“Woman's intuition, my dear Egg,” said Sir Charles, with a sneer.
He was still calm.
“This won't do, Poirot,” he said. “I can explain the passport. It looks rather badly, I admit, but - well, there were reasons.”
Hercule Poirot spoke in a brisk businesslike tone.
“In the next room. Sir Charles,” he said, “are a Scotland Yard inspector and two doctors - eminent specialists in diseases of the brain.”
“You've done that?” Sir Charles started forward. His face seemed to dissolve and reform itself. It was now a leering mask of impotent fury. His voice rang shrill and cracked:
“You've trapped me! Yes, you've trapped me! I won't see them! This is a plot! It's a conspiracy! It's been closing round me! But they can't touch me - no one can touch me!” He drew himself up. “I'm above you all - above your silly man-made laws! Those three people had to be killed; it was a necessity! I regret their deaths, but it was necessary! It had to be! For my safety!”
He stopped and stared at Poirot, his jaw working.
“It's not true. It's a plant. A lie. There's no one there.”
“See for yourself,” said Hercule Poirot. Sir Charles strode to the door, flung it open and passed through. They heard him give a shrill, high-pitched scream, and the low murmur of men's voices. Poirot went to the door, looked through and shut it carefully.
“It is all over, mademoiselle,” he said. “He will be taken care of. And now, here is a friend to take you home.”
He opened a second door and Oliver Manders came in. He went quickly over to Egg and she made a faltering step toward him.
“Oliver, I've been such a beast to you. Such a beast. Take me to mother! Oh, take me to mother!”
He put an arm round her and drew her toward the door.
“Yes, dear, I'll take you. Come.”
“It's been so awful - so awful.”
“I know. But it's all over now. You need never think of it again.”
“I can't forget. I shall never forget.”
“Yes, you will. You'll forget very soon. Come now.”
She went with him obediently. At the door she took a hold on herself and disengaged herself from his arm. “I'm all right now.”
Poirot made a gesture and Oliver Manders came back into the room.
“Be very good to her,” said Poirot.
“I will, sir. She's all I care about in the world; you know that. Love for her made me bitter and cynical. But I shall be different now. I'm ready to stand by. And some day, perhaps -”
“I think so,” said Poirot. “I think she was beginning to care for you when he came along and dazzled her. Hero worship is a real and terrible danger to the young. Some day Egg will fall in love with a friend and build her happiness upon a rock.”
He looked kindly after the young man as he left the room.
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward in his chair.
“M. Poirot,” he said, “you have been wonderful - absolutely wonderful.”
Poirot put on his modest look.
“It is nothing - nothing. A tragedy in three acts, and now the curtain has fallen.”
“You'll excuse me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Yes, there is some point you want explained to you?”
“There is one thing I want to know.”
“Ask, then.”
“Why do you sometimes speak perfectly good English and at other times not?”
Poirot laughed.
“Ah, I will explain. It is true that I can speak the exact, the idiomatic English. But, my friend, to speak the broken English is an enormous asset. It leads people to despise you. They say ‘A foreigner; he can't even speak English properly.’ It is not my policy to terrify people; instead, I invite their gentle ridicule. Also I boast! An Englishman he says often, ‘A fellow who thinks as much of himself as that cannot be worth much.’ That is the English point of view. It is not at all true. And so, you see, I put people off their guard. Besides,” he added, “it has become a habit.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Quite the cunning of the serpent, M. Poirot.”
And he was silent for a moment or two.
“I'm afraid I have not shone over this matter,” he said vexedly.
“On the contrary. You appreciated that important point - Sir Bartholomew's remark about the butler - you realized the astute observation of Miss Wills. In fact, you could have solved the whole thing if it had not been for your playgoer's reaction to dramatic effect.”
Mr. Satterthwaite looked cheered.
Suddenly an idea struck him. His jaw fell.
“My goodness,” he cried, “I've only just realized it! That rascal, with his poisoned cocktail! Anyone might have drunk it! It might have been me!”
“There is an even more terrible possibility that you have not considered,” said Poirot.
“Eh?”
“It might have been me,” said Hercule Poirot.
THE END
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