Three Act Tragedy

  “M. Poirot,” he said. “This is a very pleasant surprise.” M. Poirot rose and bowed.

  “Enchanté, monsieur.”

  They shook hands, and Mr. Satterthwaite sat down.

  “Everyone seems to be in Monte Carlo. Not half an hour ago I ran across Sir Charles Cartwright, and now you.”

  “Sir Charles, he also is here?”

  “He’s been yachting. You know that he gave up his house at Loomouth?”

  “Ah, no, I did not know it. I am surprised.”

  “I don’t know that I am. I don’t think Cartwright is really the kind of man who likes to live permanently out of the world.”

  “Ah, no, I agree with you there. I was surprised for another reason. It seemed to me that Sir Charles had a particular reason for staying in Loomouth—a very charming reason, eh? Am I not right? The little demoiselle who calls herself, so amusingly, the egg?”

  His eyes were twinkling gently.

  “Oh, so you noticed that?”

  “Assuredly I noticed. I have the heart very susceptible to lovers—you too, I think. And la jeunesse, it is always touching.”

  He sighed.

  “I think,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that actually you have hit on Sir Charles’s reason for leaving Loomouth. He was running away.”

  “From Mademoiselle Egg? But it is obvious that he adores her. Why, then, run?”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “you don’t understand our Anglo-Saxon complexes.”

  M. Poirot was following his own line of reasoning.

  “Of course,” he said, “it is a good move to pursue. Run from a woman—immediately she follows. Doubtless Sir Charles, a man of much experience, knows that.”

  Mr. Satterthwaite was rather amused.

  “I don’t think it was quite that way,” he said. “Tell me, what are you doing out here? A holiday?”

  “My time is all holidays nowadays. I have succeeded. I am rich. I retire. Now I travel about seeing the world.”

  “Splendid,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

  “N’est-ce pas?”

  “Mummy,” said the English child, “isn’t there anything to do?”

  “Darling,” said her mother reproachfully, “isn’t it lovely to have come abroad and to be in the beautiful sunshine?”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing to do.”

  “Run about—amuse yourself. Go and look at the sea.”

  “Maman,” said a French child, suddenly appearing. “Joue avec moi.”

  A French mother looked up from her book.

  “Amuse toi avec ta balle, Marcelle.”

  Obediently the French child bounced her ball with a gloomy face.

  “Je m’amuse,” said Hercule Poirot; and there was a very curious expression on his face.

  Then, as if in answer to something he read in Mr. Satterthwaite’s face, he said:

  “But yet, you have the quick perceptions. It is as you think—”

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

  “See you, as a boy I was poor. There were many of us. We had to get on in the world. I entered the Police Force. I worked hard. Slowly I rose in that Force. I began to make a name for myself. I made a name for myself. I began to acquire an international reputation. At last, I was due to retire. There came the War. I was injured. I came, a sad and weary refugee, to England. A kind lady gave me hospitality. She died—not naturally; no, she was killed. Eh bien, I set my wits to work. I employed my little grey cells. I discovered her murderer. I found that I was not yet finished. No, indeed, my powers were stronger than ever. Then began my second career, that of a private inquiry agent in England. I have solved many fascinating and baffling problems. Ah, monsieur, I have lived! The psychology of human nature, it is wonderful. I grew rich. Someday, I said to myself, I will have all the money I need. I will realize all my dreams.”

  He laid a hand on Mr. Satterthwaite’s knee.

  “My friend, beware of the day when your dreams come true. That child near us, doubtless she too has dreamt of coming abroad—of the excitement—of how different everything would be. You understand?”

  “I understand,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that you are not amusing yourself.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “Exactly.”

  There were moments when Mr. Satterthwaite looked like Puck. This was one of them. His little wrinkled face twitched impishly. He hesitated. Should he? Should he not?

  Slowly he unfolded the newspaper he was still carrying.

  “Have you seen this, M. Poirot?”

  With his forefinger he indicated the paragraph he meant.

  The little Belgian took the paper. Mr. Satterthwaite watched him as he read. No change came over his face, but the Englishman had the impression that his body stiffened, as does that of a terrier when it sniffs a rat hole.

  Hercule Poirot read the paragraph twice, then he folded the paper and returned it to Mr. Satterthwaite.

  “That is interesting,” he said.

  “Yes. It looks, does it not, as though Sir Charles Cartwright had been right and we had been wrong.”

  “Yes,” said Poirot. “It seems as though we had been wrong…I will admit it, my friend, I could not believe that so harmless, so friendly an old man could have been murdered…Well, it may be that I was wrong…Although, see you, this other death may be coincidence. Coincidences do occur—the most amazing coincidences. I, Hercule Poirot, have known coincidences that would surprise you….”

  He paused, and went on:

  “Sir Charles Cartwright’s instinct may have been right. He is an artist—sensitive—impressionable—he feels things, rather than reasons about them…Such a method in life is often disastrous—but it is sometimes justified. I wonder where Sir Charles is now.”

  Mr. Satterthwaite smiled.

  “I can tell you that. He is in the office of the Wagon Lits Co. He and I are returning to England tonight.”

  “Aha!” Poirot put immense meaning into the exclamation. His eyes, bright, inquiring, roguish, asked a question. “What zeal he has, our Sir Charles. He is determined, then, to play this rôle, the rôle of the amateur policeman? Or is there another reason?”

  Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply, but from his silence Poirot seemed to deduce an answer.

  “I see,” he said. “The bright eyes of Mademoiselle are concerned in this. It is not only crime that calls?”

  “She wrote to him,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “begging him to return.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “I wonder now,” he said. “I do not quite understand—”

  Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted.

  “You do not understand the modern English girl? Well, that is not surprising. I do not always understand them myself. A girl like Miss Lytton Gore—”

  In his turn Poirot interrupted.

  “Pardon. You have misunderstood me. I understand Miss Lytton Gore very well. I have met such another—many such others. You call the type modern; but it is—how shall I say?—agelong.”

  Mr. Satterthwaite was slightly annoyed. He felt that he—and only he—understood Egg. This preposterous foreigner knew nothing about young English womanhood.

  Poirot was still speaking. His tone was dreamy—brooding.

  “A knowledge of human nature—what a dangerous thing it can be.”

  “A useful thing,” corrected Mr. Satterthwaite.

  “Perhaps. It depends upon the point of view.”

  “Well—” Mr. Satterthwaite hesitated—got up. He was a little disappointed. He had cast the bait and the fish had not risen. He felt that his own knowledge of human nature was at fault. “I will wish you a pleasant holiday.”

  “I thank you.”

  “I hope that when you are next in London you will come and see me.” He produced a card. “This is my address.”

  “You are most amiable, Mr. Satterthwaite. I shall be charmed.”

  “Good-bye for the present, then.”

  “Good-bye, and bon voyage
.”

  Mr. Satterthwaite moved away. Poirot looked after him for a moment or two, then once more he stared straight ahead of him, looking out over the blue Mediterranean.

  So he sat for at least ten minutes.

  The English child reappeared.

  “I’ve looked at the sea, Mummy. What shall I do next?”

  “An admirable question,” said Hercule Poirot under his breath.

  He rose and walked slowly away—in the direction of the Wagon Lits offices.

  Two

  THE MISSING BUTLER

  Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were sitting in Colonel Johnson’s study. The chief constable was a big red-faced man with a barrack-room voice and a hearty manner.

  He had greeted Mr. Satterthwaite with every sign of pleasure and was obviously delighted to make the acquaintance of the famous Charles Cartwright.

  “My missus is a great playgoer. She’s one of your—what do the Americans call it?—fans. That’s it—fans. I like a good play myself—good clean stuff that is, some of the things they put on the stage nowadays—faugh!”

  Sir Charles, conscious of rectitude in this respect—he had never put on “daring” plays, responded suitably with all his easy charm of manner. When they came to mention the object of their visit Colonel Johnson was only too ready to tell them all he could.

  “Friend of yours, you say? Too bad—too bad. Yes, he was very popular round here. That sanatorium of his is very highly spoken of, and by all accounts Sir Bartholomew was a first-rate fellow, as well as being at the top of his profession. Kind, generous, popular all round. Last man in the world you’d expect to be murdered—and murder is what it looks like. There’s nothing to indicate suicide, and anything like accident seems out of the question.”

  “Satterthwaite and I have just come back from abroad,” said Sir Charles. “We’ve only seen snippets here and there in the papers.”

  “And naturally you want to know all about it. Well, I’ll tell you exactly how the matter stands. I think there’s no doubt the butler’s the man we’ve got to look for. He was a new man—Sir Bartholomew had only had him a fortnight, and the moment after the crime he disappears—vanishes into thin air. That looks a bit fishy, doesn’t it? Eh, what?”

  “You’ve no notion where he went?”

  Colonel Johnson’s naturally red face got a little redder.

  “Negligence on our part, you think. I admit it damn’ well looks like it. Naturally the fellow was under observation—just the same as everyone else. He answered our questions quite satisfactorily—gave the London agency which obtained him the place. Last employer, Sir Horace Bird. All very civil spoken, no signs of panic. Next thing was he’d gone—and the house under observation. I’ve hauled my men over the coals, but they swear they didn’t bat an eyelid.”

  “Very remarkable,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

  “Apart from everything else,” said Sir Charles thoughtfully, “it seems a damn’ fool thing to do. As far as he knew, the man wasn’t suspected. By bolting he draws attention to himself.”

  “Exactly. And not a hope of escape. His description’s been circulated. It’s only a matter of days before he’s pulled in.”

  “Very odd,” said Sir Charles. “I don’t understand it.”

  “Oh, the reason’s clear enough. He lost his nerve. Got the wind up suddenly.”

  “Wouldn’t a man who had the nerve to commit murder have the nerve to sit still afterward?”

  “Depends. Depends. I know criminals. Chicken-livered, most of them. He thought he was suspected, and he bolted.”

  “Have you verified his own account of himself?”

  “Naturally, Sir Charles. That’s plain routine work. London Agency confirms his story. He had a written reference from Sir Horace Bird, recommending him warmly. Sir Horace himself is in East Africa.”

  “So the reference might have been forged?”

  “Exactly,” said Colonel Johnson, beaming upon Sir Charles, with the air of a schoolmaster congratulating a bright pupil. “We’ve wired to Sir Horace, of course, but it may be some little time before we get a reply. He’s on safari.”

  “When did the man disappear?”

  “Morning after the death. There was a doctor present at the dinner—Sir Jocelyn Campbell—bit of a toxicologist, I understand; he and Davis (local man) agreed over the case, and our people were called in immediately. We interviewed everybody that night. Ellis (that’s the butler) went to his room as usual and was missing in the morning. His bed hadn’t been slept in.”

  “He slipped away under cover of the darkness?”

  “Seems so. One of the ladies staying there, Miss Sutcliffe, the actress—you know her, perhaps?”

  “Very well, indeed.”

  “Miss Sutcliffe has made a suggestion to us. She suggested that the man had left the house through a secret passage.” He blew his nose apologetically. “Sounds rather Edgar Wallace stuff, but it seems there was such a thing. Sir Bartholomew was rather proud of it. He showed it to Miss Sutcliffe. The end of it comes out among some fallen masonry about half a mile away.”

  “That would be a possible explanation, certainly,” agreed Sir Charles. “Only—would the butler know of the existence of such a passage?”

  “That’s the point, of course. My missus always says servants know everything. Daresay she’s right.”

  “I understand the poison was nicotine,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

  “That’s right. Most unusual stuff to use, I believe. Comparatively rare. I understand if a man’s a heavy smoker, such as the doctor was, it would tend to complicate matters. I mean, he might have died of nicotine poisoning in a natural way. Only, of course, this business was too sudden for that.”

  “How was it administered?”

  “We don’t know,” admitted Colonel Johnson. “That’s going to be the weak part of the case. According to medical evidence, it could only have been swallowed a few minutes previous to death.”

  “They were drinking port, I understand?”

  “Exactly. Seems as though the stuff was in the port; but it wasn’t. We analysed his glass. That glass had contained port, and nothing but port. The other wine glasses had been cleared, of course, but they were all on a tray in the pantry, unwashed, and not one of them contained anything it shouldn’t. As for what he ate, it was the same as everybody else had. Soup, grilled sole, pheasant and chipped potatoes, chocolate soufflé, soft roes on toast. His cook’s been with him fifteen years. No, there doesn’t seem to be any way he could have been given the stuff, and yet there it is in the stomach. It’s a nasty problem.”

  Sir Charles wheeled round on Mr. Satterthwaite.

  “The same thing,” he said excitedly. “Exactly the same as before.”

  He turned apologetically to the chief constable.

  “I must explain. A death occurred at my house in Cornwall—”

  Colonel Johnson looked interested.

  “I think I’ve heard about that. From a young lady—Miss Lytton Gore.”

  “Yes, she was there. She told you about it?”

  “She did. She was very set on her theory. But, you know, Sir Charles, I can’t believe there’s anything in that theory. It doesn’t explain the flight of the butler. Your man didn’t disappear by any chance?”

  “Haven’t got a man—only a parlourmaid.”

  “She couldn’t have been a man in disguise?”

  Thinking of the smart and obviously feminine Temple, Sir Charles smiled.

  Colonel Johnson also smiled apologetically.

  “Just an idea,” he said. “No, I can’t say I put much reliance in Miss Lytton Gore’s theory. I understand the death in question was an elderly clergyman. Who would want to put an old clergyman out of the way?”

  “That’s just the puzzling part of it,” said Sir Charles.

  “I think you’ll find it’s just coincidence. Depend on it, the butler’s our man. Very likely he’s a regular criminal. Unluckily we can’t find any of his fingerp
rints. We had a fingerprint expert go over his bedroom and the butler’s pantry, but he had no luck.”

  “If it was the butler, what motive can you suggest?”

  “That, of course, is one of our difficulties,” admitted Colonel Johnson. “The man might have been there with intent to steal, and Sir Bartholomew might have caught him out.”

  Both Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite remained courteously silent. Colonel Johnson himself seemed to feel that the suggestion lacked plausibility.

  “The fact of the matter is, one can only theorize. Once we’ve got John Ellis under lock and key and have found out who he is, and whether he’s ever been through our hands before—well, the motive may be as clear as day.”

  “You’ve been through Sir Bartholomew’s papers, I suppose?”

  “Naturally, Sir Charles. We’ve given that side of the case every attention. I must introduce you to Superintendent Crossfield, who has charge of the case. A most reliable man. I pointed out to him, and he was quick to agree with me, that Sir Bartholomew’s profession might have had something to do with the crime. A doctor knows many professional secrets. Sir Bartholomew’s papers were all neatly filed and docketed—his secretary, Miss Lyndon, went through them with Crossfield.”

  “And there was nothing?”

  “Nothing at all suggestive, Sir Charles.”

  “Was anything missing from the house—silver, jewellery, anything like that?”

  “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “Who exactly was staying in the house?”

  “I’ve got a list—now where is it? Ah, I think Crossfield has it. You must meet Crossfield; as a matter of fact, I’m expecting him any minute now to report”—as a bell went—“that’s probably the man now.”

  Superintendent Crossfield was a large, solid-looking man, rather slow of speech, but with a fairly keen blue eye.

  He saluted his superior officer, and was introduced to the two visitors.

  It is possible that had Mr. Satterthwaite been alone he would have found it hard to make Crossfield unbend. Crossfield didn’t hold with gentlemen from London—amateurs coming down with “ideas.” Sir Charles, however, was a different matter. Superintendent Crossfield had a childish reverence for the glamour of the stage. He had twice seen Sir Charles act, and the excitement and rapture of seeing this hero of the footlights in a flesh-and-blood manner made him as friendly and loquacious as could be wished.