He put both hands on her shoulders, s firm, kindly touch.
“It is true, mademoiselle.”
There was no sound then but Egg’s sobs.
Sir Charles seemed suddenly to have aged. It was an old man’s face, a leering satyr’s face.
“God damn you,” he said.
And never, in all his acting career, had words come with such utter and compelling malignancy.
Then he turned and went out of the room.
Mr. Satterthwaite half sprang up from his chair, but Poirot shook his head, his hand still gently stroking the sobbing girl.
“He’ll escape,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
Poirot shook his head.
“No, he will only choose his exit. The slow one before the eyes of the world, or the quick one off stage.”
The door opened softly and someone came in. it was Oliver Manders. His usual sneering expression was gone. He looked white and unhappy.
Poirot bent over the girl.
“See, mademoiselle,” he said gently. “Here is a friend come to take you home.”
Egg rose to her feet. She looked uncertainly towards Oliver then made a step stumblingly towards him.
“Oliver… Take me to Mother. Oh, take me to Mother.”
He put an arm round her and drew her towards the door.
“Yes, dear, I’ll take you. Come.”
Egg’s legs were trembling so that she could hardly walk. Between them Oliver and Mr. Satterthwaite guided her footsteps. At the door she took a hold upon herself and threw back her head.
“I’m all right.”
Poirot made a gesture, and Oliver Manders came back into the room.
“Be very good to her,” said Poirot.
“I will, Sir. She’s all I care about in the world – you know that. Love for her made me bitter and cynical. But I shall be different now. I’m ready to stand by. And some day, perhaps – ”
“I think so,” said Poirot. “I think she was beginning to care for you when he came along and dazzled her. Hero worship is a real and terrible danger to the young. Some day Egg will fall in love with a friend, and build her happiness upon rock.”
He looked kindly after the young man as he left the room.
Presently Mr. Satterthwaite returned.
“M. Poirot,” he said. “You have been wonderful – absolutely wonderful.”
Poirot put on his modest look.
“It is nothing – nothing. A tragedy in three acts – and now the curtain has fallen.”
“You’ll excuse me – ” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Yes, there is some point you want explained to you?”
“There is one thing I want to know.”
“Ask then.”
“Why do you sometimes speak perfectly good English and at other times not?”
Poirot laughed.
“Ah, I will explain. It is true that I can speak the exact, the idiomatic English. But, my friend, to speak the broken English if an enormous asset. It leads people to despise you. They say – a foreigner – he can’t even speak English properly. It is not my policy to terrify people – instead I invite their gentle ridicule. Also I boast! An Englishman he says often, ‘A fellow who thinks as much of himself as that cannot be worth much.’ That is the English point of view. It is not at all true. And so, you see, I put people off their guard. Besides, he added, it has become a habit.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “quite the cunning of the serpent.”
He was silent for a moment or two, thinking over the case.
“I’m afraid I have not shone over this matter,” he said vexedly.
“On the contrary. You appreciated that important point – Sir Bartholomew’s remark about the butler – you realised that astute observation of Miss Wills. I fact, you could have solved the whole thing but for your playgoer’s reaction to dramatic effect.”
Mr. Satterthwaite looked cheerful.
Suddenly an idea struck him. His jaw fell.
“My goodness,” he cried, “I’ve only just realised it. That rascal, with his poisoned cocktail! Anyone might have drunk it. It might have been
“There is an even more terrible possibility that you have not considered,” said Poirot.
“Eh?”
“It might have been ME,” said Hercule Poirot.
