Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“Yes, she was there. She told you about it?”

“She did. She was very set on her theory. But, you know, Sir Charles, I can’t believe there’s anything in that theory. It doesn’t explain the flight of the butler. Your man didn’t disappear by any chance?”

“Haven’t got a man—only a parlourmaid.”

“She couldn’t have been a man in disguise?”

Thinking of the smart and obviously feminine Temple, Sir Charles smiled.

Colonel Johnson also smiled apologetically.

“Just an idea,” he said. “No, I can’t say I put much reliance in Miss Lytton Gore’s theory. I understand the death in question was an elderly clergyman. Who would want to put an old clergyman out of the way?”

“That’s just the puzzling part of it,” said Sir Charles.

“I think you’ll find it’s just coincidence. Depend on it, the butler’s our man. Very likely he’s a regular criminal. Unluckily we can’t find any of his fingerp

rints. We had a fingerprint expert go over his bedroom and the butler’s pantry, but he had no luck.”

“If it was the butler, what motive can you suggest?”

“That, of course, is one of our difficulties,” admitted Colonel Johnson. “The man might have been there with intent to steal, and Sir Bartholomew might have caught him out.”

Both Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite remained courteously silent. Colonel Johnson himself seemed to feel that the suggestion lacked plausibility.

“The fact of the matter is, one can only theorize. Once we’ve got John Ellis under lock and key and have found out who he is, and whether he’s ever been through our hands before—well, the motive may be as clear as day.”

“You’ve been through Sir Bartholomew’s papers, I suppose?”

“Naturally, Sir Charles. We’ve given that side of the case every attention. I must introduce you to Superintendent Crossfield, who has charge of the case. A most reliable man. I pointed out to him, and he was quick to agree with me, that Sir Bartholomew’s profession might have had something to do with the crime. A doctor knows many professional secrets. Sir Bartholomew’s papers were all neatly filed and docketed—his secretary, Miss Lyndon, went through them with Crossfield.”

“And there was nothing?”

“Nothing at all suggestive, Sir Charles.”

“Was anything missing from the house—silver, jewellery, anything like that?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“Who exactly was staying in the house?”

“I’ve got a list—now where is it? Ah, I think Crossfield has it. You must meet Crossfield; as a matter of fact, I’m expecting him any minute now to report”—as a bell went—“that’s probably the man now.”

Superintendent Crossfield was a large, solid-looking man, rather slow of speech, but with a fairly keen blue eye.

He saluted his superior officer, and was introduced to the two visitors.

It is possible that had Mr. Satterthwaite been alone he would have found it hard to make Crossfield unbend. Crossfield didn’t hold with gentlemen from London—amateurs coming down with “ideas.” Sir Charles, however, was a different matter. Superintendent Crossfield had a childish reverence for the glamour of the stage. He had twice seen Sir Charles act, and the excitement and rapture of seeing this hero of the footlights in a flesh-and-blood manner made him as friendly and loquacious as could be wished.

“I saw you in London, sir, I did. I was up with the wife. Lord Aintree’s Dilemma—that’s what the play was. In the pit, I was—and the house was crowded out—we had to stand two hours beforehand. But nothing else would do for the wife. ‘I must see Sir Charles Cartwright in Lord Aintree’s Dilemma,’ she said. At the Pall Mall Theatre, it was.”

“Well,” said Sir Charles, “I’ve retired from the stage now, as you know. But they still know my name at the Pall Mall.” He took out a card and wrote a few words on it. “You give this to the people at the box office next time you and Mrs. Crossfield are having a jaunt to town, and they’ll give you a couple of the best seats going.”

“I take that very kindly of you, Sir Charles—very kindly, indeed. My wife will be all worked up when I tell her about this.”

After this Superintendent Crossfield was as wax in the exactor’s hands.

“It’s an odd case, sir. Never come across a case of nicotine poisoning before in all my experience. No more has our Doctor Davis.”