Three Act Tragedy (15 page)

A
t the office of Messrs Speier & Ross, Mr. Satterthwaite asked for Mr. Oliver Manders and sent in his card.

Presently he was ushered into a small room, where Oliver was sitting at a writing table.

The young man got up and shook hands.

“Good of you to look me up, sir,” he said.

His tone implied:

“I have to say that, but really it's a damned bore.”

Mr. Satterthwaite, however, was not easily put off. He sat down, blew his nose thoughtfully, and, peering over the top of his handkerchief, said:

“Seen the news this morning?”

“You mean the new financial situation? Well, the dollar—”

“Not dollars,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Death. The result of the Loomouth exhumation. Babbington was poisoned—by nicotine.”

“Oh, that—yes, I saw that. Our energetic Egg will be pleased. She always insisted it was murder.”

“But it doesn't interest you?”

“My tastes aren't so crude. After all, murder—” he shrugged his shoulders. “So violent and inartistic.”

“Not always inartistic,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“No? Well, perhaps not.”

“It depends, does it not, on who commits the murder. You, for instance, would, I am sure, commit a murder in a very artistic manner.”

“Nice of you to say so,” drawled Oliver.

“But frankly, my dear boy, I don't think much of the accident you faked. No more do the police, I understand.”

There was a moment's silence—then a pen dropped to the floor.

Oliver said:

“Excuse me, I don't quite understand you.”

“That rather inartistic performance of yours at Melfort Abbey. I
should
be interested to know—just why you did it.”

There was another silence, then Oliver said:

“You say the police—suspect?”

Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.

“It looks a little suspicious, don't you think?” he asked pleasantly. “But perhaps you have a perfectly good explanation.”

“I've got an explanation,” said Oliver slowly. “Whether it's a good one or not, I don't know.”

“Will you let me judge?”

There was a pause, then Oliver said:

“I came there—the way I did—at Sir Bartholomew's own suggestion.”

“What?” Mr. Satterthwaite was astonished.

“A bit odd, isn't it? But it's true. I got a letter from him suggest
ing that I should have a sham accident and claim hospitality. He said he couldn't put his reasons in writing, but he would explain them to me at the first opportunity.”

“And did he explain?”

“No, he didn't…I got there just before dinner. I didn't see him alone. At the end of dinner he—he died.”

The weariness had gone out of Oliver's manner. His dark eyes were fixed on Mr. Satterthwaite. He seemed to be studying attentively the reactions aroused by his words.

“You've got this letter?”

“No, I tore it up.”

“A pity,” said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly. “And you said nothing to the police?”

“No, it all seemed—well, rather fantastic.”

“It is fantastic.”

Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. Had Bartholomew Strange written such a letter? It seemed highly uncharacteristic. The story had a melodramatic touch most unlike the physician's cheerful common sense.

He looked up at the young man. Oliver was still watching him. Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “He's looking to see if I swallow this story.”

He said, “And Sir Bartholomew gave absolutely no reason for his request?”

“None whatever.”

“An extraordinary story.”

Oliver did not speak.

“Yet you obeyed the summons?”

Something of the weary manner returned.

“Yes, it seemed refreshingly out of the way to a somewhat jaded palate. I was curious, I must confess.”

“Is there anything else?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

“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 pocketbook 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 onto 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.

I

S
itting 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, it 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?”

“
Précisément,
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.

II

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 résumé 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.
Là, là!
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 forbidding expression on her face.

“
Voilà,
” said Poirot as he finished dispensing hospitality. “Let us forget the occasion on which we first met. Let us have the party spirit. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Ah, malheur,
I have again mentioned death. Madame,” he bowed to Mrs. Dacres, “may I be permitted to wish you good luck and congratulate you on your very charming gown.”

“Here's to you, Egg,” said Sir Charles.

“Cheerio,” said Freddie Dacres.

Everybody murmured something. There was an air of forced gaiety about the proceedings. Everyone was determined to appear gay and unconcerned. Only Poirot himself seemed naturally so. He rambled on happily….

“The sherry, I prefer it to the cocktail—and a thousand times to the whisky. Ah,
quel horreur,
the whisky. By drinking the whisky, you ruin, absolutely ruin, the palate. The delicate wines of France, to appreciate them, you must never never—ah
qu'est-ce qu'il y a—?
”

A strange sound had interrupted him—a kind of choking cry. Every eye went to Sir Charles as he stood swaying, his face convulsed. The glass dropped from his hand onto the carpet, he took a few steps blindly, then collapsed.

There was a moment's stupefied silence, then Angela Sutcliffe screamed and Egg started forward.

“Charles,” cried Egg. “Charles.”

She fought her way blindly forward. Mr. Satterthwaite gently held her back.

“Oh, dear God,” cried Lady Mary. “
Not another!
”

Angela Sutcliffe cried out:

“He's been poisoned, too…This is awful. Oh, my God, this is too awful….”

And suddenly collapsing onto a sofa, she began to sob and laugh—a horrible sound.

Poirot had taken charge of the situation. He was kneeling by the prostrate man. The others drew back while he made his examination. He rose to his feet, mechanically dusting the knees of his trousers. He looked round at the assembly. There was complete silence, except for the smothered sobs of Angela Sutcliffe.

“My friends,” began Poirot.

He got no further, for Egg spat out at him:

“You fool. You absurd playacting little fool! Pretending to be so great and so wonderful, and to know all about everything. And now you let this happen. Another murder. Under your very nose…If you'd let the whole thing alone this wouldn't have happened…It's you who have murdered Charles—you—you—you….”

She stopped, unable to get out the words.

Poirot nodded his head gravely and sadly.

“It is true, mademoiselle. I confess it. It is I who have murdered Sir Charles. But I, mademoiselle, am a very special kind of murderer. I can kill—and I can restore to life.” He turned and in a different tone of voice, an apologetic everyday voice, he said:

“A magnificent performance, Sir Charles, I congratulate you. Perhaps you would now like to take your curtain.”

With a laugh the actor sprang to his feet and bowed mockingly.

Egg gave a great gasp.

“M. Poirot, you—you
beast.
”

“Charles,” cried Angela Sutcliffe. “You complete devil….”

“But why—?”

“How—?”

“What on earth—?”

By means of his upraised hand, Poirot obtained silence.

“Messieurs, mesdames. I demand pardon of you all. This little farce was necessary to prove to you all, and incidentally, to prove to myself a fact which my reason already told me is true.

“Listen. On this tray of glasses I placed in one glass a teaspoonful of plain water. That water represented pure nicotine. These glasses are of the same kind as those possessed by Sir Charles Cartwright and by Sir Bartholomew Strange. Owing to the heavy cut glass, a small quantity of a colourless liquid is quite undetectable. Imagine, then, the port glass of Sir Bartholomew Strange. After it was put on the table somebody introduced into it a sufficient quantity of pure nicotine. That might have been done by anybody. The butler, the parlourmaid, or one of the guests who slipped into the dining room on his or her way downstairs. Dessert arrived, the port is taken round, the glass is filled. Sir Bartholomew drinks—and dies.

“Tonight we have played a third tragedy—a sham tragedy—I asked Sir Charles to play the part of the victim. This he did magnificently. Now suppose for a minute that this was not a farce,
but truth.
Sir Charles is dead.
What will be the steps taken by the police?”

Miss Sutcliffe cried:

“Why, the glass, of course.” She nodded to where the glass lay on the floor as it had fallen from Sir Charles's hand. “You only put water in, but if it had been nicotine—”

“Let us suppose it was nicotine.” Poirot touched the glass gently with his toe. “You are of opinion that the police would analyse the glass, and that traces of nicotine would be found?”

“Certainly.”

Poirot shook his head gently.

“You are wrong. No nicotine would be found.”

They stared at him.

“You see,” he smiled, “
that
is not the glass from which Sir Charles drank.” With an apologetic grin he extended a glass from the tail pocket of his coat. “
This
is the glass he used.”

He went on:

“It is, you see, the simple theory of the conjuring trick. The attention cannot be in two places at once. To do my conjuring trick I need the attention focused elsewhere. Well, there is a moment, a psychological moment. When Sir Charles falls—dead—every eye in the room is on his dead body. Everyone crowds forward to get near him, and no one, no one at all, looks at Hercule Poirot, and in that moment I exchange the glasses and no one sees….

“So you see, I prove my point…There was such a moment at Crow's Nest, there was such a moment at Melfort Abbey—and so, there was nothing in the cocktail glass and nothing in the port glass….”

Egg cried:

“Who changed them?”

Looking at her, Poirot replied:

“That, we have still to find out….”

“You don't know?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

Rather uncertainly, the guests made signs of departure. Their manner was a little cold. They felt they had been badly fooled.

With a gesture of the hand, Poirot arrested them.

“One little moment, I pray of you. There is one thing more that I have to say. Tonight, admittedly, we have played the comedy. But the comedy may be played in earnest—it may become a tragedy. Under certain conditions the murderer may strike a third time…I speak now to all of you here present.
If anyone of you knows something—something that may bear in any way on this crime, I implore that person to speak now.
To keep knowledge to oneself at this juncture may be dangerous—so dangerous that death may be the result of silence. Therefore I beg again—
if anyone knows anything, let that person speak now
….”

It seemed to Sir Charles that Poirot's appeal was addressed especially to Miss Wills. If so, it had no result. Nobody spoke or answered.

Poirot sighed. His hand fell.

“Be it so, then. I have given warning. I can do no more. Remember, to keep silence is dangerous….”

But still nobody spoke.

Awkwardly the guests departed.

Egg, Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were left.

Egg had not yet forgiven Poirot. She sat very still, her cheeks flushed and her eyes angry. She wouldn't look at Sir Charles.

“That was a damned clever bit of work, Poirot,” said Sir Charles appreciatively.

“Amazing,” said Mr. Satterthwaite with a chuckle. “I wouldn't have believed that I wouldn't have seen you do that exchange.”

“That is why,” said Poirot, “I could take no one into any confidence. The experiment could only be fair this way.”

“Was that the only reason you planned this—to see whether it could be done unnoticed?”

“Well, not quite, perhaps. I had one other aim.”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to watch the expression on one person's face when Sir Charles fell dead.”

“Which person's?” said Egg sharply.

“Ah, that is my secret.”

“And you did watch that person's face?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

Poirot did not reply. He merely shook his head.

“Won't you tell us what you saw there?”

Poirot said slowly:

“I saw an expression of the utmost surprise….”

Egg drew her breath in sharply.

“You mean,” she said, “
that you know who the murderer is?
”

“You can put it that way if you like, mademoiselle.”

“But then—but then—you know everything?”

Poirot shook his head.

“No; on the contrary I know nothing at all. For, you see, I do
not know
why
Stephen Babbington was killed. Until I know that I can prove nothing, I can know nothing…It all hinges on that—the motive for Stephen Babbington's death….”

There was a knock at the door and a page entered with a telegram on a tray.

Poirot opened it. His face changed. He handed the telegram to Sir Charles. Leaning over Sir Charles's shoulder, Egg read it aloud:

“Mrs. de Rushbridger!” cried Sir Charles. “We were right after all. She
has
got something to do with the case.”