Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“Apart from everything else,” said Sir Charles thoughtfully, “it seems a damn’ fool thing to do. As far as he knew, the man wasn’t suspected. By bolting he draws attention to himself.”

“Exactly. And not a hope of escape. His description’s been circulated. It’s only a matter of days before he’s pulled in.”

“Very odd,” said Sir Charles. “I don’t understand it.”

“Oh, the reason’s clear enough. He lost his nerve. Got the wind up suddenly.”

“Wouldn’t a man who had the nerve to commit murder have the nerve to sit still afterward?”

“Depends. Depends. I know criminals. Chicken-livered, most of them. He thought he was suspected, and he bolted.”

“Have you verified his own account of himself?”

“Naturally, Sir Charles. That’s plain routine work. London Agency confirms his story. He had a written reference from Sir Horace Bird, recommending him warmly. Sir Horace himself is in East Africa.”

“So the reference might have been forged?”

“Exactly,” said Colonel Johnson, beaming upon Sir Charles, with the air of a schoolmaster congratulating a bright pupil. “We’ve wired to Sir Horace, of course, but it may be some little time before we get a reply. He’s on safari.”

“When did the man disappear?”

“Morning after the death. There was a doctor present at the dinner—Sir Jocelyn Campbell—bit of a toxicologist, I understand; he and Davis (local man) agreed over the case, and our people were called in immediately. We interviewed everybody that night. Ellis (that’s the butler) went to his room as usual and was missing in the morning. His bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“He slipped away under cover of the darkness?”

“Seems so. One of the ladies staying there, Miss Sutcliffe, the actress—you know her, perhaps?”

“Very well, indeed.”

“Miss Sutcliffe has made a suggestion to us. She suggested that the man had left the house through a secret passage.” He blew his nose apologetically. “Sounds rather Edgar Wallace stuff, but it seems there was such a thing. Sir Bartholomew was rather proud of it. He showed it to Miss Sutcliffe. The end of it comes out among some fallen masonry about half a mile away.”

“That would be a possible explanation, certainly,” agreed Sir Charles. “Only—would the butler know of the existence of such a passage?”

“That’s the point, of course. My missus always says servants know everything. Daresay she’s right.”

“I understand the poison was nicotine,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“That’s right. Most unusual stuff to use, I believe. Comparatively rare. I understand if a man’s a heavy smoker, such as the doctor was, it would tend to complicate matters. I mean, he might have died of nicotine poisoning in a natural way. Only, of course, this business was too sudden for that.”

“How was it administered?”

“We don’t know,” admitted Colonel Johnson. “That’s going to be the weak part of the case. According to medical evidence, it could only have been swallowed a few minutes previous to death.”

“They were drinking port, I understand?”

“Exactly. Seems as though the stuff was in the port; but it wasn’t. We analysed his glass. That glass had contained port, and nothing but port. The other wine glasses had been cleared, of course, but they were all on a tray in the pantry, unwashed, and not one of them contained anything it shouldn’t. As for what he ate, it was the same as everybody else had. Soup, grilled sole, pheasant and chipped potatoes, chocolate soufflé, soft roes on toast. His cook’s been with him fifteen years. No, there doesn’t seem to be any way he could have been given the stuff, and yet there it is in the stomach. It’s a nasty problem.”

Sir Charles wheeled round on Mr. Satterthwaite.

“The same thing,” he said excitedly. “Exactly the same as before.”

He turned apologetically to the chief constable.

“I must explain. A death occurred at my house in Cornwall—”

Colonel Johnson looked interested.

“I think I’ve heard about that. From a young lady—Miss Lytton Gore.”