excited her very much, mentioning, as it did, Sir Bartholomew Strange’s death.
After six o’clock that evening the small boy who had handed in the telegram was found. He told his story promptly. He had been given the telegram by a man dressed in shabby clothes. The man told him that the telegram had been given him by a “loony lady” in the “House in the Park.” She had dropped it out of the window wrapped round two half-crowns. The man was afraid to be mixed up in some funny business, and was tramping in the other direction, so he had given the boy two and six and told him to keep the change.
A search would be instituted for the man. In the meantime there seemed nothing more to be done, and Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite returned to London.
It was close on midnight when the two men arrived back in town. Egg had gone back to her mother, but Sir Charles met them, and the three men discussed the situation.
“
Sir Charles looked slightly sceptical.
“What do you want to do, then?”
“I want to think. I ask of you twenty-four house – in which to think.”
Sir Charles shook his head with a slight smile.
“Will thinking tell you what it was this woman could have said if she lived?”
“I believe so.”
“It hardly seems possible. However, M. Poirot, you must have it your own way. If you can see through this mystery, it’s more than I can. I’m beaten, and I confess it. In any case, I’ve other fish to fry.”
Perhaps he hoped to be questioned, but if so his expectation was disappointed. Mr. Satterthwaite did indeed look up alertly, but Poirot remained lost in thought.
“Well, I must be off,” said the actor. “Oh, just one thing. I’m rather worried about – Miss Wills.”
“What about her?”
“She’s gone.”
Poirot stared at him.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Nobody knows… I was thinking things over after I got your telegram. As I told you at the time, I felt convinced that that woman knew something she hadn’t told us. I thought I’d have a last shot at getting it out of her. I drove out to her house – it was about half-past nine when I got there – and asked for her. It appears she left home this morning – went up to London for the day – that’s what she said. Her people got a telegram in the evening saying she wasn’t returning for a day or so and not to worry.”
“And were they worrying?”
“I gather they were, rather. You see, she hadn’t taken any luggage with her.”
“Odd,” murmured Poirot.
“I know. It seems as though – I don’t know. I feel uneasy.”
“I warned her,” said Poirot. “I warned everyone. You remember I said to them, ‘Speak now.’”
“Yes, yes. Do you think that she, too -?”
“I have my ideas,” said Poirot. “For the moment I prefer not to discuss them.”
“Fist, the butler – Ellis – then Miss Wills. Where is Ellis? It’s incredible that the police have never been able to lay hands on him.”
“They have not looked for his body in the right place,” said Poirot.
“Then you agree with Egg. You think he is dead?”
“Ellis will never be seen alive again.”
“My God,” burst out Sir Charles. “It’s a nightmare – the whole thing is utterly incomprehensible.”
“No, no. It is sane and logical, on the contrary.”
Sir Charles stared at him.
“You say that?”
“Certainly. You see, I have the orderly mind.”
“I don’t understand you.”
Mr. Satterthwaite, too, looked curiously at the little detective.
“What kind of mind have I?” demanded Sir Charles, slightly hurt.
“You have the actor’s mind, Sir Charles, creative, original, seeing always dramatic values. Mr. Satterthwaite, he has the playgoer’s mind, he observes the characters, he has the sense of atmosphere. But me, I have the prosaic mind. I see only the facts without any dramatic trappings or footlights.”
“Then we’re to leave you to it?”
“That is my idea. For twenty-four hours.”
“Good luck to you, then. Good-night.”
As they went away together Sir Charles said to Mr. Satterthwaite:
“That chap thinks a lot of himself.”
He spoke rather coldly.
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. That star part! So that was it. He said:
“What did you mean by saying you had other fish to fry, Sir Charles?”
On Sir Charles’s face appeared the sheepish expression that Mr. Satterthwaite knew so well from attending weddings in Hanover Square.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I – er – well, Egg and I – ”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “My best congratulations.”
“Of course I’m years too old for her.”
“She doesn’t think so – and she’s the best judge.”
“That’s very nice of you, Satterthwaite. You know, I’d got it into my head she was fond of young Manders.”
“I wonder what made you think that,” said Mr. Satterthwaite innocently.
“Anyway,” said Sir Charles firmly, “she isn’t… ”
26
Poirot did not have quite the uninterrupted twenty-four hours for which he had stipulated.
At twenty minutes past eleven on the following morning Egg walked in unannounced. To her amazement she found the great detective engaged in building card houses. Her face showed such lively scorn that Poirot was impelled to defend himself.
“It is not, mademoiselle, that I have become childish in my old age. No. But the building of card houses, I have always found it most stimulating to the mind. It is an old habit of mine. This morning, first thing, I go out and buy the pack of cards. Unfortunately I make an error, they are not real cards. But they do just as well.”
Egg looked more closely at the erection on the table.
She laughed.
“Good heavens, they’ve sold you Happy Families.”
“What is that you say, the Happy Families?”
“Yes, it’s a game. Children play it in the nursery.”
“Ah, well, one can compose the houses just in the same manner.”
Egg had picked up some of the cards from the table and was looking at them affectionately.
“Master Bun, the baker’s son – I always loved him. And here’s Mrs. Mug, the milkman’s wife. Oh, dear, I suppose that’s me.”
“Why is that funny picture you, mademoiselle?”
“Because of the name.”
Egg laughed at his bewildered face and then began explaining. When she had finished he said:
“Ah, it was that that Sir Charles meant last night. I wondered… Mugg – ah, yes, one says in slang, does one
