Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

Mr. Satterthwaite, who had been looking at the door which had just closed behind the other two, gave a start as he turned to Poirot. The latter was smiling with a hint of mockery.

“Yes, yes, do not deny it. Deliberately you showed me the bait that day in Monte Carlo. Is it not so? You showed me the paragraph in the paper. You hoped that it would arouse my interest—that I should occupy myself with the affair.”

“It is true,” confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. “But I thought that I had failed.”

“No, no, you did not fail. You are a shrewd judge of human nature, my friend. I was suffering from ennui—I had—in the words of the child who was playing near us—‘nothing to do.’ You came at the psychological moment. (And, talking of that, how much crime depends, too, on that psychological moment. The crime, the psychology, they go hand in hand.) But let us come back to our muttons. This is a crime very intriguing—it puzzles me completely.”

“Which crime—the first or the second?”

“There is only one—what you call the first and second murder are only the two halves of the same crime. The second half is simple—the motive—the means adopted—”

Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted.

“Surely the means present an equal difficulty. There was no poison found in any of the wine, and the food was eaten by everybody.”

“No, no, it is quite different. In the first case it does not seem as though anybody could have poisoned Stephen Babbington. Sir Charles, if he had wanted to, could have poisoned one of his guests, but not any particular guest. Temple might possibly have slipped something into the last glass on the tray—but Mr. Babbington’s was not the last glass. No, the murder of Mr. Babbington seems so impossible that I still feel that perhaps it is impossible—that he died a natural death after all…But that we shall soon know. The second case is different. Any one of the guests present, or the butler or parlourmaid, could have poisoned Bartholomew Strange. That presents no difficulty whatever.”

“I don’t see—” began Mr. Satterthwaite.

Poirot swept on:

“I will prove that to you sometime by a little experiment. Let us pass onto another and most important matter. It is vital, you see (and you will see, I am sure, you have the sympathetic heart and the delicate understanding), that I must not play the part of what you call the spoilsport.”

“You mean—” began Mr. Satterthwaite with the beginning of a smile.

“That Sir Charles must have the star part! He is used to it. And, moreover, it is expected of him by someone else. Am I not right? It does not please mademoiselle at all that I come to concern myself in this matter.”

“You are what we call ‘quick in the uptake,’ M. Poirot.”

“Ah, that, it leaps to the eye! I am of a very susceptible nature—I wish to assist a love affair—not to hinder it. You and I, my friend, must work together in this—to the honour and glory of Charles Cartwright; is it not so? When the case is solved—”

“If—” said Mr. Satterthwaite mildly.

“When! I do not permit myself to fail.”

“Never?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite searchingly.

“There have been times,” said Poirot with dignity, “when for a short time, I have been what I suppose you would call slow in the takeup. I have not perceived the truth as soon as I might have done.”

“But you’ve never failed altogether?”

The persistence of Mr. Satterthwaite was curiosity, pure and simple. He wondered….

“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “Once. Long ago, in Belgium. We will not talk of it….”

Mr. Satterthwaite, his curiosity (and his malice) satisfied, hastened to change the subject.

“Just so. You were saying that when the case is solved—”

“Sir Charles will have solved it. That is essential. I shall have been a little cog in the wheel,” he spread out his hands. “Now and then, here and there, I shall say a little word—just one little word—a hint, no more. I desire no honour—no renown. I have

all the renown I need.”

Mr. Satterthwaite studied him with interest. He was amused by the naïve conceit, the immense egoism of the little man. But he did not make the easy mistake of considering it mere empty boasting. An Englishman is usually modest about what he does well, sometimes pleased with himself over something he does badly; but a Latin has a truer appreciation of his own powers. If he is clever he sees no reason for concealing the fact.

“I should like to know,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “it would interest me very much—just what do you yourself hope to get out of this business? Is it the excitement of the chase?”

Poirot shook his head.