Three Act Tragedy

“What do you mean, sir, anything else?”

Mr. Satterthwaite did not really know what he meant. He was led by some obscure instinct.

“I mean,” he said, “is there anything else that might tell – against you?”

There was a pause. Then the young man shrugged his shoulders.

“I suppose I might as well make a clean breast of it. The woman isn’t likely to hold her tongue about it.”

Mr. Satterthwaite looked a question.

“It was the morning after the murder stuff. I was talking to the Anthony Armstrong woman. I took out my pocket-book and something fell out of it. She picked it up and handed it back to me.”

“And this something?”

“Unfortunately she glanced at it before returning it to me. It was a cutting from a newspaper about nicotine – what a deadly poison it was, and so on.”

“How did you come to have such an interest in the subject?”

“I didn’t. I suppose I must have put that cutting in my wallet sometime or other, but I can’t remember doing so. Bit awkward, eh?”

Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “A thin story.”

“I suppose,” went on Oliver Manders, “she went to the police about it?”

Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.

“I don’t think so. I fancy she’s a woman who likes – well, to keep things to herself. She’s a collector of knowledge.”

Oliver Manders leaned forward suddenly.

“I’m innocent, sir, absolutely innocent.”

“I haven’t suggested that you are guilty,” said Mr. Satterthwaite mildly.

“But someone has – someone must have done. Someone has put the police on to me.”

Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.

“No, no.”

“Then why did you come here today?”

“Partly as the result of my – er – investigations on the spot.” Mr. Satterthwaite spoke a little pompously. “And partly at the suggestion of – a friend.”

“What friend?”

“Hercule Poirot.”

“That man!” The expression burst from Oliver. “Is he back in England?”

“Yes.”

“Why has he come back?”

Mr. Satterthwaite rose.

“Why does a dog go hunting?” he inquired.

And, rather pleased with his retort, he left the room.

23

Sitting in a comfortable armchair in his slightly florid suite at the Ritz, Hercule Poirot listened.

Egg was perched on the arm of a chair, Sir Charles stood in front of the fireplace, Mr. Satterthwaite sat a little farther away observing the group.

“It’s failure all along the line,” said Egg.

Poirot shook his head gently.

“No, no, you exaggerate. As regards a link with Mr. Babbington, you have drawn the blank – yes; but you have collected other suggestive information.”

“The Wills woman knows something,” said Sir Charles. “I’ll swear she knows something.”

“And Captain Dacres, he too has not the clear conscience. And Mrs. Dacres was desperately in want of money, and Sir Bartholomew spoilt her chance of laying hold of some.”

“What do you think of young Manders’s story?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

“It strikes me as peculiar and as being highly uncharacteristic of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange.”

“You mean it’s a lie?” asked Sir Charles bluntly.

“There are so many kinds of lies,” said Hercule Poirot.

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

“This Miss Wills, she has written a play for Miss Sutcliffe?”

“Yes. The first night is Wednesday next.”

“Ah!”

He was silent again. Egg said:

“Tell us: What shall we do now?”

The little man smiled at her.

“There is only one thing to do – think.”

“Think?” cried Egg. Her voice was disgusted.

Poirot beamed on her.

“But yes, exactly that. Think! With thought, all problems can be solved.”

“Can’t we do something?”

“For you the action, eh, mademoiselle? But certainly, there are still things you can do. There is, for instance, this place, Gilling, where Mr. Babbington lived for so many years. You can make inquiries there. You say that this Miss Milray’s mother lives at Gilling and is an invalid. An invalid knows everything. She hears everything and forgets nothing. Make your inquiries of her, if may lead to something – who knows?”

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” demanded Egg persistently.

Poirot twinkled.

“You insist that I, too, shall be active? Eh bien. It shall be as you wish. Only me, I shall not leave this place. I am very comfortable here. But I will tell you what I will do: I will give the party – the Sherry Party – that is fashionable, is it not?”

“A Sherry Party?”

“Precisement, and to it I will ask Mrs. Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe, Miss Wills, Mr. Manders and your charming mother, mademoiselle.”

“And me?”

“Naturally, and you. The present company is included.”

“Hurrah,” said Egg. “You can’t deceive me, M. Poirot. Something will happen at that party. It will, won’t it?”

“We shall see,” said Poirot. “But do not expect too much, mademoiselle. Now leave me with Sir Charles, for there are a few things about which I want to ask his advice.”

As Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite stood waiting for the lift, Egg said ecstatically:

“It’s lovely – just like detective stories. All the people will be there, and then he’ll tell us which of them did it.”

“I wonder,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

The Sherry Party took place on Monday evening. The invitation had been accepted by all. The charming and indiscreet Miss Sutcliffe laughed mischievously as she glanced round.

“Quite the spider’s parlour, M. Poirot. And here all we poor little flies have walked in. I’m sure you’re going to give us the most marvellous resume of the case and then suddenly you’ll point at me and say, ‘Thou art the woman,’ and everyone will say, ‘She done it,’ and I shall burst into tears and confess because I’m too terribly suggestible for words. Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so frightened of you.”

“Quelle histoire,” cried Poirot. He was busy with a decanter and glasses. He handed her a glass of sherry with a bow. “This is a friendly little party. Do not let us talk of murders and bloodshed and poison. La, la! These things, they spoil the palate.”

He handed a glass to the grim Miss Milray, who had accompanied Sir Charles and was standing with a