Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

Cartwright did not answer. He made a vague gesture with his hand. Strange gave a slight chuckle.

“Charles doesn’t know himself,” he said. “It’s just his mind turning naturally to the dramatic possibilities.”

Sir Charles made a reproachful gesture. His face was absorbed—thoughtful. He shook his head slightly in an abstracted manner.

An elusive resemblance teased Mr. Satterthwaite—then he got it. Aristide Duval, the head of the Secret Service, unravelling the tangled plot of “Underground Wires.” In another minute he was sure. Sir Charles was limping unconsciously as he walked. Aristide Duval had been known as The Man With a Limp.

Sir Bartholomew continued to apply ruthless common sense to Sir Charles’s unformulated suspicions.

“Yes, what do you suspect, Charles? Suicide? Murder? Who wants to murder a harmless old clergyman? It’s fantastic. Suicide? Well, I suppose that is a point. One might perhaps imagine a reason for Babbington wanting to make away with himself—”

“What reason?”

Sir Bartholomew shook his head gently.

“How can we tell the secrets of the human mind? Just one suggestion—suppose that Babbington had been told he suffered from an incurable disease—such as cancer. Something of that kind might supply a motive. He might wish to spare his wife the pain of watching his own long-drawn-out suffering. That’s only a suggestion, of course. There’s nothing on earth to make us think that Babbington did want to put an end to himself.”

“I wasn’t thinking so much of suicide,” began Sir Charles.

Bartholomew Strange again gave his low chuckle.

“Exactly. You’re not out for probability. You want sensation—new and untraceable poison in the cocktails.”

Sir Charles made an expressive grimace.

“I’m not so sure I do want that. Damn it all, Tollie, remember I mixed those cocktails.”

“Sudden attack of homicidal mania, eh? I suppose the symptoms are delayed in our case, but we’ll all be dead before morning.”

“Damn it all, you joke, but—” Sir Charles broke off irritably.

“I’m not really joking,” said the physician.

His voice had altered. It was grave, and not unsympathetic.

“I’m not joking about poor old Babbington’s death. I’m casting fun at your suggestions, Charles, because—well—because I don’t want you, thoughtlessly, to do harm.”

“Harm?” demanded Sir Charles.

“Perhaps you understand what I’m driving at, Mr. Satterthwaite?”

“I think, perhaps, I can guess,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Don’t you see, Charles,” went on Sir Bartholomew, “that those idle suspicions of yours might be definitely harmful? These things get about. A vague suggestion of foul play, totally unfounded, might cause serious trouble and pain to Mrs. Babbington. I’ve known things of that kind happen once or twice. A sudden death—a few idle tongues wagging—rumours flying all round the place—rumours that go on growing—and that no one can stop. Damn it all, Charles, don’t you see how cruel and unnecessary it would be? You’re merely indulging your vivid imagination in a gallop over a wholly speculative course.”

A look of irresolution appeared on the actor’s face.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admitted.

“You’re a thundering good chap, Charles, but you do let your imagination run away with you. Come now: do you seriously believe anyone, anyone at all, would want to murder that perfectly harmless old man?”

“I suppose not,” said Sir Charles. “No, as you say, it’s ridiculous. Sorry, Tollie, but it wasn’t really a mere ‘stunt’ on my part. I did genuinely have a ‘hunch’ that something was wrong.”

Mr. Satterthwaite gave a little cough.

“May I make a suggestion? Mr. Babbington was taken ill a very few mo

ments after entering the room and just after drinking his cocktail. Now, I did happen to notice he made a wry face when drinking. I imagined because he was unused to the taste. But supposing that Sir Bartholomew’s tentative suggestion is correct—that Mr. Babbington may for some reason have wished to commit suicide. That does strike me as just possible, whereas the suggestion of murder seems quite ridiculous.