Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

Egg laughed. She said:

“Well, wish me happiness.”

“I do wish you happiness, mademoiselle. Not the brief happiness of youth, but the happiness that endures—the happiness that is built upon a rock.”

“I’ll tell Charles you call him a rock,” said Egg. “And now for what I came to see you about. I’ve been worrying and worrying about that cutting from the paper that Oliver dropped from his wallet. You know, the one Miss Wills picked up and handed back to him. It seems to me that either Oliver is telling a downright lie when he says he doesn’t remember its being there, or else it never was there. He dropped some odd bit of paper, and that woman pretended it was the nicotine cutting.”

“Why should she have done that, mademoiselle?”

“Because she wanted to get rid of it. She planted it on Oliver.”

“You mean she is the criminal?”

“Yes.”

“What was her motive?”

“It’s no good asking me that. I can only suggest that she’s a lunatic. Clever people often are rather mad. I can’t see any other reason—in fact I can’t see any motive anywhere.”

“Decidedly, that is the impasse. I should not ask you to guess at a motive. It is of myself that I ask that question without ceasing. What was the motive behind Mr. Babbington’s death? When I can answer that the case will be solved.”

“You don’t think just madness—?” suggested Egg.

“No, mademoiselle—not madness in the sense you mean. There is a reason. I must find that reason.”

“Well, good-bye,” said Egg. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but the idea just occurred to me. I must hurry. I’m going with Charles to the dress rehearsal of Little Dog Laughed—you know, the play Miss Wills has written for Angela Sutcliffe. It’s the first night tomorrow.”

“Mon dieu!” cried Poirot.

“What is it? Has anything happened?”

“Yes, indeed something has happened. An idea. A superb idea. Oh, but I have been blind—blind—”

Egg stared at him. As though realizing his eccentricity, Poirot took a hold on himself. He patted Egg on the shoulder.

“You think I am mad. Not at all. I heard what you said. You go to see The Little Dog Laughed, and Miss Sutcliffe acts in it. Go then, and pay no attention to what I have said.”

Rather doubtfully Egg departed. Left to himself, Poirot strode up and down the room muttering under his breath. His eyes shone green as any cat’s.

“Mais oui—that explains everything. A curious motive—a very curious motive—such a motive as I have never come across before, and yet it is reasonable, and, given the circumstances, natural. Altogether a very curious case.”

He passed the table where his card house still reposed. With a sweep of his hands he swept the cards from the table.

“The happy family, I need it no longer,” he said. “The problem is solved. It only remains to act.”

He caught up his hat and put on his overcoat. Then he went downstairs and the commissionaire called him a taxi. Poirot gave the address of Sir Charles’s flat.

Arrived there, he paid off the taxi, and stepped into the hall. The porter was absent taking up the lift. Poirot walked up the stairs. Just as he arrived on the second floor the door of Sir Charles’s flat opened and Miss Milray came out.

She started when she saw Poirot.

“You!”

Poirot smiled.

“Me! Or is it I? Enfin, moi!”

Miss Milray said: