Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“I liked him,” said Lady Mary.

“Did he ever say anything to you about Babbington’s death?”

“No.”

“He never mentioned it at all?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you think—it’s difficult for you to tell, not knowing him well—but do you think he had anything on his mind?”

“He seemed in very good spirits—even amused by something—some private joke of his own. He told me at dinner that night that he was going to spring a surprise on me.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

On his way home, Mr. Satterthwaite pondered that statement.

What had been the surprise Sir Bartholomew had intended to spring on his guests?

Would it, when it came, have been as amusing as he pretended?

Or did that gay manner mask a quiet but indomitable purpose? Would anyone ever know?

Three

REENTER HERCULE POIROT

“Frankly,” said Sir Charles, “are we any forrader?”

It was a council of war. Sir Charles, Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg Lytton Gore were sitting in the Ship room. A fire burned in the grate, and outside an equinoctial gale was howling.

Mr. Satterthwaite and Egg answered the question simultaneously.

“No,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

“Yes,” said Egg.

Sir Charles looked from one to the other of them. Mr. Satterthwaite indicated gracefully that the lady should speak first.

Egg was silent a moment or two, collecting her ideas.

“We are further on,” she said at last. “We are further on because we haven’t found out anything. That sounds nonsense, but it isn’t. What I mean is that we had certain vague sketchy ideas; we know now that certain of those ideas are definitely washouts.”

“Progress by elimination,” said Sir Charles.

“That’s it.”

Mr. Satterthwaite cleared his throat. He liked to define things.

“The idea of gain we can now put definitely away,” he said. “There does not seem to be anybody who (in detective story parlance) could benefit by Stephen Babbington’s death. Revenge seems equally out of the question. Apart from his naturally amiable and peace-loving disposition, I doubt if he were important enough to make enemies. So we are back at our last rather sketchy idea—fear. By the death of Stephen Babbington, someone gains security.”

“That’s rather well put,” said Egg.

Mr. Satterthwaite looked modestly pleased with himself. Sir Charles looked a little annoyed. His was the star part, not Satterthwaite’s.

“The point is,” said Egg, “what are we going to do next—actually do, I mean. Are we going to sleuth people, or what? Are we going to disguise ourselves and follow them?”

“My dear child,” said Sir Charles, “I always did set my face against playing old men in beards, and I’m not going to begin now.”