Three Act Tragedy

“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 want 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 blase young man – but in reality he was neither bored nor blase – 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 have 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 you 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?”

“Precisement. 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? An, 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.”

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.”

18

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 armchair 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