Three Act Tragedy

with the affair.”

“It is true,” confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. “But I thought that I had failed.”

“No, no, you did not fail. You are a shrewd judge of human nature, my friend. I was suffering from ennui – I had – in the words of the child who was playing near us – ‘nothing to do.’ You came at the psychological moment. (And, talking of that, how much crime depends, too, on that psychological moment. The crime, the psychology, they go hand in hand.) But let us come back to our muttons. This is a crime very intriguing – it puzzles me completely.”

“Which crime – the first or the second?”

“There is only one – what you call the first and second murder are only the two halves of the same crime. The second half is simple – the motive – the means adopted – ”

Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted.

“Surely the means present an equal difficulty. There was no poison found in any of the wine, and the food was eaten by everybody.”

“No, no, it is quite different. In the first case it does not seem as though anybody could have poisoned Stephen Babbington. Sir Charles, if he had wanted to, could have poisoned one of his guests, but not any particular guest. Temple might possibly have slipped something into the last glass on the tray – but Mr. Babbington’s was not the last glass. No, the murder of Mr. Babbington seems so impossible that I still feel that perhaps it is impossible – that he died a natural death after all… But that we shall soon know. The second case is different. Any one of the guests present, or the butler or parlourmaid, could have poisoned Bartholomew Strange. That presents no difficulty whatever.”

“I don’t see – ” began Mr. Satterthwaite.

Poirot went 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; it is 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’re 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 naive 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 substances 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 leant 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.