doubtless she too has dreamt of coming abroad – of the excitement – of how different everything would be. You understand?”
“I understand,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that you are
Poirot nodded.
“Exactly.”
There were moments when Mr. Satterthwaite looked like Puck. This was one of them. His little wrinkled face twitched impishly. He hesitated. Should he? Should he not?
Slowly he unfolded the newspaper he was still carrying.
“Have you seen this, M. Poirot?”
With his forefinger he indicated the paragraph he meant.
The little Belgian took the paper. Mr. Satterthwaite watched him as he read. No change came over his face, but the Englishman had the impression that his body stiffened, as does that of a terrier when it sniffs a rat- hole.
Hercule Poirot read the paragraph twice, then he folded the paper and returned it to Mr. Satterthwaite.
“That is interesting,” he said.
“Yes. It looks, does it not, as though Sir Charles Cartwright had been right and we had been wrong.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “It seems as though we had been wrong… I will admit it, my friend, I could not believe that so harmless, so friendly an old man could have been murdered… Well, it may be that I was wrong… Although, see you, this other death may be coincidence. Coincidences do occur – the most amazing coincidences. I, Hercule Poirot, have known coincidences that would surprise you… ”
He paused, and went on:
“Sir Charles Cartwright’s instinct may have been right. He is an artist – sensitive – impressionable – he feels things, rather than reasons about them… Such a method in life is often disastrous – but it is sometimes justified. I wonder where Sir Charles is now.”
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled.
“I can tell you that. He is in the office of the Wagon Lits Co. he and I are returning to England tonight.”
“Aha!” Poirot put immense meaning into the exclamation. His eyes, bright, inquiring, roguish, asked a question. “What zeal he has, our Sir Charles. He is determined, then, to play this role, the role of the amateur policeman? Or is here another reason?”
Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply, but from his silence Poirot seemed to deduce an answer.
“I see,” he said. “The bright eyes of Mademoiselle are concerned in his. It is not only crime that calls?”
“She wrote to him,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “begging him to return.”
Poirot nodded.
“I wonder now,” he said. “I do not quite understand – ”
Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted.
“You do not understand the modern English girl? Well, that is not surprising. I do not always understand them myself. A girl like Miss Lytton Gore – ”
In his turn Poirot interrupted.
“Pardon. You have misunderstood me. I understand Miss Lytton Gore very well. I have met such another – many such others. You call the type modern; but it is – how shall I say? – age-long.”
Mr. Satterthwaite was slightly annoyed. He felt that he – and only he – understood Egg. This preposterous foreign knew nothing about your English womanhood.
Poirot was still speaking. His tone was dreamy – brooding.
“A knowledge of human nature – what a dangerous thing it can be.”
“A useful thing,” corrected Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Perhaps. It depends upon the point of view.”
“Well – ” Mr. Satterthwaite hesitated – got up. He was a little disappointed. He had cast the bait and the fish had not risen. He felt that his own knowledge of human nature was at fault. “I will wish you a pleasant holiday.”
“I thank you.”
“I hope that when you are next in London you will come and see me.” He produced a card. “This is my address.”
“You are most amiable, Mr. Satterthwaite. I shall be charmed.”
“Good bye for the present, then.”
“Good bye, and
Mr. Satterthwaite moved away. Poirot looked after him for a moment or two, then once more he stared straight ahead of him, looking out over the blue Mediterranean.
So he sat for at least ten minutes.
The English child reappeared.
“I’ve looked at the sea, Mummy. What shall I do next?”
“An admirable question,” said Hercule Poirot under his breath.
He rose and walked slowly away – in the direction of the Wagon Lits offices.
7
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were sitting in Colonel Johnson’s study. The chief constable was a big red- faced man with a barrack-room voice and a hearty manner.
He had greeted Mr. Satterthwaite with every sign of pleasure and was obviously delighted to make the acquaintance of the famous Charles Cartwright.
“My missus is a great playgoer. She’s one of your – what do the Americans call it? – fans. That’s it – fans. I like a good play myself – good clean stuff that is, some of the things they put on the stage nowadays – faugh!”
Sir Charles, conscious of rectitude in this respect – he had never put on “daring” plays, responded suitably with all his easy charm of manner. When they came to mention the object of their visit Colonel Johnson was only too ready to tell them he could.
“Friend of yours, you say? Too bad – too bad. Yes, he was very popular round here. That sanatorium of his is very highly spoken of, and by all accounts Sir Bartholomew was a first-rate fellow, as well as being at the top of his profession. Kind, generous, popular all round. Last man in the world you’d expect to be murdered – and murder is what it looks like. There’s nothing to indicate suicide, and anything like accident seems out of the question.”
“Satterthwaite and I have just come back from abroad,” said Sir Charles. “We’ve only seen snippets here and there in the papers.”
“And naturally you want to know all about it. Well, I’ll tell you exactly how the matter stands. I think there’s no doubt the butler’s the man we’ve got to look for. He was a new man – Sir Bartholomew had only had him a fortnight, and the moment after the crime he disappears – vanishes into thin air. That looks a bit fishy, doesn’t it? Eh, what?”
“You’ve no notion where he went?”
Colonel Johnson’s naturally red face got a little redder.
“Negligence on our part, you think. I admit it damn’ well looks like it. Naturally the fellow was under observation – just the same as everyone else. He answered our questions quite satisfactorily – gave the London agency which obtained him the place. Last employer, Sir Horace Bird. All very civil spoken, no sign of panic. Next thing was he’d gone – and the house under observation. I’ve hauled my men over the coals, but they swear they didn’t bat an eyelid.”
“Very remarkable,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Apart from everything else,” said Sir Charles thoughtfully, “it seems a damn’ fool thing to do. As far as he knew, the man wasn’t suspected. By bolting he draws attention to himself.”
“Exactly. And not a hope of escape. His description’s been circulated. It’s only a matter of days before he’s pulled in.”
“Very odd,” said Sir Charles. “I don’t understand it.”
