Three Act Tragedy

near her. They say her husband’s frightened of her – and no wonder.”

“Have you ever heard her speak of anyone called Babbington or of a place in Kent – Gilling?”

“Really, now, I can’t call to mind that I have.”

Doris looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation.

“Oh, dear, I must hurry. I shall be late.”

“Good-bye, and thanks so much for coming.”

“It’s been a pleasure, I’m sure. Good-bye, Miss Lytton Gore, and I hope the article will be a great success. I shall look out for it.”

“You’ll look in vain, my girl,” thought Egg, as she asked for her bill.

Then, drawing a line through the supposed jottings for the article, she wrote in her little notebook:

“Cynthia Dacres. Believed to be in financial difficulties. Described as having a ‘wicked temper.’ Young man (rich) with whom she was believed to be having an affair was ordered on sea voyage by Sir Bartholomew Strange. Showed no reaction at mention of Gilling or at statement that Babbington knew her.”

“There doesn’t seem much there,” said Egg to herself. “A possible motive for the murder of Sir Bartholomew, but very thin. M. Poirot may be able to make something of that. I can’t.”

19

Egg had not yet finished her programme for the day. Her next move was to St. John’s House, in which building the Dacres had a flat. There were sumptuous window boxes and uniformed porters of such magnificence that they looked like foreign generals.

Egg did not enter the building. She strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street. After about an hour of this she calculated that she must have walked several miles. It was half-past five.

Then a taxi drew up at the Mansions, and Captain Dacres alighted from it. Egg allowed three minutes to elapse, then she crossed the road and entered the building.

Egg pressed the doorbell of No. 3. Dacres himself opened the door. He was still engaged in taking off his overcoat.

“Oh,” said Egg. “How do you do? You do remember me, don’t you? We met in Cornwall, and again in Yorkshire.”

“Of course – of course. In at the death both times, weren’t we? Come in, Miss Lytton Gore.”

“I wanted to see your wife. Is she in?”

“She’s round in Bruton Street – at her dressmaking place.”

“I know. I was there today. I thought perhaps she’d be back by now, and that she wouldn’t mind, perhaps, if I came here – only, of course, I suppose I’m being a frightful bother – ”

Egg paused appealingly.

Freddie Dacres said to himself:

“Nice looking filly. Damned pretty girl, in fact.”

Aloud he said:

“Cynthia won’t be back till well after six. I’ve just come back from Newbury. Had a rotten day and left early. Come round to the Seventy-Two Club and have a cocktail?”

Egg accepted, though she had a shrewd suspicion that Dacres had already had quite as much alcohol as was good for him.

Sitting in the underground dimness of the Seventy-Two Club, and sipping a Martini, Egg said: “This is great fun. I’ve never been here before.”

Freddie Dacres smiled indulgently. He liked a young and pretty girl. Not perhaps as much as he liked some other things – but well enough.

“Upsettin’ sort of time, wasn’t it?” he said. “Up in Yorkshire, I mean. Something rather amusin’ about a doctor being poisoned – you see what I mean – wrong way about. A doctor’s a chap who poisons other people.”

He laughed uproariously at his own remark and ordered another pink gin.

“That’s rather clever of you,” said Egg. “I never thought of it that way before.”

“Only a joke, of course,” said Freddie Dacres.

“It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Egg, “that when we meet it’s always at a death.”

“Bit odd,” admitted Captain Dacres. “You mean the old clergyman chap at what’s him name’s – the actor fellow’s place?”

“Yes. It was very queer the way he died so suddenly.”

“Damn’ disturbin’,” said Dacres. “Makes you feel a bit gruey, fellows popping off all over the place. You know, you think ‘my turn next,’ and it gives you the shivers.”

“You knew Mr. Babbington before, didn’t you, at Gilling?”

“Don’t know the place. No, I never set eyes on the old chap before. Funny thing is he popped off just the same way as old Strange did. Bit odd, that. Can’t have been bumped off, too, I suppose?”

“Well, what do you think?”

Dacres shook his head.

“Can’t have been,” he said decisively. “Nobody murders parsons. Doctors are different.”

“Yes,” said Egg. “I suppose doctors are different.”

“Course they are. Stands to reason. Doctors are interfering devils.” He slurred the words a little. He leant forward. “Won’t let well alone. Understand?”

“No,” said Egg.

“They monkey about with fellows’ lives. They’ve got a damned sight too much power. Oughtn’t to be allowed.”

“I don’t quite see what you mean.”

“M’ dear girl, I’m telling you. Get a fellow shut up – that’s what I mean – put him in hell. God, they’re cruel. Shut him up and keep the stuff from him – and however much you beg and pray they won’t give it you. Don’t care a damn what torture you’re in. That’s doctors for you. I’m telling you – and I know.”

His face twitched painfully. His little pinpoint pupils stared past her.

“It’s hell, I tell you – hell. And they call it curing you! Pretend they’re doing a decent action. Swine!”

“Did Sir Bartholomew Strange -?” began Egg cautiously.

He took the words out of her mouth.

“Sir Bartholomew Strange. Sir Bartholomew Humbug. I’d like to know what goes on in that precious Sanatorium of his. Nerve cases. That’s what they say. You’re in there and you can’t get out. And they say you’ve gone of your own free will. Free will! Just because they get hold of you when you’ve got the horrors.”

He was shaking now. His mouth drooped suddenly.

“I’m all to pieces,” he said apologetically. “All to pieces.” He called to the waiter, pressed Egg to have another drink, and when she refused, ordered one himself.

“That’s better,” he said as he drained the glass. “Got my nerve back now. Nasty business losing your nerve. Mustn’t make Cynthia angry. She told me not to talk.” He nodded his head once or twice. “Wouldn’t do to tell the police all this,” he said. “They might think I’d bumped old Strange off. Eh? You realise, don’t you, that someone must have done it? One of us must have killed him. That’s a funny thought. Which of us? That’s the question.”

“Perhaps you know which,” said Egg.

“What d’you say that for? Why should I know?”

He looked at her angrily and suspiciously.

“I don’t know anything about it, I tell you. I wasn’t going to take that damnable ‘cure’ of his. No matter what Cynthia said – I wasn’t going to take it. He was up to something – they were both up to something. But they couldn’t fool me.”

He drew himself up.