“A birthmark's just as good,” said Sir Charles.
He looked boyishly pleased.
“The trouble is,” he went on, “most people are so indeterminate. There's nothing about them to take hold of.”
Miss Wills looked inquiringly at him.
“Old Babbington, for instance,” went on Sir Charles; “he had a curiously vague personality. Very difficult to lay hold of.”
“His hands were very characteristic,” said Miss Wills. “What I call a scholar's hands. A little crippled with arthritis, but very refined fingers and beautiful nails.”
“What an observer you are. Ah, but - of course, you knew him before.”
“Knew Mr. Babbington?”
“Yes, I remember his telling me so. Where was it he said he had known you?”
Miss Wills shook her head decisively.
“Not me. You must have been mixing me up with someone else - or he was. I'd never met him before.”
“It must be my mistake. I thought - at Gilling -”
He looked at her keenly. Miss Wills appeared quite composed.
“No,” she said.
“Did it ever occur to you. Miss Wills, that he might have been murdered too?”
“I know you and Miss Lytton Gore think so - or, rather, you think so.”
“Oh - and - er - just what do you think?”
“It doesn't seem likely,” said Miss Wills.
A little baffled by Miss Wills’ clear lack of interest in the subject. Sir Charles started on another track.
“Did Sir Bartholomew mention a Mrs. de Rushbridger at all?”
“No, I don't think so.”
“She was a patient in his home. Suffering from nervous breakdown and loss of memory.”
“He mentioned a case of lost memory,” said Miss Wills. “He said you could hypnotize a person and bring their memory back.”
“Did he, now? I wonder - Could that be significant?”
Sir Charles frowned and remained lost in thought. Miss Wills said nothing.
“There's nothing else you could tell me? Nothing about any of the guests?”
It seemed to him that there was just the slightest pause before Miss Wills answered.
“No.”
“About Mrs. Dacres? Or Captain Dacres? Or Miss Sutcliffe? Or Mr. Manders?”
He watched her very intently as he pronounced each name.
Once he thought he saw the pince-nez flicker, but he could not be sure.
“I'm afraid there's nothing I can tell you, Sir Charles.”
“Oh, well!” He stood up. “Satterthwaite will be disappointed.”
“I'm so sorry,” said Miss Wills primly.
“I'm sorry, too, for disturbing you. I expect you were busy writing.”
“I was, as a matter of fact.”
“Another play?”
“Yes. To tell you the truth, I thought of using some of the characters at the house party at Melfort Abbey.”
“What about libel?”
“That's quite all right. Sir Charles. I find people never recognize themselves.” She giggled. “Not if, as you said just now, one is really merciless.”
“You mean,” said Sir Charles, “that we all have an exaggerated idea of our own personalities and don't recognize the truth if it's sufficiently brutally portrayed? I was quite right, Miss Wills, you are a cruel woman.”
Miss Wills tittered.
“You needn't be afraid. Sir Charles. Women aren't usually cruel to men - unless it's some particular man; they're only cruel to other women.”
“Meaning you've got your analytical knife into some unfortunate female. Which one? Well, perhaps I can guess. Cynthia's not beloved by her own sex.”
Miss Wills said nothing. She continued to smile, rather a catlike smile.
“Do you write your stuff or dictate it?”
“Oh, I write it and send it to be typed.”
“You ought to have a secretary.”
“Perhaps. Have you still got that clever Miss - Miss Milray, wasn't it?”
“Yes, I've got Miss Milray. She went away for a time to look after her mother in the country, but she's back again now. Most efficient woman.”
“So I should think. Perhaps a little impulsive.”
“Impulsive? Miss Milray?”
Sir Charles stared. Never in his wildest flights of fancy had he associated impulse with Miss Milray.
“Only on occasions, perhaps,” said Miss Wills.
Sir Charles shook his head.
“Miss Milray's the perfect robot. Goodbye, Miss Wills. Forgive me for bothering you, and don't forget to let the police know about that thingummybob.”
“The mark on the butler's right wrist? No, I won't forget.”
“Well, good-bye... Half a sec. Did you say ‘right wrist'? You said left just now.”
“Did I? How stupid of me.”
“Well, which was it?”
Miss Wills frowned and half closed her eyes.
“Let me see. I was sitting so - and he - would you mind, Sir Charles, handing me that brass plate as though it was a vegetable dish? Left side.”
Sir Charles presented the beaten-brass atrocity as directed.
“Cabbage, madam?”
“Thank you,” said Miss Wills. “I'm quite sure now. It was the left wrist, as I said first. Stupid of me.”
“No, no,” said Sir Charles. “Left and right are always puzzling.”
He said good-bye for the third time.
As he closed the door, he looked back. Miss Wills was not looking at him. She was standing where he had left her. She was gazing at the fire and on her lips was a smile of satisfied malice.
Sir Charles was startled.
“That woman knows something,” he said to himself. “I'll swear she knows something. And she won't say - But what the devil is it she knows?”
Agatha Christie
Three Act Tragedy aka Murder in Three Acts (1934)
Dedicated to my friends
Geoffrey and Violet ShipstonChapter 22
Oliver Manders
At 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. “About 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 suggesting 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 attitude. His 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 Astor 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 cutout 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.
Agatha Christie
Three Act Tragedy aka Murder in Three Acts (1934)
Dedicated to my friends
Geoffrey and Violet ShipstonChapter 23
Poirot Offers a Sherry
Sitting 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 a 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 spoiled her chance of laying hold of some.”
“What do you think of young Manders’ 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 of 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 indeed 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?”
“Precisement, 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.
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.
