Three-Act Tragedy Read online

  It seemed to him there was just the slightest pause before Miss Wills answered.

  ‘No.’

  ‘About Mrs Dacres? Or Captain Dacres? Or Miss Sutcliffe? Or Mr Manders?’

  He watched her very intently as he pronounced each name.

  Once he thought he saw the pince-nez flicker, but he could not be sure.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you, Sir Charles.’

  ‘Oh, well!’ He stood up. ‘Satterthwaite will be disappointed.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Miss Wills primly.

  ‘I’m sorry, too, for disturbing you. I expect you were busy writing.’

  ‘I was, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Another play?’

  ‘Yes. To tell you the truth, I thought of using some of the characters at the house-party at Melfort Abbey.’

  ‘What about libel?’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Sir Charles, I find people never recognize themselves.’ She giggled. ‘Not if, as you said just now, one is really merciless.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that we all have an exaggerated idea of our own personalities and don’t recognize the truth if it’s sufficiently brutally portrayed. I was quite right, Miss Wills, you are a cruel woman.’

  Miss Wills tittered.

  ‘You needn’t be afraid, Sir Charles. Women aren’t usually cruel to men—unless it’s some particular man—they’re only cruel to other women.’

  ‘Meaning you’ve got your analytical knife into some unfortunate female. Which one? Well, perhaps I can guess. Cynthia’s not beloved by her own sex.’

  Miss Wills said nothing. She continued to smile—rather a catlike smile.

  ‘Do you write your stuff or dictate it?’

  ‘Oh, I write it and send it to be typed.’

  ‘You ought to have a secretary.’

  ‘Perhaps. Have you still got that clever Miss—Miss Milray, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got Miss Milray. She went away for a time to look after her mother in the country, but she’s back again now. Most efficient woman.’

  ‘So I should think. Perhaps a little impulsive.’

  ‘Impulsive? Miss Milray?’

  Sir Charles stared. Never in his wildest flights of fancy had he associated impulse with Miss Milray.

  ‘Only on occasions, perhaps,’ said Miss Wills.

  Sir Charles shook his head.

  ‘Miss Milray’s the perfect robot. Goodbye, Miss Wills. Forgive me for bothering you, and don’t forget to let the police know about that thingummybob.’

  ‘The mark on the butler’s right wrist? No, I won’t forget.’

  ‘Well, goodbye—half a sec.—did you say right wrist? You said left just now.’

  ‘Did I? How stupid of me.’

  ‘Well, which was it?’

  Miss Wills frowned and half closed her eyes.

  ‘Let me see. I was sitting so—and he—would you mind, Sir Charles, handing me that brass plate as though it was a vegetable dish. Left side.’

  Sir Charles presented the beaten brass atrocity as directed.

  ‘Cabbage, madam?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Miss Wills, ‘I’m quite sure now. It was the left wrist, as I said first. Stupid of me.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Left and right are always puzzling.’

  He said goodbye for the third time.

  As he closed the door he looked back. Miss Wills was not looking at him. She was standing where he had left her. She was gazing at the fire, and on her lips was a smile of satisfied malice.

  Sir Charles was startled.

  ‘That woman knows something,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll swear she knows something. And she won’t say…But what the devil is it she knows?’

  Chapter 10

  Oliver Manders

  At the office of Messrs Speier & Ross, Mr Satterthwaite asked for Mr Oliver Manders and sent in his card.

  Presently he was ushered into a small room, where Oliver was sitting at a writing-table.

  The young man got up and shook hands.

  ‘Good of you to look me up, sir,’ he said.

  His tone implied:

  ‘I have to say that, but really it’s a damned bore.’

  Mr Satterthwaite, however, was not easily put off. He sat down, blew his nose thoughtfully, and, peering over the top of his handkerchief, said:

  ‘Seen the news this morning?’

  ‘You mean the new financial situation? Well, the dollar—’

  ‘Not dollars,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Death. The result of the Loomouth exhumation. Babbington was poisoned—by nicotine.’

  ‘Oh, that—yes, I saw that. Our energetic Egg will be pleased. She always insisted it was murder.’

  ‘But it doesn’t interest you?’

  ‘My tastes aren’t so crude. After all, murder—’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘So violent and inartistic.’

  ‘Not always inartistic,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘No? Well, perhaps not.’

  ‘It depends, does it not, on who commits the murder. You, for instance, would, I am sure, commit a murder in a very artistic manner.’

  ‘Nice of you to say so,’ drawled Oliver.

  ‘But frankly, my dear boy, I don’t think much of the accident you faked. No more do the police, I understand.’

  There was a moment’s silence—then a pen dropped to the floor.

  Oliver said:

  ‘Excuse me, I don’t quite understand you.’

  ‘That rather inartistic performance of yours at Melfort Abbey. I should be interested to know—just why you did it.’

  There was another silence, then Oliver said:

  ‘You say the police—suspect?’

  Mr Satterthwaite nodded.

  ‘It looks a little suspicious, don’t you think?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘But perhaps you have a perfectly good explanation.’

  ‘I’ve got an explanation,’ said Oliver slowly. ‘Whether it’s a good one or not, I don’t know.’

  ‘Will you let me judge?’

  There was a pause, then Oliver said:

  ‘I came there—the way I did—at Sir Bartholomew’s own suggestion.’

  ‘What?’ Mr Satterthwaite was astonished.

  ‘A bit odd, isn’t it? But it’s true. I got a letter from him suggesting that I should have a sham accident and claim hospitality. He said he couldn’t put his reasons in writing, but he would explain them to me at the first opportunity.’

  ‘And did he explain?’

  ‘No, he didn’t…I got there just before dinner. I didn’t see him alone. At the end of dinner he—he died.’

  The weariness had gone out of Oliver’s manner. His dark eyes were fixed on Mr Satterthwaite. He seemed to be studying attentively the reactions aroused by his words.

  ‘You’ve got this letter?’

  ‘No, I tore it up.’

  ‘A pity,’ said Mr Satterthwaite dryly. ‘And you said nothing to the police?’

  ‘No, it all seemed—well, rather fantastic.’

  ‘It is fantastic.’

  Mr Satterthwaite shook his head. Had Bartholomew Strange written such a letter? It seemed highly uncharacteristic. The story had a melodramatic touch most unlike the physician’s cheerful common sense.

  He looked up at the young man. Oliver was still watching him. Mr Satterthwaite thought: ‘He’s looking to see if I swallow this story.’

  He said, ‘And Sir Bartholomew gave absolutely no reason for his request?’

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘An extraordinary story.’

  Oliver did not speak.

  ‘Yet you obeyed the summons?’

  Something of the weary manner returned.

  ‘Yes, it seemed refreshingly out of the way to a somewhat jaded palate. I was curious, I must confess.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘What do you mean, sir, anything else?’

  M
r Satterthwaite did not really know what he meant. He was led by some obscure instinct.

  ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘is there anything else that might tell—against you?’

  There was a pause. Then the young man shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I suppose I might as well make a clean breast of it. The woman isn’t likely to hold her tongue about it.’

  Mr Satterthwaite looked a question.

  ‘It was the morning after the murder stuff. I was talking to the Anthony Armstrong woman. I took out my pocket-book and something fell out of it. She picked it up and handed it back to me.’

  ‘And this something?’

  ‘Unfortunately she glanced at it before returning it to me. It was a cutting from a newspaper about nicotine—what a deadly poison it was, and so on.’

  ‘How did you come to have such an interest in the subject?’

  ‘I didn’t. I suppose I must have put that cutting in my wallet sometime or other, but I can’t remember doing so. Bit awkward, eh?’

  Mr Satterthwaite thought: ‘A thin story.’

  ‘I suppose,’ went on Oliver Manders, ‘she went to the police about it?’

  Mr Satterthwaite shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think so. I fancy she’s a woman who likes—well, to keep things to herself. She’s a collector of knowledge.’

  Oliver Manders leaned forward suddenly.

  ‘I’m innocent, sir, absolutely innocent.’

  ‘I haven’t suggested that you are guilty,’ said Mr Satterthwaite mildly.

  ‘But someone has—someone must have done. Someone has put the police on to me.’

  Mr Satterthwaite shook his head.

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Then why did you come here today?’

  ‘Partly as the result of my—er—investigations on the spot.’ Mr Satterthwaite spoke a little pompously. ‘And partly at the suggestion of—a friend.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Hercule Poirot.’

  ‘That man!’ The expression burst from Oliver. ‘Is he back in England?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why has he come back?’

  Mr Satterthwaite rose.

  ‘Why does a dog go hunting?’ he inquired.

  And, rather pleased with his retort, he left the room.

  Chapter 11

  Poirot Gives A Sherry Party

  I

  Sitting in a comfortable arm-chair in his slightly florid suite at the Ritz, Hercule Poirot listened.

  Egg was perched on the arm of a chair, Sir Charles stood in front of the fireplace, Mr Satterthwaite sat a little farther away observing the group.

  ‘It’s failure all along the line,’ said Egg.

  ‘Poirot shook his head gently.

  ‘No, no, you exaggerate. As regards a link with Mr Babbington, you have drawn the blank—yes; but you have collected other suggestive information.’

  ‘The Wills woman knows something,’ said Sir Charles. ‘I’ll swear she knows something.’

  ‘And Captain Dacres, he too has not the clear conscience. And Mrs Dacres was desperately in want of money, and Sir Bartholomew spoilt her chance of laying hold of some.’

  ‘What do you think of young Manders’s story?’ asked Mr Satterthwaite.

  ‘It strikes me as peculiar and as being highly uncharacteristic of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange.’

  ‘You mean it’s a lie?’ asked Sir Charles bluntly.

  ‘There are so many kinds of lies,’ said Hercule Poirot.

  He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

  ‘This Miss Wills, she has written a play for Miss Sutcliffe?’

  ‘Yes. The first night is Wednesday next.’

  ‘Ah!’

  He was silent again. Egg said:

  ‘Tell us: What shall we do now?’

  The little man smiled at her.

  ‘There is only one thing to do—think.’

  ‘Think?’ cried Egg. Her voice was disgusted.

  Poirot beamed on her.

  ‘But yes, exactly that. Think! With thought, all problems can be solved.’

  ‘Can’t we do something?’

  ‘For you the action, eh, mademoiselle? But certainly, there are still things you can do. There is, for instance, this place, Gilling, where Mr Babbington lived for so many years. You can make inquiries there. You say that this Miss Milray’s mother lives at Gilling and is an invalid. An invalid knows everything. She hears everything and forgets nothing. Make your inquiries of her, it may lead to something—who knows?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’ demanded Egg persistently.

  Poirot twinkled.

  ‘You insist that I, too, shall be active? Eh bien. It shall be as you wish. Only me, I shall not leave this place. I am very comfortable here. But I will tell you what I will do: I will give the party—the Sherry Party—that is fashionable, is it not?’

  ‘A Sherry Party?’

  ‘Précisément, and to it I will ask Mrs Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe, Miss Wills, Mr Manders and your charming mother, mademoiselle.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Naturally, and you. The present company is included.’

  ‘Hurrah,’ said Egg. ‘You can’t deceive me, M. Poirot. Something will happen at that party. It will, won’t it?’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Poirot. ‘But do not expect too much, mademoiselle. Now leave me with Sir Charles, for there are a few things about which I want to ask his advice.’

  As Egg and Mr Satterthwaite stood waiting for the lift, Egg said ecstatically:

  ‘It’s lovely—just like detective stories. All the people will be there, and then he’ll tell us which of them did it.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

  II

  The Sherry Party took place on Monday evening. The invitation had been accepted by all. The charming and indiscreet Miss Sutcliffe laughed mischievously as she glanced round.

  ‘Quite the spider’s parlour, M. Poirot. And here all we poor little flies have walked in. I’m sure you’re going to give us the most marvellous résuméof the case and then suddenly you’ll point at me and say, “Thou art the woman”, and everyone will say, “She done it”, and I shall burst into tears and confess because I’m too terribly suggestible for words. Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so frightened of you.’

  ‘Quelle histoire,’ cried Poirot. He was busy with a decanter and glasses. He handed her a glass of sherry with a bow. ‘This is a friendly little party. Do not let us talk of murders and bloodshed and poison. Là, là! these things, they spoil the palate.’

  He handed a glass to the grim Miss Milray, who had accompanied Sir Charles and was standing with a forbidding expression on her face.

  ‘Voilà,’ said Poirot as he finished dispensing hospitality. ‘Let us forget the occasion on which we first met. Let us have the party spirit. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Ah, malheur, I have again mentioned death. Madame,’ he bowed to Mrs Dacres, ‘may I be permitted to wish you good luck and congratulate you on your very charming gown.’

  ‘Here’s to you, Egg,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Cheerio,’ said Freddie Dacres.

  Everybody murmured something. There was an air of forced gaiety about the proceedings. Everyone was determine to appear gay and unconcerned. Only Poirot himself seemed naturally so. He rambled on happily…

  ‘The sherry, I prefer it to the cocktail—and a thousand times to the whisky. Ah, quel horreur, the whisky. By drinking the whisky, you ruin, absolutely ruin, the palate. The delicate wines of France, to appreciate them, you must never never—ah qu’est-ce qu’il ya—?’

  A strange sound had interrupted him—a kind of choking cry. Every eye went to Sir Charles as he stood swaying, his face convulsed. The glass dropped from his hand on to the carpet, he took a few steps blindly, then collapsed.