Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“You’ve got to remember,” said Sir Charles, “that there probably wasn’t any nicotine in the port. The contents of the glass were analysed, remember.”

“Ah, yes—foolish of me. But, however it was administered—nicotine has a very disagreeable taste.”

“I don’t know that that would matter,” said Sir Charles slowly. “Tollie had a very bad go of influenza last spring, and it left him with his sense of taste and smell a good deal impaired.”

“Ah, yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “That might account for it. That simplifies things considerably.”

Sir Charles went to the window and looked out.

“Still blowing a gale. I’ll send for your things, M. Poirot. The Rose and Crown is all very well for enthusiastic artists, but I think you’d prefer proper sanitation and a comfortable bed.”

“You are extremely amiable, Sir Charles.”

“Not at all. I’ll see to it now.”

He left the room.

Poirot looked at Mr. Satterthwaite.

“If I may permit myself a suggestion.”

“Yes?”

Poirot leaned forward, and said in a low voice:

“Ask young Manders why he faked an accident. Tell him the police suspect him—and see what he says.”

Six

CYNTHIA DACRES

The showrooms of Ambrosine, Ltd, were very pure in appearance. The walls were a shade just off-white—the thick pile carpet was so neutral as to be almost colourless—so was the upholstery. Chromium gleamed here and there, and on one wall was a gigantic geometric design in vivid blue and lemon yellow. The room had been designed by Mr. Sydney Sandford—the newest and youngest decorator of the moment.

Egg Lytton Gore sat in an armchair of modern design—faintly reminiscent of a dentist’s chair, and watched exquisite snakelike young women with beautiful bored faces pass sinuously before her. Egg was principally concerned with endeavouring to appear as though fifty or sixt

y pounds was a mere bagatelle to pay for a dress.

Mrs. Dacres, looking as usual marvellously unreal, was (as Egg put it to herself) doing her stuff.

“Now, do you like this? Those shoulder knots—rather amusing, don’t you think? And the waistline’s rather penetrating. I shouldn’t have the red lead colour, though—I should have it in the new colour—Espanol—most attractive—like mustard, with a dash of cayenne in it. How do you like Vin Ordinaire? Rather absurd, isn’t it? Quite penetrating and ridiculous. Clothes simply must not be serious nowadays.”

“It’s very difficult to decide,” said Egg. “You see”—she became confidential—“I’ve never been able to afford any clothes before. We were always so dreadfully poor. I remembered how simply marvellous you looked that night at Crow’s Nest, and I thought, ‘Now that I’ve got money to spend, I shall go to Mrs. Dacres and ask her to advise me.’ I did admire you so much that night.”

“My dear, how charming of you. I simply adore dressing a young girl. It’s so important that girls shouldn’t look raw—if you know what I mean.”

“Nothing raw about you,” thought Egg ungratefully. “Cooked to a turn, you are.”

“You’ve got so much personality,” continued Mrs. Dacres. “You mustn’t have anything at all ordinary. Your clothes must be simple and penetrating—and just faintly visible. You understand? Do you want several things?”

“I thought about four evening frocks, and a couple of day things, and a sports suit or two—that sort of thing.”

The honey of Mrs. Dacres’s manner became sweeter. It was fortunate that she did not know that at that moment Egg’s bank balance was exactly fifteen pounds twelve shillings, and that the said balance had got to last her until December.

More girls in gowns filed past Egg. In the intervals of technical conversation, Egg interspersed other matters.

“I suppose you’ve never been to Crow’s Nest since?” she said.

“No. My dear, I couldn’t. It was so upsetting—and, anyway, I always think Cornwall is rather terribly artisty…I simply cannot bear artists. Their bodies are always such a curious shape.”