“Well, I must he off,” said the actor. “Oh, just one thing. I'm rather worried about Miss Wills.”
“What about her?”
“She's gone.”
Poirot stared at him.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Nobody knows. I was thinking things over after I got your telegram. As I told you at the time, I felt convinced that that woman knew something she hadn't told us. I thought I'd have a last shot at getting it out of her. I drove out to her house - it was about half-past nine when I got there - and asked for her. It appears she left home this morning - went up to London for the day - that's what she said. Her people got a telegram in the evening, saying she wasn't returning for a day or so, and not to worry.”
“And were they worrying?”
“I gather they were, rather. You see, she hadn't taken any luggage with her.”
“Odd,” murmured Poirot.
“I know. It seems as though - I don't know. I feel uneasy.”
“I warned her,” said Poirot. “I warned everyone. You remember, I said to them, ‘Speak now.'”
“Yes, yes. Do you think that she too -”
“I have my ideas,” said Poirot. “For the moment, I prefer not to discuss them.”
“First the butler, Ellis, then Miss Wills. Where is Ellis? It's incredible that the police have never been able to lay hands on him.”
“They have not looked for his body in the right place,” said Poirot.
“Then you agree with Egg. You think that he is dead?”
“Ellis will never be seen alive again.”
“It's a nightmare!” burst out Sir Charles. “The whole thing is utterly incomprehensible!”
“No, no. It is sane and logical, on the contrary.”
Sir Charles stared at him.
“You say that?”
“Certainly. You see, I have the orderly mind.”
“I don't understand you.”
Mr. Satterthwaite, too, looked curiously at the little detective.
“What kind of mind have I?” demanded Sir Charles, slightly hurt.
“You have the actor's mind. Sir Charles, creative, original, seeing always dramatic values. Mr. Satterthwaite here, he has the playgoer's mind; he observes the characters, he perceives the moods. I have the prosaic mind. I see only the facts, without any dramatic trappings or footlights.”
“Then we're to leave you to it?”
“That is my idea. For twenty-four hours.”
“Good luck to you, then. Good night.”
As they went away together. Sir Charles said to Mr. Satterthwaite:
“That chap thinks a lot of himself.”
He spoke rather coldly.
Agatha Christie
Three Act Tragedy aka Murder in Three Acts (1934)
Dedicated to my friends
Geoffrey and Violet ShipstonChapter 26
Miss Milray
Poirot did not have quite the uninterrupted twenty-four hours for which he had stipulated.
It was a little after ten on the following morning when Oliver Manders sent up his card and asked if M. Poirot could spare him a few moments.
When Manders entered the room, Poirot was in the act of unwrapping a small parcel. He laid it aside and looked inquiringly at his visitor.
“Good morning, M. Manders,” he said. “You wished to see me?”
“Yes.”
Oliver hesitated. Poirot drew forward a chair.
“Sit, I pray of you... Now we can converse at our ease.”
Oliver accented the chair, but he still seemed a little doubtful as how best to come to the point of his visit.
“Eh bien?” said Poirot. “What is it that you seek? Do you come to render me a service? Or is it that you want me to do you one?”
“I don't know,” said Oliver slowly.
Then suddenly he leaned forward and said impulsively:
“M. Poirot, you don't like me.”
Poirot looked slightly astonished.
“But what an idea - that.”
“No, you don't like me. Very few people do like me. I - I don't know why it is.”
All Oliver's languid, supercilious manner had vanished. He spoke now as boyishly and naturally as any other young man of his age might have done. His face, as he leaned forward, had lost its usual sneering expression. It showed instead a diffidence and an eagerness that were somehow a little pathetic.
“But why should you think I do not like you?” asked Poirot gently.
“Because the day before yesterday, when you staged that mock murder, it was - it was a trap for me.”
Again Poirot's eyebrows rose.
“How so?”
Oliver replied somberly:
“Because in the bottom of your heart you believe that it was I who killed old Babbington.”
“Quelle idée!”
“No, you think so. I can see that there is a lot against me, but I'm not a murderer, M. Poirot. I'm not! I was rude to the old fellow once - very rude - but if you'll believe me, I felt miserable about it afterwards. It's as though there were two of me. One's a hateful drawling sneering sort of chap, always posing. The other's not like that, but he finds it hard to show himself. Oh, you can't understand what I mean.”
“Yes, yes, I understand very well. Because I am old, I have not forgotten what it is to be young.” He went on gently: “That is your complaint, mon ami - youth. It is a characteristic of youth to make itself worse than it is.” With a slightly humorous grimace, he added: “At my age, one's preoccupation is to arrange one's goods well in the shop window.”
“You understand, then?” Oliver looked grateful. A really charming smile came over his face. “You don't know what a difference it makes if someone's willing to make the effort to understand.”
“You have not had the life very happy, eh?”
Oliver's face hardened.
“No.”
“Listen; now I will give you advice. Your life is your own, to make of what you will. Bitterness leads nowhere. It turns back on itself. It is the eternal cul-de-sac. Put it away from you now, before it is too late.”
“You're right, M. Poirot. I'm going to put everything behind me and start afresh.”
“Good.”
Poirot nodded approval, and then went on: “And the next thing?”
Oliver looked rather surprised.
“The next thing?”
“Mais oui. I fancied you had something else to say, but perhaps I am wrong.”
“No, no, you're right. There is something more. I want you to let me work with you over this business. You trust me now. Let me help you.”
“Help me? In what way?”
“I don't know. There must be some way in which I could be useful. I fancy - I may be wrong - that you are very hot on the trail.”
He waited rather breathlessly for Poirot's answer, which was a little slow in coming.
“It is possible,” he said, “that you may be able to help me, soon.”
“Oh, I say, that's grand.”
Oliver waited a minute or two, but Poirot said no more.
“If you could just tell me the way your suspicions are pointing -”
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“That - not just yet. I am of an unbelievable secrecy.”
Oliver's ear was sensitive enough to catch the underlying firmness in Poirot's voice. He insisted no further, but took his leave with a few further words of thanks.
There was a strange smile on Poirot's face as young Oliver Manders left the room.
He murmured to himself, “I underrated that young man.”
Then he picked up his half-unwrapped package.
It was twenty minutes past eleven when Egg walked in unannounced. To her amazement, she found the great detective engaged in building card houses.
Her face showed such lively scorn that Poirot was impelled to defend himself.
“It is not, mademoiselle, that I have become childish in my old age. No. But the building of card houses, I have always found it most stimulating to the mind. It is an old habit of mine. This morning, first thing, I go out and buy the pack of cards. Unfortunately, I make an error; they are not real cards. But they do just as well.”
Egg looked more closely at the erection on the table. She laughed.
“Good heavens, they've sold you Happy Families.”
“What is that you say - the Happy Family?”
“Yes, it's a game. Children play it in the nursery.”
“Ah, well, one can compose the houses just in the same manner.”
Egg had picked up some of the cards from the table and was looking at them affectionately.
“Master Bun, the baker's son - I always loved him. And here's Mr. Mug, the milkman. Oh, dear, I wish Sir Charles were here. I'd show him his portrait.”
“Why is that funny picture Sir Charles, mademoiselle?”
“Because of the name.”
Egg laughed at his bewildered face, and then began explaining. When she had finished, he said:
“Ah, c'est ?a. Cartwright, it is the nom de theatre. Mugg - ah, yes, one says in slang, does not one, you are a mug - a fool? Naturally, you would change your name. One would not like to be Sir Charles Mugg, eh?”
Egg laughed. She said:
“To be Lady Mugg would be worse.”
Poirot looked at her keenly and she blushed.
“C'est comme ?a?”
“Not at all,” said Egg. “I don't know what you mean.” She went on quickly: “This is what I came to see you about. I've been worrying and worrying about that cutting from the paper that Oliver dropped from his wallet. You know, the one Miss Wills picked up and handed back to him. It seems to me that either Oliver is telling a downright lie when he says he doesn't remember its being there, or else it never was there. He dropped some odd bit of paper and that woman pretended it was the nicotine cutting.”
“Why should she have done that, mademoiselle?”
“Because she wanted to get rid of it. She planted it on Oliver.”
“You mean she is the criminal?”
“Yes.”
“What was her motive?”
“It's no good asking me that. I can only suggest that she's a lunatic. Clever people often are rather mad. I can't see any other reason - in fact, I can't see any motive anywhere.”
“Decidedly, that is the impasse. I should not ask you to guess at a motive. It is of myself that I ask that question without ceasing: What was the motive behind Mr. Babbington's death? When I can answer that, the case will be solved.”
“You don't think just madness -” suggested Egg.
“There must still be a motive - a mad motive, if you like, but a motive. That is what I seek.”
“Well, good-bye,” said Egg. “I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but the idea just occurred to me. I must hurry. I'm going with Charles to the dress rehearsal of Little Dog Laughed - you know, the play Miss Wills has written for Angela Sutcliffe. It's the first night tomorrow.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Poirot.
“What is it? Has anything happened?”
“Yes, indeed, something has happened. An idea. A superb idea. Oh, but I have been blind - blind.”
Egg stared at him. As though realizing his eccentricity, Poirot took a hold on himself.
He patted Egg on the shoulder.
“You think I am mad. Not at all. I heard what you said. You go to see the Little Dog Laughed and Miss Sutcliffe acts in it. Go then, and pay no attention to what I have said.”
Rather doubtfully. Egg departed. Left to himself, Poirot strode up and down the room muttering under his breath. His eyes shone green as any cat's.
“Mais oui, that explains everything. A curious motive - a very curious motive - such a motive as I have never come across before, and yet it is reasonable and, given the circumstances, natural. Altogether it is a very curious case.”
He passed the table where his card house still reposed. With a sweep of his hands he swept the cards from the table.
“The Happy Family, I need it no longer,” he said. “The problem is solved. It only remains to act.”
He caught up his hat and put on his overcoat. Then he went downstairs and the commissionaire called him a taxi. Poirot gave the address of Sir Charles’ flat.
On arrival he paid off the taxi and entered the building. As the porter was taking up the lift, Poirot walked up the stairs.
Just as he arrived on the second floor, the door of Sir Charles’ flat opened and Miss Milray came out.
She started when she saw Poirot.
“You!”
Poirot smiled.
“Me! Or is it I? Enfin, moi!”
Miss Milray said:
“I'm afraid you won't find Sir Charles. He's gone to the Babylon Theater with Miss Lytton Gore.”
“It is not Sir Charles I seek. It is my stick that I think I have left behind one day.”
“Oh, I see. Well, if you'll ring, Temple will find it for you. I'm sorry I can't stop. I'm on my way to catch a train. I'm going to the country to see my mother.”
“I comprehend. Do not let me delay you, mademoiselle.”
He stood aside and Miss Milray passed rapidly down the stairs. She was carrying a small attaché case.
But when she had gone, Poirot seemed to forget the purpose for which he had come. Instead of going on up to the landing, he turned and made his way downstairs again. He arrived at the front door just in time to see Miss Milray getting into a taxi. Another taxi was coming slowly along the curb. Poirot raised a hand and it came to rest. He got in and directed the driver to follow the other taxi.
No surprise showed on his face when the first taxi went north and finally drew up at Paddington Station, though Paddington is an odd station from which to proceed to Gilling.
Poirot went to the first-class booking window and demanded a return ticket to Loomouth. The train was due to depart in five minutes. Pulling up his overcoat well about his ears, for the day was cold, Poirot ensconced himself in the corner of a first-class carriage.
They arrived at Loomouth about five o'clock. It was already growing dark. Standing back a little, Poirot heard Miss Milray being greeted by the friendly porter at the little station:
“Well, now, miss, we didn't expect you. Is Sir Charles coming down?”
Miss Milray replied:
“I've come down here unexpectedly. I shall be going back tomorrow morning. I've just come to fetch some things. No, I don't want a cab, thank you. I'll walk up by the cliff path.”
The night was falling quickly now. Miss Milray walked briskly up the steep zigzag path. A good way behind came Hercule Poirot. He trod softly, like a cat. Miss Milray, on arrival at Crow's Nest, produced a key from her bag and passed through the side door, leaving it ajar. She reappeared a minute or two later. She had a rusty door key and an electric torch in her hand. Poirot drew back a little behind a convenient bush.
Miss Milray passed round behind the house and up a scrambling, overgrown path.
Hercule Poirot followed. Up and up went Miss Milray, until she came suddenly to an old stone tower such as is found often on that coast. This one was of humble and dilapidated appearance. There was, however, a curtain over the dirty window, and Miss Milray inserted her key in the big wooden door.
The key turned with a protesting creak. The door swung with a groan on its hinges. Miss Milray and her torch passed inside.
With an increase of pace, Poirot caught up. He passed, in his turn, noiselessly through the door. The light of Miss Milray's torch gleamed fitfully on glass retorts, a Bunsen burner, various apparatus. Miss Milray had picked up a crowbar. She had raked it and was holding it over the glass apparatus when a hand caught her by the arm. She gasped and turned.
