Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11) - Page 18
“Let’s get today’s Continental Daily Mail,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “There might be something in that.”
Sir Charles glanced over the paper. Suddenly he stiffened.
“My God, Satterthwaite, listen to this:
“SIR BARTHOLOMEW STRANGE.
“At the inquest today on the late Sir Bartholomew Strange, a verdict of Death by Nicotin
e Poisoning was returned, there being no evidence to show how or by whom the poison was administered.”
He frowned.
“Nicotine poisoning. Sounds mild enough—not the sort of thing to make a man fall down in a fit. I don’t understand all this.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Do? I’m going to book a berth on the Blue Train tonight.”
“Well,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “I might as well do the same.”
“You?” Sir Charles wheeled round on him, surprised.
“This sort of thing is rather in my line,” said Mr. Satterthwaite modestly. “I’ve—er—had a little experience. Besides, I know the Chief Constable in that part of the world rather well—Colonel Johnson. That will come in useful.”
“Good man,” cried Sir Charles. “Let’s go round to the Wagon Lits offices.”
Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:
“The girl’s done it. She’s got him back. She said she would. I wonder just exactly how much of her letter was genuine.”
Decidedly, Egg Lytton Gore was an opportunist.
When Sir Charles had gone off to the Wagon Lits offices, Mr. Satterthwaite strolled slowly through the gardens. His mind was still pleasantly engaged with the problem of Egg Lytton Gore. He admired her resource and her driving power, and stifled that slightly Victorian side of his nature which disapproved of a member of the fairer sex taking the initiative in affairs of the heart.
Mr. Satterthwaite was an observant man. In the midst of his cogitations on the female sex in general, and Egg Lytton Gore in particular, he was unable to resist saying to himself:
“Now where have I seen that particular shaped head before?”
The owner of the head was sitting on a seat gazing thoughtfully ahead of him. He was a little man whose moustaches were out of proportion to his size.
A discontented-looking English child was standing nearby, standing first on one foot, then the other, and occasionally meditatively kicking the lobelia edging.
“Don’t do that, darling,” said her mother, who was absorbed in a fashion paper.
“I haven’t anything to do,” said the child.
The little man turned his head to look at her, and Mr. Satterthwaite recognized him.
“M. Poirot,” he said. “This is a very pleasant surprise.” M. Poirot rose and bowed.
“Enchanté, monsieur.”
They shook hands, and Mr. Satterthwaite sat down.
“Everyone seems to be in Monte Carlo. Not half an hour ago I ran across Sir Charles Cartwright, and now you.”
“Sir Charles, he also is here?”
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