Three Act Tragedy

Mr. Satterthwaite looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two, then he said:

“What did Sir Bartholomew Strange think of him? Did he ever mention him?”

“He said, I remember, that he found young Manders an interesting study. He said that he reminded him of a case he was treating at the moment in his nursing home. I said that I thought Oliver looked particularly strong and healthy, and he said, ‘Yes, his health’s all right, but he’s riding for a fall.’”

She paused and then said:

“I suppose Sir Bartholomew was a very clever nerve specialist.”

“I believe he was very highly thought of by his own colleagues.”

“I liked him,” said Lady Mary.

“Did he ever say anything to you about Babbington’s death?”

“No.”

“He never mentioned it at all?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you think – it’s difficult for you to tell, not knowing him well – but do you think he had anything on his mind?”

“He seemed in very good spirits – even amused by something – some private joke of his own. He told me at dinner that night that he was going to spring a surprise on me.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

On his way home, Mr. Satterthwaite pondered that statement.

What had been the surprise Sir Bartholomew had intended to spring on his guests?

Would it, when it came, have been as amusing as he pretended?

Or did that gay manner mask a quiet but indomitable purpose? Would anyone ever know?

15

“Frankly,” said Sir Charles, “are we any forrader?”

It was a council of war. Sir Charles, Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg Lytton Gore were sitting in the Ship-room. A fire burned in the grate, and outside an equinoctial gale was howling.

Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg answered the question simultaneously.

“No,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Yes,” said Egg.

Sir Charles looked from one to the other of them. Mr. Satterthwaite indicated gracefully that the lady should speak first.

Egg was silent a moment or two, collecting her ideas.

“We are further on,” she said at last. “We are further on because we haven’t found out anything. That sounds nonsense, but it isn’t. What I mean is that we had certain vague sketchy ideas; we know now that certain of those ideas are definitely washouts.”

“Progress by elimination,” said Sir Charles.

“That’s it.”

Mr. Satterthwaite cleared his throat. He liked to define things.

“The idea of gain we can now put definitely away,” he said. “There does not seem to be anybody who (in detective story parlance) could benefit by Stephen Babbington’s death. Revenge seems equally out of the question. Apart from his naturally amiable and peace-loving disposition, I doubt if he were important enough to make enemies. So we are back at our last rather sketchy idea – fear. By the death of Stephen Babbington, someone gains security.”

“That’s rather well put,” said Egg.

Mr. Satterthwaite looked modestly pleased with himself. Sir Charles looked a little annoyed. His was the star part, not Satterthwaite’s.

“The point is,” said Egg, “what are we going to do next – actually do, I mean. Are we going to sleuth people, or what? Are we going to disguise ourselves and follow them?”

“My dear child,” said Sir Charles, “I always did set my face against playing old men in beards, and I’m not going to begin now.”

“Then what -?” began Egg.

But she was interrupted. The door opened, and Temple announced:

“Mr. Hercule Poirot.”

M. Poirot walked in with a beaming face and greeted three highly astonished people.

“It is permitted,” he said with a twinkle, “that I assist at this conference? I am right, am I not – it is a conference?”

“My dear fellow, we’re delighted to see you.” Sir Charles, recovering from his surprise, shook his guest warmly by the hand and pushed him into a large armchair. “Where have you sprung from so suddenly?”

“I went to call upon my good friend Mr. Satterthwaite in London. They tell me he is away – in Cornwell. Eh bien, it leaps to the eye where he has gone. I take the first train to Loomouth, and here I am.”

“Yes,” said Egg. “But why have you come?”

“I mean,” she went on, flushing a little as she realised the possible discourtesy of her words, “you have come for some particular reason?”

“I have come,” said Hercule Poirot, “to admit an error.”

With an engaging smile he turned to Sir Charles and spread out his hands in a foreign gesture.

“Monsieur, it was in this very room that you declared yourself not satisfied. And I – I thought it was your dramatic instinct – I said to myself, he is a great actor, at all costs he must have drama. It seemed, I will admit it, incredible that a harmless old gentleman should have died anything but a natural death. Even now I do not see how poison could have been administered to him, nor can I guess at any motive. It seems absurd – fantastic. And yet – since then, there has been another death, a death under similar circumstances. One cannot attribute it to coincidence. No, there must be a link between the two. And so, Sir Charles, I have come up to you to apologise – to say I, Hercule Poirot, was wrong, and to ask you to admit me to your councils.”

Sir Charles cleared his throat rather nervously. He looked a little embarrassed.

“That’s extraordinary handsome of you, M. Poirot. I don’t know – taking up a lot of your time – I – ”

He stopped, somewhere at a loss. His eyes consulted Mr. Satterthwaite.

“It is very good of you – ” began Mr. Satterthwaite.

“No, no, it is not good of me. It is the curiosity – and, yes, the hurt to my pride. I must repair my fault. My time – that is nothing – why voyage after all? The language may be different, but everywhere human nature is the same. But of course if I am not welcome, if you feel that I intrude – ”

Both men spoke at once.

“No, indeed.”

“Rather not.”

Poirot turned his eyes to the girl.

“And Mademoiselle?”

For a minute or two Egg was silent, and on all three men the same impression was produced. Egg did not want the assistance of M. Poirot…

Mr. Satterthwaite thought he knew why. This was the private ploy of Charles Cartwright and Egg Lytton Gore. Mr. Satterthwaite had been admitted – on sufferance – on the clear understanding that he was a negligible third party. But Hercule Poirot was different. His would be the leading role. Perhaps, even, Sir Charles might retire in his favour. And then Egg’s plans would come to naught.

He watched the girl, sympathising with her predicament. These men did not understand, but he, with his semi-feminine sensitiveness, realised her dilemma. Egg was fighting for her happiness…

What would she say?

After all what could she say? How could she speak the thoughts in her mind? “Go away – go