Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“So I should think. Perhaps a little impulsive.”

“Impulsive? Miss Milray?”

Sir Charles stared. Never in his wildest flights of fancy had he associated impulse with Miss Milray.

“Only on occasions, perhaps,” said Miss Wills.

Sir Charles shook his head.

“Miss Milray’s the perfect robot. Good-bye, Miss Wills. Forgive me for bothering you, and don’t forget to let the police know about that thingummybob.”

“The mark on the butler’s right wrist? No, I won’t forget.”

“Well, good-bye—half a sec.—did you say right wrist? You said left just now.”

“Did I? How stupid of me.”

“Well, which was it?”

Miss Wills frowned and half closed her eyes.

“Let me see. I was sitting so—and he—would you mind, Sir Charles, handing me that brass plate as though it was a vegetable dish. Left side.”

Sir Charles presented the beaten brass atrocity as directed.

“Cabbage, madam?”

“Thank you,” said Miss Wills, “I’m quite sure now. It was the left wrist, as I said first. Stupid of me.”

“No, no,” said Sir Charles. “Left and right are always puzzling.”

He said good-bye for the third time.

As he closed the door he looked back. Miss Wills was not looking at him. She was standing where he had left her. She was gazing at the fire, and on her lips was a smile of satisfied malice.

Sir Charles was startled.

“That woman knows something,” he said to himself. “I’ll swear she knows something. And she won’t say…But what the devil is it she knows?”

Ten

OLIVER MANDERS

At the office of Messrs Speier & Ross, Mr. Satterthwaite asked for Mr. Oliver Manders and sent in his card.

Presently he was ushered into a small room, where Oliver was sitting at a writing table.

The young man got up and shook hands.

“Good of you to look me up, sir,” he said.

His tone implied:

“I have to say that, but really it’s a damned bore.”

Mr. Satterthwaite, however, was not easily put off. He sat down, blew his nose thoughtfully, and, peering over the top of his handkerchief, said:

“Seen the news this morning?”