Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

Still, there was probably one factor that he did not take into account, because he was unaware of it himself. That was the enhanced value placed by age on youth. To Mr. Satterthwaite, an elderly man, the fact that Egg might prefer a middle-aged man to a young one was frankly incredible. Youth was to him so much the most magical of all gifts.

He felt strengthened in his beliefs when Egg rang up after dinner and demanded permission to bring Oliver along and “have a consultation.”

Certainly a handsome lad, with his dark, heavy-lidded eyes and easy grace of movement. He had, it seemed, permitted himself to be brought—a tribute to Egg’s energy; but his general attitude was lazily sceptical.

“Can’t you talk her out of it, sir?” he said to Sir Charles. “It’s this appallingly healthy bucolic life she leads that makes her so energetic. You know, Egg, you really are detestably hearty. And your tastes are childish—crime—sensation—and all that bunk.”

“You’re a sceptic, Manders?”

“Well, sir, really. That dear old bleating fellow. It’s fantastic to think of anything else but natural causes.”

“I expect you’re right,” said Sir Charles.

Mr. Satterthwaite glanced at him. What part was Charles Cartwright playing tonight. Not the ex-Naval man—not the international detective. No, some new and unfamiliar rôle.

It came as a shock to Mr. Satterthwaite when he realized what that rôle was. Sir Charles was playing second fiddle. Second fiddle to Oliver Manders.

He sat back with his head in shadow watching those two, Egg and Oliver, as they disputed—Egg hotly, Oliver languidly.

Sir Charles looked older than usual—old and tired.

More than once Egg appealed to him—hotly and confidently—but his response was lacking.

It was eleven o’clock when they left. Sir Charles went out on the terrace with them and offered the loan of an electric torch to help them down the stony path.

But there was no need of a torch. It was a beautiful moonlit night. They set off together, their voices growing fainter as they descended.

Moonlight or no moonlight, Mr. Satterthwaite was not going to risk a chill. He returned to the Ship room. Sir Charles stayed out on the terrace a little while longer.

When he came in he latched the window behind him, and striding to a side table poured himself out a whisky and soda.

“Satterthwaite,” he said, “I’m leaving here tomorrow for good.”

“What?” cried Mr. Satterthwaite, astonished.

A kind of melancholy pleasure at the effect he had produced showed for a minute on Charles Cartwright’s face.

“It’s the Only Thing To Do,” he said, obviously speaking in capital letters. “I shall sell this place. What it has meant to me no one will ever know.” His voice dropped, lingeringly…effectively.

After an evening of second fiddle, Sir Charles’s egoism was taking its revenge. This was the great Renunciation Scene, so often played by him in sundry and divers dramas. Giving Up the Other Man’s Wife, Renouncing the Girl he Loved.

There was a brave flippancy in his voice as he went on.

“Cut your losses—it’s the only way…Youth to youth…They’re made for each other, those two…I shall clear out….”

“Where to?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

The actor made a careless gesture.

“Anywhere. What does it matter?” He added with a slight change of voice, “Probably Monte Carlo.” And then, retrieving what his sensitive taste could not but feel to be a slight anticlimax, “In the heart of the desert or the heart of the crowd—what does it matter? The inmost core of man is solitary—alone. I have always been—a lonely soul….”

It was clearly an exit line.

He nodded to Mr. Satterthwaite and left the room.

Mr. Satterthwaite got up and prepared to follow his host to bed.

“But it won’t be the heart of a desert,” he thought to himself with a slight chuckle.