Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“Then what—?” began Egg.

But she was interrupted. The door opened, and Temple announced:

“Mr. Hercule Poirot.” M. Poirot walked in with a beaming face and greeted three highly astonished people.

“It is permitted,” he said with a twinkle, “that I assist at this conference? I am right, am I not—it is a conference?”

“My dear fellow, we’re delighted to see you.” Sir Charles, recovering from his surprise, shook his guest warmly by the hand and pushed him into a large armchair. “Where have you sprung from so suddenly?”

“I went to call upon my good friend Mr. Satterthwaite in London. They tell me he is away—in Cornwall. Eh bien, it leaps to the eye where he has gone. I take the first train to Loomouth, and here I am.”

“Yes,” said Egg. “But why have you come?”

“I mean,” she went on, flushing a little as she realized the possible discourtesy of her words, “you have come for some particular reason?”

“I have come,” said Hercule Poirot, “to admit an error.”

With an engaging smile he turned to Sir Charles and spread out his hands in a foreign gesture.

“Monsieur, it was in this very room that you declared yourself not satisfied. And I—I thought it was your dramatic instinct—I said to myself, he is a great actor, at all costs he must have drama. It seemed, I will admit it, incredible that a harmless old gentleman should have died anything but a natural death. Even now I do not see how poison could have been administered to him, nor can I guess at any motive. It seems absurd—fantastic. And yet—since then, there has been another death, a death under similar circumstances. One cannot attribute it to coincidence. No, there must be a link between the two. And so, Sir Charles, I have come to you to apologize—to say I, Hercule Poirot, was wrong, and to ask you to admit me to your councils.”

Sir Charles cleared his throat rather nervously. He looked a little embarrassed.

“That’s extraordinarily handsome of you, M. Poirot. I don’t know—taking up a lot of your time—I—”

He stopped, somewhat at a loss. His eyes consulted Mr. Satterthwaite.

“It is very good of you—” began Mr. Satterthwaite.

“No, no, it is not good of me. It is the curiosity—and, yes, the hurt to my pride. I must repair my fault. My time—that is nothing—why voyage after all? The language may be different, but everywhere human nature is the same. But of course if I am not welcome, if you feel that I intrude—”

Both men spoke at once.

“No, indeed.”

“Rather not.”

Poirot turned his eyes to the girl.

“And Mademoiselle?”

For a minute or two Egg was silent, and on all three men the same impression was produced. Egg did not want the assistance of M. Poirot….

Mr. Satterthwaite thought he knew why. This was the private ploy of Charles Cartwright and Egg Lytton Gore. Mr. Satterthwaite had been admitted—on sufferance—on the clear understanding that he was a negligible third party. But Hercule Poirot was different. His would be the leading rôle. Perhaps, even, Sir Charles might retire in his favour. And then Egg’s plans would come to naught.

He watched the girl, sympathizing with her predicament. These men did not understand, but he, with his semi-feminine sensitiveness, realized her dilemma. Egg was fighting for her happiness….

What would she say?

After all what could she say? How could she speak the thoughts in her mind? “Go away—go away—your coming may spoil everything—I don’t want you here….”

Egg Lytton Gore said the only thing she could say.

&nbs

p; “Of course,” she said with a little smile. “We’d love to have you.”

Four