Three Act Tragedy

CHAPTER 1 Sir Charles Receives a Letter

Mr Satterthwaite had come over for the day to Monte Carlo. His round of house-parties was over, and the Riviera in September was rather a favourite haunt of his.

He was sitting in the gardens enjoying the sun and reading a two-days-old Daily Mail.

Suddenly a name caught his attention. Strange. Death of Sir Bartholomew Strange. He read the paragraph through:

We much regret having to announce the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange, the eminent nerve specialist. Sir Bartholomew was entertaining a party of friends at his house in Yorkshire. Sir Bartholomew appeared to be in perfect health and spirits, and his demise occurred quite suddenly at the end of dinner. He was chatting with his friends and drinking a glass of port when he had a sudden seizure and died before medical aid could be summoned. Sir Bartholomew will be deeply regretted. He was …

Here followed a description of Sir Bartholomew’s career and work.

Mr Satterthwaite let the paper slip from his hand. He was very disagreeably impressed. A vision of the physician as he had seen him last flashed across his mind—big, jocund, in the pink of condition. And now—dead. Certain words detached themselves from their context and floated about disagreeably in Mr Satterthwaite’s mind. ‘Drinking a glass of port.’ ‘Sudden seizure … Died before medical aid could be summoned …’

Port, not a cocktail, but otherwise curiously reminiscent of that death in Cornwall. Mr Satterthwaite saw again the convulsed face of the mild old clergyman …

Supposing that after all …

He looked up to see Sir Charles Cartwright coming towards him across the grass.

‘Satterthwaite, by all that’s wonderful! Just the man I’d have chosen to see. Have you seen about poor old Tollie?’

‘I was just reading it now.’

Sir Charles dropped into a chair beside him. He was immaculately got up in yachting costume. No more grey flannels and old sweaters. He was the sophisticated yachtsman of the South of France.

‘Listen, Satterthwaite, Tollie was as sound as a bell. Never had anything wrong with him. Am I being a complete fanciful ass, or does this business remind you of—of—?’

‘Of that business at Loomouth? Yes, it does. But of course we may be mistaken. The resemblance may be only superficial. After all, sudden deaths occur the whole time from a variety of causes.’

Sir Charles nodded his head impatiently. Then he said:

‘I’ve just got a letter—from Egg Lytton Gore.’

Mr Satterthwaite concealed a smile.

‘The first you’ve had from her?’

Sir Charles was unsuspecting.

‘No. I had a letter soon after I got here. It followed me about a bit. Just giving me the news and all that. I didn’t answer it … Dash it all, Satterthwaite, I didn’t dare answer it … The girl had no idea, of course, but I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.’

Mr Satterthwaite passed his hand over his mouth where the smile still lingered.

‘And this one?’ he asked.

‘This is different. It’s an appeal for help …’

‘Help?’ Mr Satterthwaite’s eyebrows went up.

‘She was there—you see—in the house—when it happened.’

‘You mean she was staying with Sir Bartholomew Strange at the time of his death?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does she say about it?’

Sir Charles had taken a letter from his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then he handed it to Mr Satterthwaite.

‘You’d better read it for yourself.’

Mr Satterthwaite opened out the sheet with lively curiosity.

‘Dear Sir Charles,—I don’t know when this will get to you. I do hope soon. I’m so worried, I don’t know what to do. You’ll have seen, I expect, in the papers that Sir Bartholomew Strange is dead. Well, he died just the same way as Mr Babbington. It can’t be a coincidence—it can’t—it can’t … I’m worried to death …

‘Look here, can’t you come home and do something? It sounds a bit crude put like that, but you did have suspicions before, and nobody would listen to you, and now it’s your own friend who’s been killed; and perhaps if you don’t come back nobody will ever find out the truth, and I’m sure you could. I feel it in my bones …

‘And there’s something else. I’m worried, definitely, about someone … He had absolutely nothing to do with it, I know that, but things might look a bit odd. Oh, I can’t explain in a letter. But won’t you come back? You could find out the truth. I know you could.

‘Yours in haste,

‘EGG.’

‘Well?’ demanded Sir Charles impatiently. ‘A bit incoherent of course; she wrote it in a hurry. But what about it?’

Mr Satterthwaite folded the letter slowly to give himself a minute or two before replying.

He agreed that the letter was incoherent, but he did not think it had been written in a hurry. It was, in his view, a very careful production. It was designed to appeal to Sir Charles’s vanity, to his chivalry, and to his sporting instincts.

From what Mr Satterthwaite knew of Sir Charles, that letter was a certain draw.

‘Who do you think she means by “someone”, and “he”?’ he asked.

‘Manders, I suppose.’

‘Was he there, then?’

‘Must have been. I don’t know why. Tollie never met him except on that one occasion at my house. Why he should ask him to stay, I can’t imagine.’

‘Did he often have those big house-parties?’

‘Three or four times a year. Always one for the St Leger.’

‘Did he spend much time in Yorkshire?’

‘Had a big sanatorium—nursing home, whatever you like to call it. He bought Melfort Abbey (it’s an old place), restored it and built a sanatorium in the grounds.’

‘I see.’

Mr Satterthwaite was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

‘I wonder who else there was in the house-party?’

Sir Charles suggested that it might be in one of the other newspapers, and they went off to institute a newspaper hunt.

‘Here we are,’ said Sir Charles.

He read aloud:

‘Sir Bartholomew Strange is having his usual house-party for the St Leger. Amongst the guests are Lord and Lady Eden, Lady Mary Lytton Gore, Sir Jocelyn and Lady Campbell, Captain and Mrs Dacres, and Miss Angela Sutcliffe, the well-known actress.’

He and Mr Satterthwaite looked at each other.

‘The Dacres and Angela Sutcliffe,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Nothing about Oliver Manders.’

‘Let’s get today’s Continental Daily Mail,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘There might be something in that.’

Sir Charles glanced over the paper. Suddenly he stiffened.

‘My God, Satterthwaite, listen to this:

‘SIR BARTHOLOMEW STRANGE.

‘At the inquest today on the late Sir Bartholomew Strange, a verdict of Death by Nicotine Poisoning was returned, there being no evidence to show how or by whom the poison was administered.’

He frowned.

‘Nicotine poisoning. Sounds mild enough—not the sort of thing to make a man fall down in a fit. I don’t understand all this.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Do? I’m going to book a berth on the Blue Train tonight.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘I might as well do the same.’

‘You?’ Sir Charles wheeled round on him, surprised.

‘This sort of thing is rather in my line,’ said Mr Satterthwaite modestly. ‘I’ve—er—had a little experience. Besides, I know the Chief Constable in that part of the world rather well—Colonel Johnson. That will come in useful.’

‘Good man,’ cried Sir Charles. ‘Let’s go round to the Wagon Lits offices.’

Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself:

‘The girl’s done it. She’s got him back. She said she would. I wonder just exactly how much of her letter was genuine.’

Decidedly, Egg Lytton Gore was an opportunist.

When Sir Charles had gone off to the Wagon Lits offices, Mr Satterthwaite strolled slowly through the gardens. His mind was still pleasantly engaged with the problem of Egg Lytton Gore. He admired her resource and her driving power, and stifled that slightly Victorian side of his nature which disapproved of a member of the fairer sex taking the initiative in affairs of the heart.

Mr Satterthwaite was an observant man. In the midst of his cogitations on the female sex in general, and Egg Lytton Gore in particular, he was unable to resist saying to himself:

‘Now where have I seen that particular shaped head before?’

The owner of the head was sitting on a seat gazing thoughtfully ahead of him. He was a little man whose moustaches were out of proportion to his size.

A discontented-looking English child was standing nearby, standing first on one foot, then the other, and occasionally meditatively kicking the lobelia edging.

‘Don’t do that, darling,’ said her mother, who was absorbed in a fashion paper.

‘I haven’t anything to do,’ said the child.

The little man turned his head to look at her, and Mr Satterthwaite recognized him.

‘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. Some day, 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 rathole.

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 role, the role 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?—age-long.’

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.’