might be able to put her second plan into operation.

  She walked as far as Berkeley Square, and then slowly back again. At one o’clock she had her nose glued to a window displaying Chinese objets d’art.

  Miss Doris Sims came rapidly out into Bruton Street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square. Just before she got there a voice spoke at her elbow.