Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11)

“Well—” Sir Charles sat down on the bed. His brow furrowed itself in thought. “How can I put it best? At the moment we know something that nobody else does. The police are looking for Ellis. They think he’s the murderer. Everyone knows that they think he’s the murderer. So the real criminal must be feeling pretty good. He (or she) will be not exactly off his or her guard, but feeling—well, comfortable. Isn’t it a pity to upset that state of things? Isn’t that just our chance? I mean our chance of finding a connection between Babbington and one of these people. They don’t know that anyone has connected this death with Babbington’s death. They’ll be unsuspicious. It’s a chance in a hundred.”

“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “And I agree with you. It is a chance. But, all the same, I don’t think we can take it. It is our duty as citizens to report this discovery of ours to the police at once. We have no right to withhold it from them.”

Sir Charles looked at him quizzically.

“You’re the pattern of a good citizen, Satterthwaite. I’ve no doubt the orthodox thing must be done—but I’m not nearly such a good citizen as you are. I should have no scruples in keeping this find to myself for a day or two—only a day or two—eh? No? Well, I give in. Let us be pillars of law and order.”

“You see,” explained Mr. Satterthwaite, “Johnson is a friend of mine, and he was very decent about it all—let us into all the police were doing—gave us full information, and all that.”

“Oh, you’re right,” sighed Sir Charles. “Quite right. Only, after all, no one but me thought of looking under that gas stove. The idea never occurred to one of those thickheaded policemen…But have it your own way. I say, Satterthwaite, where do you think Ellis is now?”

“I presume,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that he got what he wanted. He was paid to disappear, and he did disappear—most effectually.”

“Yes,” said Sir Charles. “I suppose that is the explanation.”

He gave a slight shiver.

“I don’t like this room, Satterthwaite. Come out of it.”

Seven

PLAN OF CAMPAIGN

Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite arrived back in London the following evening.

The interview with Colonel Johnson had had to be very tactfully conducted. Superintendent Crossfield had not been too pleased that mere “gentlemen” should have found what he and his assistants had missed. He was at some pains to save his face.

“Very creditable, indeed, sir. I confess I never thought of looking under the gas fire. As a matter of fact, it beats me what set you looking there.”

The two men had not gone into a detailed account of how theorizing from an inkblot had led to the discovery. “Just nosing around,” was how Sir Charles had put it.

“Still, look you did,” continued the Superintendent, “and were justified. Not that what you’ve found is much surprise to me. You see, it stands to reason that if Ellis wasn’t the murderer, he must have disappeared for some reason or other, and it’s been in the back of my mind all along that blackmail might have been his line of business.”

One thing did arise from their discovery. Colonel Johnson was going to communicate with the Loomouth police. The death of Stephen Babbington ought certainly to be investigated.

“And if they find he died from nicotine poisoning, even Crossfield will admit the two deaths are connected,” said Sir Charles when they were speeding towards London.

He was still a little disgruntled at having had to hand over his discovery to the police.

Mr. Satterthwaite had soothed him by pointing out that the information was not to be made public or given to the press.

“The guilty person will have no misgivings. The search for Ellis will still be continued.”

Sir Charles admitted that that was true.

On arrival in London, he explained to Mr. Satterthwaite, he proposed to get in touch with Egg Lytton Gore. Her letter had been written from an address in Belgrave Square. He hoped that she might still be there.

Mr. Satterthwaite gravely approved this course. He himself was anxious to see Egg. It was arranged that Sir Charles should ring her up as soon as they reached London.

Egg proved to be still in town. She and her mother were staying with relatives and were not returning to Loomouth for about a week. Egg was easily prevailed upon to come out and dine with the two men.

“She can’t come here very well, I suppose,” said Sir Charles, looking round his luxurious flat. “Her mother mightn’t like it, eh? Of course we could have Miss Milray, too—but I’d rather not. To tell the truth, Miss Milray cramps my style a bit. She’s so efficient that she gives me an inferiority complex.”

Mr. Satterthwaite suggested his house. In the end it was arranged to dine at the Berkeley. Afterwards, if Egg liked, they could adjourn elsewhere.

Mr. Satterthwaite noticed at once that the girl was looking thinner. Her eyes seemed larger and more feverish, her chin more decided. She was pale and had circles under her eyes. But her charm was as great as ever, her childish eagerness just as intense.

She said to Sir Charles, “I knew you’d come….”