第 20 页

“So she swallowed it and called out and Nurse came rushing, but we couldn’t do anything. She died in about two minutes. Then doctor sent for the police, and they came and examined the chocolates. And the top layer had been tampered with, the underneath ones were all right.”

“And the poison employed?”

“They think it’s nicotine.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “Again nicotine. What a stroke! What an audacious stroke!”

“We are too late,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We shall never know now what she had to tell us. Unless - unless - she confided in someone?” He glanced interrogatively at the Matron.

Poirot shook his head.

“There will have been no confidences, you will find.”

“We can ask,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “One of the nurses, perhaps?”

“By all means ask,” said Poirot; but he did not sound hopeful.

Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the Matron who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger, but neither of them could add any information to that already given. Mrs. de Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir Bartholomew’s death, and they did not even know of the despatching of the telegram.

On a request from Poirot, the two men were taken to the dead woman’s room. They found Superintendent Crossfield in charge, and Mr. Satterthwaite introduced him to Poirot.

Then the two men moved over to the bed and stood looking down on the dead woman. She was about forty, dark-haired and pale. Her face was not peaceful - it still showed the agony of her death.

Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly:

“Poor soul ... ”

He looked across at Hercule Poirot. There was a strange expression on the little Belgian’s face.

Something about it made Mr. Satterthwaite shiver ...

Mr. Satterthwaite said:

“Someone knew she was going to speak, and killed her ... She was killed in order to prevent her speaking ... ”

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, that is so.”

“She was murdered to prevent her telling us what she knew.”

“Or what she did not know ... But let us not waste time ... There is much to be done. There must be no more deaths. We must see to that.”

Mr. Satterthwaite asked curiously:

“Does this fit in with your idea of the murderer’s identity?”

“Yes, it fits ... But I realise one thing: The murderer is more dangerous than I thought ... We must be careful.”

Superintendent Crossfield followed them out of the room and learnt from them of the telegram which had been received by them. The telegram had been handed it at Melfort Post Office, and on inquiry there it was elicited that it had been handed in by a small boy. The young lady in charge remembered it, because the message had excited her very much, mentioning, as it did, Sir Bartholomew Strange’s death.

After six o’clock that evening the small boy who had handed in the telegram was found. He told his story promptly. He had been given the telegram by a man dressed in shabby clothes. The man told him that the telegram had been given him by a “loony lady” in the “House in the Park.” She had dropped it out of the window wrapped round two half-crowns. The man was afraid to be mixed up in some funny business, and was tramping in the other direction, so he had given the boy two and six and told him to keep the change.

A search would be instituted for the man. In the meantime there seemed nothing more to be done, and Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite returned to London.

It was close on midnight when the two men arrived back in town. Egg had gone back to her mother, but Sir Charles met them, and the three men discussed the situation.

“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “be guided by me. Only one thing will solve this case - the little grey cells of the brain. To rush up and down England, to hope that this person and that will tell us what we want to know - all such methods are amateurish and absurd. The truth can only be seen from within.”

Sir Charles looked slightly sceptical.

“What do you want to do, then?”

“I want to think. I ask of you twenty-four house - in which to think.”

Sir Charles shook his head with a slight smile.

“Will thinking tell you what it was this woman could have said if she lived?”

“I believe so.”

“It hardly seems possible. However, M. Poirot, you must have it your own way. If you can see through this mystery, it’s more than I can. I’m beaten, and I confess it. In any case, I’ve other fish to fry.”

Perhaps he hoped to be questioned, but if so his expectation was disappointed. Mr. Satterthwaite did indeed look up alertly, but Poirot remained lost in thought.

“Well, I must be 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.”

“Fist, 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 he is dead?”

“Ellis will never be seen alive again.”

“My God,” burst out Sir Charles. “It’s a nightmare - 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, he has the playgoer’s mind, he observes the characters, he has the sense of atmosphere. But me, 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.

Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. That star part! So that was it. He said:

“What did you mean by saying you had other fish to fry, Sir Charles?”

On Sir Charles’s face appeared the sheepish expression that Mr. Satterthwaite knew so well from attending weddings in Hanover Square.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I - er - well, Egg and I - ”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “My best congratulations.”

“Of course I’m years too old for her.”

“She doesn’t think so - and she’s the best judge.”

“That’s very nice of you, Satterthwaite. You know, I’d got it into my head she was fond of young Manders.”

“I wonder what made you think that,” said Mr. Satterthwaite innocently.

“Anyway,” said Sir Charles firmly, “she isn’t ... ”

26

Poirot did not have quite the uninterrupted twenty-four hours for which he had stipulated.

At twenty minutes past eleven on the following morning 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 Families?”

“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 Mrs. Mug, the milkman’s wife. Oh, dear, I suppose that’s me.”

“Why is that funny picture you, mademoiselle?”

“Because of the name.”

Egg laughed at his bewildered face and then began explaining. When she had finished he said:

“Ah, it was that that Sir Charles meant last night. I wondered ... Mugg - ah, yes, one says in slang, does one not, you are a mug - a fool? Naturally you would change your name. You would not like to be Lady Mugg, eh?”

Egg laughed. She said:

“Well, wish me happiness.”

“I do wish you happiness, mademoiselle. Not the brief happiness of youth, but the happiness that endures - the happiness that is built upon a rock.”

“I’ll tell Charles you call him a rock,” said Egg. “And now for 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 one Oliver.”

“You mean she is a 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.

“No, mademoiselle - not madness in the sense you mean. There is a reason. I must find that reason.”

“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 realising 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 hone 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 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 had and put on his overcoat. Then he went downstairs and the commissionaire called him a taxi. Poirot gave the address of Sir Charles’s flat.

Arrived there, he paid off the taxi, and stepped into the hall. The porter was absent taking up the lift. Poirot walked up the stairs. Just as he arrived on the second floor the door of Sir Charles’s 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 Theatre 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 down to Kent - to 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 kerb. 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 Kent. 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 dusk had deepened. 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.