Three Act Tragedy (Hercule Poirot 11) - Page 85
As they went away together Sir Charles said to Mr. Satterthwaite:
“That chap thinks a lot of himself.”
He spoke rather coldly.
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. The star part! So that was it. He said:
“What did you mean by saying you had other fish to fry, Sir Charles?”
On Sir Charles’s face appeared the sheepish expression that Mr. Satterthwaite knew so well from attending weddings in Hanover Square.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I—er—well, Egg and I—”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “My best congratulations.”
“Of course I’m years too old for her.”
“She doesn’t think so—and she’s the best judge.”
“That’s very nice of you, Satterthwaite. You know, I’d got it into my head she was fond of young Manders.”
“I wonder what made you think that,” said Mr. Satterthwaite innocently.
“Anyway,” said Sir Charles firmly, “she isn’t….”
Fourteen
MISS MILRAY
Poirot did not have quite the uninterrupted twenty-four hours for which he had stipulated.
At twenty minutes past eleven on the following morning Egg walked in unannounced. To her amazement she found the great detective engaged in building card houses. Her face showed such lively scorn that Poirot was impelled to defend himself.
“It is not, mademoiselle, that I have become childish in my old age. No. But the building of card houses, I have always found it most stimulating to the mind. It is an old habit of mine. This morning, first thing, I go out and buy the pack of cards. Unfortunately I make an error, they are not real cards. But they do just as well.”
Egg looked more closely at the erection on the table.
She laughed.
“Good heavens, they’ve sold you Happy Families.”
“What is that you say, the Happy Family?”
“Yes, it’s a game. Children play it in the nursery.”
“Ah, well, one can compose the houses just in the same manner.”
Egg had picked up some of the cards from the table and was looking at them affectionately.
“Master Bun, the baker’s son—I always loved him. And here’s Mrs. Mug, the milkman’s wife. Oh, dear, I suppose that’s me.”
“Why is that funny picture you, mademoiselle?”
“Because of the name.”
Egg laughed at his bewildered face and then began explaining. When she had finished he said:
“Ah, it was that that Sir Charles meant last night. I wondered…Mugg—ah, yes, one says in slang, does one not, you are a mug—a fool? Naturally you would change your name. You would not like to be the Lady Mugg, eh?”
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