Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“Ah!”

He was silent again. Egg said:

“Tell us: What shall we do now?”

The little man smiled at her.

“There is only one thing to do—think.”

“Think?” cried Egg. Her voice was disgusted.

Poirot beamed on her.

“But yes, exactly that. Think! With thought, all problems can be solved.”

“Can’t we do something?”

“For you the action, eh, mademoiselle? But certainly, there are still things you can do. There is, for instance, this place, Gilling, where Mr. Babbington lived for so many years. You can make inquiries there. You say that this Miss Milray’s mother lives at Gilling and is an invalid. An invalid knows everything. She hears everything and forgets nothing. Make your inquiries of her, it may lead to something—who knows?”

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” demanded Egg persistently.

Poirot twinkled.

“You insist that I, too, shall be active? Eh bien. It shall be as you wish. Only me, I shall not leave this place. I am very comfortable here. But I will tell you what I will do: I will give the party—the Sherry Party—that is fashionable, is it not?”

“A Sherry Party?”

“Précisément, and to it I will ask Mrs. Dacres, Captain Dacres, Miss Sutcliffe, Miss Wills, Mr. Manders and your charming mother, mademoiselle.”

“And me?”

“Naturally, and you. The present company is included.”

“Hurrah,” said Egg. “You can’t deceive me, M. Poirot. Something will happen at that party. It will, won’t it?”

“We shall see,” said Poirot. “But do not expect too much, mademoiselle. Now leave me with Sir Charles, for there are a few things about which I want to ask his advice.”

As Egg and Mr. Satterthwaite stood waiting for the lift, Egg said ecstatically:

“It’s lovely—just like detective stories. All the people will be there, and then he’ll tell us which of them did it.”

“I wonder,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.

II

The Sherry Party took place on Monday evening. The invitation had been accepted by all. The charming and indiscreet Miss Sutcliffe laughed mischievously as she glanced round.

“Quite the spider’s parlour, M. Poirot. And here all we poor little flies have walked in. I’m sure you’re going to give us the most marvellous résumé of the case and then suddenly you’ll point at me and say, ‘Thou art the woman,’ and everyone will say, ‘She done it,’ and I shall burst into tears and confess because I’m too terribly suggestible for words. Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so frightened of you.”

“Quelle histoire,” cried Poirot. He was busy with a decanter and glasses. He handed her a glass of sherry with a bow. “This is a friendly little party. Do not let us talk of murders and bloodshed and poison. Là, là! these things, they spoil the palate.”

He handed a glass to the grim Miss Milray, who had accompanied Sir Charles and was standing with a forbidding expression on her face.

“Voilà,” said Poirot as he finished dispensing hospitality. “Let us forget the occasion on which we first met. Let us have the party spirit. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Ah, malheur, I have again mentioned death. Madame,” he bowed to Mrs. Dacres, “may I be permitted to wish you good luck and congratulate you on your very charming gown.”

“Here’s to you, Egg,” said Sir Charles.

“Cheerio,” said Freddie Dacres.