First Act
Suspicion
One
mr. satterthwaite sat on the terrace of
Crow's Nest and watched his host. Sir
Charles Cartwright, climbing up the path
from the sea. Crow's Nest was a modern
bungalow of the better type. It had no half
timbering, no gables, no excrescences dear to
many a builder's heart. It was a plain, white, solid building, deceptive as to size, since it was a good deal bigger than it looked. It
owed its name to its position, high up, overlooking
the harbor of Loomouth. Indeed, from one corner of the terrace, protected by a strong balustrade, there was a sheer drop
to the sea below. By road. Crow's Nest was a
mile from the town. The road ran inland and
fr
j then zigzagged high up above the sea. On
{ foot it was accessible in seven minutes by the
steep fisherman's path that Sir Charles
Cartwright was ascending at this minute.
Sir Charles was a well-built, sunburned
nan of middle age. He wore old, gray-flannel
rousers and a white sweater. He had a >lightly rolling gait, and carried his hands half closed as he walked. Nine people out of
Len would say, "Retired naval man, can't
mistake the type." The tenth and more discerning
would have hesitated, puzzled by
something indefinable that did not ring true.
And then perhaps a picture would rise
unsought--the deck of a ship, but not a real
ship--a ship curtailed by hanging curtains
of thick, rich material--a man, Charles
Cartwright, standing on that deck, light that
was not sunlight streaming down on him, the hands half clenched, the easy gait and a voice--the easy, pleasant voice of an English
sailor and gentleman--a great deal magnified
in tone.
"No, sir," Charles Cartwright was saying, "I'm afraid I can't give you any answer to that question."
And swish fell the heavy curtains, up
sprang the lights, an orchestra plunged into
the latest syncopated measure, girls with exaggerated
bows in their hair said, "Chocolates?
Lemonade?" The first act of The Call
of the Sea, with Charles Cartwright as Corn^
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From his post of vantage, looking down, | Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. A dried-up little pipkin of a man, Mr.
Satterthwaite, a patron of art and the drama, a determined but pleasant snob, always included in the more important house parties
and social functions--the words "and Mr.
Satterthwaite" appeared invariably at the tail
of a list of guests. Withal, a man of consider Iable intelligence and a very shrewd observer of people and things.
He murmured now, shaking his head, "I
wouldn't have thought it. No, really, I
wouldn't have thought it."
A step sounded on the terrace, and he
turned his head. The big, gray-haired man
who drew a chair forward and sat down had
his profession clearly stamped on his keen, kindly, middle-aged face. "Doctor" and
"Harley Street." Sir Bartholomew Strange
had succeeded in his profession. He was a
well-known specialist in nervous disorders
and had recently received a knighthood in
the birthday-honors list.
<He drew his chair forward beside that of
Mr. Satterthwaite and said: "What wouldn't
you have thought, eh? Let's have it."
With a smile, Mr. Satterthwaite drew at
tention to the figure below, rapidly ascending
the path.
"I shouldn't have thought Sir Charles
would have remained contented so long in-er--exile."
"By Jove, no more should I!" The other
laughed, throwing back his head. "I've
known Charles since he was a boy. We were
at Oxford together. He's always been the
same--a better actor in private life than on
the stage' Charles is always acting. He can't
help it; it's second nature to him. Charles
doesn't go out of a room; he "makes an exit,'
and he usually has to have a good line to
make it on. All the same, he likes a change
of part--none better. Two years ago he retired
from the stage--said he wanted to live
a simple country life, out of the world, and
indulge his old fancy for the sea. He comes
down here and builds this place. His idea of
a simple country cottage. Three bathrooms
and all the latest gadgets! I was like you, Satterthwaite. I didn't think it would last. After all, Charles is human; he needs his
audience. Two or three retired captains, a
bunch of old women and a parson--that's
not much of a house to play to. I thought
the 'simple fellow with his love of the sea' xi7^,,i/i >>,,,, f^y ^ rnnnrhs. Then, frankly, I thought he'd tire of the part. I thought the
next thing to fill the bill would be the weary
man of the world at Monte Carlo, or possibly
a laird in the highlands--he's versatile, Charles is." The doctor stopped. It had been a long
speech. His eyes were full of affection and
amusement as he watched the man below. In
a couple of minutes he would be with them.
"However," Sir Bartholomew went on, "it
seems we were wrong. The attraction of the
simple life holds."
"A man who dramatizes himself is sometimes
misjudged," pointed out Mr. Satterthwaite.
"One does not take his sincerities
seriously."
The doctor nodded.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "that's true." With a cheerful hallo, Charles Cartwright
ran up the steps onto the terrace.
"Mirabelle surpassed herself," he said.
"You ought to have come, Satterthwaite."
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. He had
suffered too often crossing the Channel to
have any illusions about the strength of his
stomach afloat. He had observed the
Mirabelle from his bedroom window that
morning. There had been a stiff sailing
breeze, and Mr. Satterthwaite had thanked
heaven devoutly for dry land.
Sir Charles called for drinks.
"You ought to have come, Tollie," he said
to his friend. "Don't you spend half your life
sitting in Harley Street telling your patients
how good a life on the ocean wave would be
for them?"
"The great merit of being a doctor," said
Sir Bartholomew, "is that you are not obliged
to follow your own advice."
Sir Charles laughed. He was still unconsciously
playing his part--the bluff, breezy, naval man. He was an extraordinarily goodlooking man, beautifully proportioned, with
a lean, humorous face, and the touch of gray
at his temples gave him a kind of added
distinction. He looked like what he was--a
gentleman first and an actor second.
"Did you go alone?" asked the doctor.
"No"--Sir Charles turned to take his drink
from a smart parlor maid who was holding a
tray--"I had a hand. The girl Egga to be
exact."
There was something--some faint trace of
self-consciousness--in his voice which made
Mr. Satterthwaite look up sharply.
"Miss Lytton Gore? She knows something
aKnnt coiling doesn't she?"
Sir Charles laughed rather ruefully.
"She succeeds in making me feel a complete
landlubber, but I'm coming on, thanks
to her."
Thoughts slipped quickly in and out of
Mr. Satterthwaite's mind:
"I wonder . . . Egg Lytton Gore. . . .
Perhaps that's why he hasn't tired of the
place. She's very attractive."
Sir Charles went on, "The sea--there's
nothing like it. Sun and wind and sea, and a
simple shanty to come home to."
And he looked with pleasure at the white
building behind him, equipped with three
bathrooms, hot and cold water in all the
bedrooms, the latest system of central heating,
the newest electrical fittings and a staff
of parlor maid, housemaid, chef, and kitchen
maid. Sir Charles' interpretation of simple
living was, perhaps, a trifle exaggerated.
A tall and exceedingly ugly woman issued
from the house and bore down upon them.
"Good morning. Miss Milray."
"Good morning. Sir Charles. Good moming."
A slight inclination of the head toward
the other two. "This is the menu for dinner.
I don't know whether you would like it altered
in any way."
Sir Charles took it and murmured:
"Let's see. Melon cantaloupe, borsch soup, fresh mackerel, grouse, souffle Surprise, canape Diane. . . . No, I think that will do
excellently. Miss Milray. Everyone is coming
by the 4:30 train."
"I have already given Holgate his orders.
By the way. Sir Charles, if you will excuse
me, it would be better if I dined with you
tonight."
Sir Charles looked startled, but said courteously:
"Delighted, I am sure. Miss Milray, but-er?>>
Miss Milray proceeded calmly to explain:
"Otherwise, Sir Charles, it would make thirteen
at table. And so many people are superstitious."
From her tone, it could be gathered that
Miss Milray would have sat down thirteen to
dinner every night of her life without the
slightest qualm. She went on:
"I think everything is arranged. I have
told Holgate that the car is to fetch Lady
Mary and the Babbingtons. Is that right?"
"Absolutely. Just what I was going to ask
you to do."
With a slight, superior smile on her rugged
countenance. Miss Milray withdrew.
T'l-iat ?? coirl ^ir r^1-iar1f>><: r^-wrpntlv. "is a very remarkable woman. I'm always afraid
she'll come and brush my teeth for me."
"Efficiency personified," said Strange.
"She's been with me for six years," said
Sir Charles. "First as my secretary in London,
and here, I suppose, she's a kind of
glorified housekeeper. Runs this place like
clockwork. And now, if you please, she's
going to leave."
"Why?"
"She says"--Sir Charles rubbed his nose
dubiously--"she says she's got an invalid
mother. Personally, I don't believe it. That
kind of woman never had a mother at all.
Spontaneously generated from a dynamo. No, there's something else."
"Quite probably," said Sir Bartholomew, "people have been talking."
"Talking?" The actor stared. "Talking
what about?"
"My dear Charles, you know what talking
means."
"You mean talking about her--and me?
With that face? And at her age?"
"She's probably under fifty."
"I suppose she is." Sir Charles considered
the matter. "But seriously, Tollie, have you
noticed her face? It's got two eyes, a nose
and a mouth, but it's not what you would
call a face--not a female face. The most
scandal-loving cat in the neighborhood
couldn't seriously connect scandal with a face
like that."
"You underrate the imagination of the
British spinster."
Sir Charles shook his head.
"I don't believe it. There's a kind of hideous
respectability about Miss Milray that
even a British spinster must recognize. She is
virtue and respectability personified, and a
useful woman. I always choose my secretaries
plain as sin."
"Wise man."
Sir Charles remained deep in thought for
some minutes. To distract him. Sir Bartholomew
asked:
"Who's coming this afternoon?"
"Angle, for one."
"Angela Sutcliffe? That's good."
Mr. Satterthwaite leaned forward interestediy,
keen to know the composition of the
house party. Angela Sutcliffe was a wellknown
actress, no longer young, but with a
strong hold on the public, and celebrated for
her wit and charm. She was sometimes spoken
of as Ellen Terry's successor.
"Then there are the Dacres."
Ao-niti \j{v Q'ai-1-^rtl-iwQit^ nnddpd to him
self. Mrs. Dacres was Ambrosine, Ltd.-that successful dressmaking establishment. You saw it on programs: "Miss Blank's
dresses in first act by Ambrosine, Ltd., Bruton Street." Her husband. Captain Dacres, was a dark horse, in his own racing
parlance. He spent a lot of time on race
courses--had ridden himself in the Grand
National in years gone by. There had been
some trouble--nobody knew exactly what, though rumors had been spread about. There had been no inquiry, nothing overt, but, somehow, at mention of Freddie Dacres people's eyebrows went up a little.
"Then there's Anthony Astor, the playwright."
"Of course," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "she
wrote One-Way Traffic. I saw it twice. It
made a great hit."
He rather enjoyed showing that he knew
that Anthony Astor was a woman.
"That's right," said Sir Charles. "I forget
what her real name is--Wills, I think. I've only met her once. I asked her to please Angela. That's the lot--of the house party, I
mean."
"And the locals?" asked the doctor.
"Oh, the locals! Well, there are the
Babbingtons; he's the parson; quite a good
fellow, not too parsonical, and his wife's a
really nice woman. Lectures me on gardening.
They're coming--and Lady Mary and
Egg. That's all. ... Oh, yes, there's a young
fellow called Manders; he's a journalist, or
something. Good-looking young fellow. That
completes the party."
Mr. Satterthwaite was a man of methodical
nature. He counted heads.
"Miss Sutcliffe, one; the Dacres, three;
Anthony Astor, four; Lady Mary and her
daughter, six; the parson and his wife, eight;
the young fellow, nine; ourselves, twelve.
Either you or Miss Milray must have counted
wrong. Sir Charles."
"It couldn't be Miss Milray," said Sir
Charles, with assurance; "that woman's never
wrong. Let me see. Yes, by Jove, you're
right. I have missed out one guest. He'd
slipped my memory." He chuckled.
"Wouldn't be best pleased at that either.
The fellow is the most conceited little devil I
ever met."
Mr. Satterthwaite's eyes twinkled. He had
always been of the opinion that the vainest
men in creation were actors. He did not
exempt Sir Charles Cartwright. This instance
of the pot calling the kettle black amused
him
"Who is the egoist?" he asked.
"Rum little beggar," said Sir Charles.
"Rather a celebrated little beggar though.
You may have heard of him. Hercule Poirot.
He's a Belgian."
"The detective," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I have met him. Rather a remarkable personage."
"He's a character," said Sir Charles.
"I've never met him," said Sir
Bartholomew, "but I've heard a good deal
about him. He retired some time ago, though, didn't he? Probably most of what I've heard is legend. Well, Charles, I hope we shan't
have a crime this weekend."
"Why? Because we've got a detective in
the house? Rather putting the cart before the
horse, aren't you, Tollie?"
"Well, it's by way of being a theory of
mine."
"WTiat is your theory, doctor?" asked Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"That events come to people, not people
to events. Why do some people have exciting
lives and other people dull ones? Because of
their surroundings? Not at all. One man may
travel to the ends of the earth and nothing
will happen to him. There will be a massacre
a week before he arrives, and an earthquake
the day after he leaves, and the boat that he
nearly took will be shipwrecked. And another
man may live at Balham and travel to
the City every day, and things will happen to
him. He will be mixed up with blackmailing
gangs and beautiful girls and motor bandits.
There are people with a tendency to shipwrecks--even
if they go on a boat on an
ornamental lake, something will happen to
it. In the same way, men like your Hercule
Poirot don't have to look for crime; it comes
to them."
"In that case," said Mr. Satterthwaite,
"perhaps it is as well that Miss Milray is
joining us and that we are not sitting down
thirteen to dinner."
"Well," said Sir Charles handsomely, "you
can have your murder, Tollie, if you're so
keen on it. I make only one stipulation--that
I shan't be the corpse."
And, laughing, the three men went into
the house.
Two
Murder in Three Acts
the principal interest of Mr. Satterthwaite's
life was people. He was, on the whole, more
interested in women than in men. For a
manly man, Mr. Satterthwaite knew far too
much about women. There was a womanish
strain in his character which lent him insight
into the feminine mind. Women all his life
had confided in him, but they had never
taken him seriously. Sometimes he felt a little
bitter about this. He was, he felt, always
in the stalls watching the play, never on the
stage taking part in the drama. But, in truth, the role of onlooker suited him very well. This evening, sitting in the large room
giving onto the terrace, cleverly decorated by
a modem firm to resemble a ship's cabin de
luxe, he was principally interested in the exact
shade of hair dye attained by -Cynthia
Dacres. It was an entirely new tone--straight
from Paris, he suspected--a curious and
rather pleasing effect of greenish bronze.
What Mrs. Dacres really looked like, it was
impossible to tell. She was a tall woman, with a figure perfectly disciplined to the demands of the moment. Her neck and arms
were her usual shade of summer tan for the
country; whether naturally or artificially produced
it was impossible to tell. The greenishbronze
hair was set in a clever and novel
style that only London's best hairdresser
could achieve. Her plucked eyebrows, darkened
lashes, exquisitely made-up face, and
mouth lipsticked to a curve that its naturally
straight lines did not possess, seemed all adjuncts
to the perfection of her evening gown
of a deep and unusual blue, cut very simply, it seemed--though this was ludicrously far from the case--and of an unusual material-dull, but with hidden lights in it.
"That's a clever woman," said Mr.
Satterthwaite, eyeing her with approval. "I
wonder what she's really like."
But this time he meant in mind, not in
body.
Her words came drawlingly, in the mode
of the moment:
"My dear, it wasn't possible. I mean, things either are possible or they're not. This wasn't. It was simply penetrating."
That was the new word just now--everything
was "penetrating."
Sir Charles was vigorously shaking cocktails
and talking to Angela Sutcliffe, a tall, gray-haired woman with a mischievous mouth and fine eyes.
Dacres was talking to Bartholomew
Strange:
"Everyone knows what's wrong with old
Ladisboume. The whole stable knows."
He spoke in a high, clipped voice--a little, red, foxy man with a short mustache and slightly shifty eyes.
Beside Mr. Satterthwaite sat Miss Wills, whose play, One-Way Traffic, had been acclaimed as one of the most witty and daring
seen in London for some years. Miss Wills
was tall and thin, with a receding chin and
very badly waved, fair hair. She wore pincenez
and was dressed in exceedingly limp
green chiffon. Her voice was high and undistinguished.
"I went to the South of France," she said.
"But, really, I didn't enjoy it very much.
Not friendly at all. But, of course, it's useful
to me in my work--to see all the goings-on, you know." Mr. Satterthwaite thought: "Poor soul. Cut
off by success from her spiritual home--a
boarding house in Bournemouth. That's
where she'd like to be." He marveled at the
difference between written works and their
authors. That cultivated man-ofthe-world
tone that Anthony Astor imparted to his
plays--what faintest spark of it could be perceived
in Miss Wills? Then he noticed that
the pale-blue eyes behind the pince-nez were
singularly intelligent. They were turned on
him now with an appraising look that slightly
disconcerted him. It was as though Miss Wills
were painstakingly learning him by heart.
Sir Charles was just pouring out the cocktails.
"Let me get you a cocktail," said Mr.
Satterthwaite, springing up.
Miss Wills giggled.
"I don't mind if I do," she said.
The door opened and Temple announced
Lady Mary Lytton Gore and Mr. and Mrs.
Babbington and Miss Lytton Gore.
Mr. Satterthwaite supplied Miss Wills with
her cocktail and then sidled into the neighborhood
of Lady Mary Lytton Gore. He had
a weakness for titles.
Also, apart from snobbishness, he liked a
gentlewoman, and that Lady Mary most undeniably
was.
t p-ft as a widow very badly off, with a
child of three, she had come to Loomouth
and taken a small cottage, where she had
lived with one devoted maid ever since. She
was a tall, thin woman, looking older than
her fifty-five years. Her expression was sweet
and rather timid. She adored her daughter, but was a little alarmed by her. Hermione Lytton Gore, usually known for
some obscure reason as Egg, bore little resemblance
to her mother. She was of a more
energetic type. She was not, Mr. Satterthwaite
decided, beautiful, but she was
undeniably attractive. And the cause of that
attraction, he thought, lay in her abounding
vitality. She seemed twice as alive as anyone
in that room. She had dark hair and gray
eyes, and was of medium height. It was
something in the way the hair curled crisply
in her neck, in the straight glance of the gray
eyes, in the curve of the cheek, in the infectious
laugh that gave one that impression of
riotous youth and vitality.
She stood talking to Oliver Manders, who
had just arrived.
"I can't think why sailing bores you so
much. You used to like it."
"Egg, my dear, one grows up."
He drawled the words, raising his eyebrows.
"That's the playwright, Anthony Astor."
"What? That--that anaemic-looking young
woman? Oh"--she caught herself up--"how
dreadful of me! But it was a surprise. She
doesn't look--I mean she looks exactly like
an inefficient nursery governess."
It was such an apt description of Miss
Wills's appearance that Mr. Satterthwaite
laughed. Mr. Babbington was peering across
the room with amiable shortsighted eyes. He
took a sip of his cocktail and choked a little.
He was unused to cocktails, thought Mr.
Satterthwaite amusedly; probably they represented
modernity to his mind, but he didn't
like them. Mr. Babbington took another determined
mouthful with a slightly wry face
and said:
"Is it the lady over there? . . . Oh, dear--" His hand went to his throat. Egg Lytton Gore's voice rang out, "Oliver,
you slippery Shylock--"
"Of course," thought Mr. Satterthwaite, "that's it--not foreign--he's Jewish!" What a handsome pair they made. Both so
young and good-looking, and quarreling too.
Always a healthy sign.
He was distracted by a sound at his side.
Mr Rahhmeton had risen to his feet and
was swaying to and fro. His face was convulsed.
It was Egg's clear voice that drew the
attention of the room, though Lady Mary
had risen and stretched out an anxious hand.
"Look," said Egg's voice. "Mr. Babbington
is ill."
Sir Bartholomew Strange came forward
hurriedly, supporting the stricken man and
half lifting him to a couch at one side of the
room. The others crowded round, anxious to
help, but impotent.
Two minutes later. Strange straightened
himself and shook his head. He spoke
bluntly, aware that it was no use to beat
about the bush.
"I'm sorry," he said. "He's dead."
Three
"come in here a minute, Satterthwaite, will
you?"
Sir Charles poked his head out of the door.
An hour and a half had passed. To confusion
had succeeded peace. Lady Mary had
led the weeping Mrs. Babbington out of the
room and had finally gone home with her to
the vicarage. Miss Milray had been efficient
with the telephone. The local doctor had
arrived and taken charge. A simplified dinner
had been served, and by mutual consent
the house party had retired to their rooms
after it. Mr. Satterthwaite had been making
his own retreat when Sir Charles had called
to him from the door of the ship room, where the death had taken place. Mr. Satterthwaite passed in, repressing a
slight shiver as he did so. He was old enough
not to like the sight of death. For soon, nprbans. he himself--But why think of that?
"I'm good for another twenty years," said
Mr. Satterthwaite robustly to himself.
The only other occupant of the ship room
was Bartholomew Strange. He nodded approval
at the sight of Mr. Satterthwaite.
"Good man," he said. "We can do with
Satterthwaite. He knows life."
A little surprised, Mr. Satterthwaite sat
down in an armchair near the doctor. Sir
Charles was pacing up and down. He had
forgotten the semi-clenching of his hands and
looked definitely less naval.
"Charles doesn't like it," said Sir
Bartholomew. "Poor old Babbington's death, I mean." Mr. Satterthwaite thought the sentiment
ill expressed. Surely nobody could be expected
to "like" what had occurred. He realized
that Strange had quite another meaning
from the bald one the words conveyed.
"It was very distressing," said Mr. Satterthwaite, cautiously feeling his way.
"Very distressing indeed," he added, with a
reminiscent shiver.
"H'm--yes, it was rather painful," said
the physician, the professional accent creeping
for a moment into his voice.
Cartwright paused in his pacing.
"Ever see anyone die quite like that before,
Tome?"
"No," said Sir Bartholomew thoughtfully.
"I can't say that I have. But," he added in a
moment or two, "I haven't really seen as
many deaths as you might suppose. A nerve
specialist doesn't kill off many of his patients.
He keeps 'em alive and makes his
income out of them. MacDougal has seen far
more deceases than I have, I don't doubt."
Doctor MacDougal was the principal doctor
in Loomouth, whom Miss Milray had
summoned.
"MacDougal didn't see this man die. He
was dead when he arrived. There was only
what we could tell him, what you could tell
him. He said it was some kind of seizure;
said Babbington was elderly and his health
was none too good. That doesn't satisfy me."
"Probably didn't satisfy him," grunted the
other. "But a doctor has to say something. 'Seizure' is a good word--means nothing at all, but satisfies the lay mind. And, after all, Babbington was elderly, and his health had been giving him trouble lately; his wife told
us so. There may have been some unsuspected
weakness somewhere."
"Was that a typical fit or seizure, or whatever
you call it?"
"Typical of what?"
"Of any known disease."
"If you'd ever studied medicine," said Sir
Bartholomew, "you'd know that there is
hardly any such thing as a typical case."
"What, precisely, are you suggesting. Sir
Charles?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
Cartwright did not answer. He made a
vague gesture with his hand. Strange gave a
slight chuckle.
"Charles doesn't know himself," he said.
"It's just his mind turning naturally to the
dramatic possibilities."
Sir Charles made a reproachful gesture.
His face was absorbed, thoughtful. He shook
his head slightly in an abstracted manner.
An elusive resemblance teased Mr.
Satterthwaite, then he got it. Aristide Duval, the head of the secret service, unraveling the tangled plot of Underground Wires. In another
minute he was sure. Sir Charles was
limping unconsciously as he walked. Aristide
Duval had been known as The Man with a
Limp.
Sir Bartholomew continued to apply ruthless
common sense to Sir Charles' unformulated
suspicions:
"Yes, what do you suspect, Charles?
Suicide? Murder? Who wants to murder a
harmless old clergyman? It's fantastic. Suicide?
Well, I suppose that is a point. One
might, perhaps, imagine a reason for
Babbington wanting to make away with
himself."
"What reason?"
Sir Bartholomew shook his head gently.
"How can we tell the secrets of the human
mind? Just one suggestion--suppose that
Babbington had been told he suffered from
an incurable disease, such as cancer. Something
of that kind might supply a motive.
He might wish to spare his wife the pain of
watching his own long-drawn-out suffering.
That's only a suggestion, of course. There's
nothing on earth to make us think that
Babbington did want to put an end to
himself."
"I wasn't thinking so much of suicide,"
began Sir Charles.
Bartholomew Strange again gave his low
chuckle.
"Exactly, Charles. You're not out for
probability. You want sensation--new and
untraceable poison in the cocktails."
Sir Charles made an expressive grimace.
"I'm not so sure I do want that. Remember
I mixed those cocktails, Tollie."
"^nrlrl^n aitapl^ nf homicidal mania, eh? I
suppose the symptoms are delayed in our
case, but we'll all be dead before morning."
"Damn it all, you joke, but--" Sir Charles
broke off irritably.
"I'm not really joking," said the physician.
His voice had altered. It was grave and
not unsympathetic.
"I'm not joking about poor old Babbington's
death. I'm casting fun at your suggestions, Charles, because--well, because I don't want you, thoughtlessly, to do harm."
"Harm?" demanded Sir Charles.
"Perhaps you understand what I'm driving
at, Mr. Satterthwaite?"
"I think, perhaps, I can guess," said Mr.
Satterthwaite.
"Don't you see, Charles," went on Sir
Bartholomew, "that those idle suspicions of
yours might be definitely harmful? These
things get about. A vague suggestion of foul
play, totally unfounded, might cause serious
trouble and pain to Mrs. Babbington. I've
known things of that kind to happen once or
twice. A sudden death, a few idle tongues
wagging, rumors flying all round the place.
Rumors that go on growing, and that no one
can stop. Damn it all, Charles, don't you see
how cruel and unnecessary it would be?
You're merely indulging your vivid imagination
in a gallop over a wholly speculative
course."
A look of irresolution appeared on the
actor's face.
"I hadn't thought of it like that," he admitted.
"You're a thundering good chap, Charles, but you do let your imagination run away with you. Come, now, do you seriously believe
anyone--anyone at all--would want to
murder that perfectly harmless old man?"
"I suppose not," said Sir Charles. "No, as
you say, it's ridiculous. Sorry, Tollie, but it
wasn't really a mere stunt on my part. I did
genuinely have a hunch that something was
wrong."
Mr. Satterthwaite gave a little cough.
"May I make a suggestion? Mr. Babbington
was taken ill a very few moments
after entering the room and just after drinking
his cocktail. Now, I did happen to notice
that he made a wry face when drinking. I
imagined because he was unused to the taste.
But supposing that Sir Bartholomew's tentative
suggestion is correct--that Mr. Babbington
may for some reason have wished to
^^mm^t om^irl^ TiTat dnps strike me as just
possible, whereas the suggestion of murder
seems quite ridiculous.
"I feel that it is possible, though not likely, that Mr. Babbington introduced something into that glass unseen by us. Now, I see that
nothing has yet been touched in this room.
The cocktail glasses are exactly where they
were. This is Mr. Babbington's. I know because
I was sitting here talking to him. I
suggest that Sir Bartholomew should get the
glass analyzed; that can be done quite quietly
and without causing any talk."
Sir Bartholomew rose and picked up the
glass.
"Right," he said. "I'll humor you so far, Charles, and I'll bet you ten pounds to one that there's nothing in it but horiestto-God
gin and vermuth."
"Done," said Sir Charles. Then he added, with a rueful smile, "You know, Tollie, you are partly responsible for my flights of
fancy."
"I?"
"Yes, with your talk of crime this moming.
You said this man Hercule Poirot was a
kind of stormy petrel, that where he went
crimes followed. No sooner does he arrive
than we have a suspiciously sudden death.
Of course, my thoughts fly to murder at
once."
"I wonder," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and
stopped.
"Yes," said Charles Cartwright. "I'd
thought of that. . . . What do you think, Tollie? Could we ask him what he thinks of it all? Is it etiquette, I mean?"
"A nice point," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite.
"I know medical etiquette, but I'm hanged
if I know anything about the etiquette of
detection."
"You can't ask a professional singer to
sing," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. "Can
one ask a professional detective to detect?
Yes, that is a very nice point."
"Just an opinion," said Sir Charles.
There was a gentle tap on the door and
Hercule Poirot's face appeared, peering in
with an apologetic expression.
"Come in, man!" cried Sir Charles, springing
up. "We were just talking of you."
"I thought perhaps I might be intruding."
"Not at all. Have a drink."
"I thank you, no. I seldom drink the
whisky. A glass of strop now--"
But sirop was not included in Sir Charles5
/-./->>>>->>^ai^'t-tr^m /-k-F ^i^nL-rtl-tl^t -nniric T-Tavino' set tied his guest in a chair, the actor went
straight to the point.
"I'm not going to beat about the bush,"
he said. "We were just talking of you, M.
Poirot, and--and of what happened tonight.
Look here. Do you think there's anything
wrong about it?"
Poirot's eyebrows rose. He said:
"Wrong? How do you mean that-wrong?"
Bartholomew Strange said, "My friend has
got an idea into his head that old Babbington
was murdered."
"And you do not think so, eh?"
"We'd like to know what you think?"
Poirot said thoughtfully:
"He was taken ill, of ^course, very suddenly--very
suddenly indeed."
"Just so."
Mr. Satterthwaite explained the theory of
suicide and his own suggestion of having the
cocktail glass analyzed.
Poirot nodded approval.
"That, at any rate, can do no harm. As a
judge of human nature, it seems to me unlikely
in the extreme that anyone would wish
to do away with a charming and harmless
old gentleman. Still less does the solution of
suicide appeal to me. However, the cocktail
glass will tell us, one way or another."
"And the result of the analysis, you think,
will be, what?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Me? I can only guess. You ask me to
guess what will be the result of the analysis?"
"Yes."
"Then I guess that they will find only
the remains of a very excellent dry Martini."
He bowed to Sir Charles. "To poison a
man in a cocktail--one of many handed
round on a tray--well, it woxdd be a technic
very, very difficult. And if that charming
old clergyman wanted to commit suicide, I
do not think he would do it at a party.
That would show a very decided lack of
consideration for others, and Mr. Babbington
struck me as a very considerate person." He
paused. "That, since you ask me, is my
opinion."
There was a moment's silence. Then Sir
Charles gave a deep sigh. He opened one of
the windows and looked out.
"Wind's gone round a point," he said.
The sailor had come back and the secretservice
detective had disappeared.
a disappeared. |
>>roy>><-\^i-^arr^rthwaite it 1
"D-.-.-*--t-.^. <-l,^ <^l>>t-><
seemed as though Sir Charles hankered
slightly after the part he was not, after all, to
play.
Four
"yes, but what do you think, Mr.
Satterthwaite? Really think?"
Mr. Satterthwaite looked this way and that.
There was no escape. Egg Lytton Gore had
got him securely cornered on the fishing
quay. Merciless, these modem young women,
and terrifyingly alive.
"Sir Charles has put this idea into your
head," he said.
"No, he hasn't. It was there already. It's
been there from the beginning. It was so
frightfully sudden."
"He was an old man and his health wasn't
very good--"
Egg cut the recital short:
"That's all tripe. He had neuritis and a
touch of rheumatoid arthritis. That doesn't
make you fall down in a fit. He never had
'"-TT -----i-~ ---**-/^T />>^^,4-l^ ^f^oL-ino (rate
that would have lived to be ninety. What did
you think of the inquest?"
"It all seemed to be quite--er--normal."
"What did you think of Doctor
MacDougaTs evidence? Frightfully technical
and all that--close description of the organs--but
didn't it strike you that behind all
that bombardment of words he was hedging? What he said amounted to this--that there was nothing to show that death had not arisen
from natural causes. He didn't say it was the
| result of natural causes."
"Aren't you splitting hairs a little, my
dear?"
"The point is that he did; he was puzzled, but he had nothing to go upon, so he had to take refuge in medical caution. What did Sir
Bartholomew Strange think?"
Mr. Satterthwaite repeated some of the
_ physician's dictums.
H "Pooh-poohed it, did he?" said Egg ] thoughtfully. "Of course, he's a cautious
{ man; I suppose a Harley Street big bug has j to be."
"There was nothing in the cocktail glass
but gin and vermuth," Mr. Satterthwaite reminded
her.
"That seems to settle it. All the same,
something that happened after the inquest
made me wonder--"
"Something he said to you?"
Mr. Satterthwaite began to feel a pleasant
curiosity.
"Not to me--to Oliver--Oliver Manders;
he was at dinner that night, but perhaps you
don't remember him."
"Yes, I remember him very well. Is he a
great friend of yours?"
"Used to be. Now we scrap most of the
time. He's gone into his uncle's office in the
City and he's getting--well, a bit above himself,
if you know what I mean. Always talks
of chucking it and being a journalist; he
writes rather well. But I don't think it's any
more than talk now. He wants to get rich. I
think everybody is rather disgusting about
money, don't you, Mr. Satterthwaite?"
Her youth came home to him then--the
crude, arrogant childishness of her.
"My dear," he said, "so many people are
disgusting about so many things."
"Most people are swine, of course," agreed
Egg cheerfully. "That's why I'm really cut
up about old Mr. Babbington. Because, you
see, he really was rather a pet. He prepared
me for confirmation and all that, and though, ^f /^,,,.oo, o i^i-^f t^Qi hnsin^ss is all bun kum, he really was rather sweet about it.
You see, Mr. Satterthwaite, I really believe
in Christianity--not like mother does, with
little books and early service and things, but
intelligently and as a matter of history. The
church is all cluttered up with the Pauline
tradition--in fact, the church is a mess, but
Christianity, itself, is all right. That's why I
can't be a Communist, like Oliver. In practice, our beliefs would work out much the same--things in common and ownership by
all--but the difference--well, I needn't go
into that. But the Babbingtons really were
Christians; they didn't poke and pry and
condemn, and they were never unkind about
people or things. They were pets--and there
was Robin--"
"Robin?"
"Their son. He was out in India and got
killed. I--I had rather a pash on Robin."
Egg blinked. Her gaze went out to sea.
Then her attention returned to Mr.
Satterthwaite and the present.
"So, you see, I feel rather strongly about
this. Supposing it wasn't a natural death."
"My dear child!"
"Well, it's damned odd! You must admit
it's odd."
"But surelv you yourself have just Dracti cally admitted that the Babbingtons hadn't an enemy, in the world."
"That's what's so queer about it. I can't
think of any conceivable motive."
"Fantastic! There was nothing in the cocktail."
"Perhaps someone jabbed him with a hypodermic."
"Containing the arrow poison of the South
American Indians," suggested Mr. Satterthwaite, gently ridiculing. Egg grinned.
"That's it. The good, old, untraceable
stuff. Oh, well, you're all very superior about
it. Some day, perhaps, you'll find out we are
right."
"We?"
"Sir Charles and I." She flushed slightly.
Mr. Satterthwaite thought in the words
and meter of his generation, when Quotations
for All Occasions was to be found in
every bookcase:
"Of more than twice her years,
Seamed with an ancient sword-cut on the
cheek,
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes
And loved him, with that love which was her
He felt a little ashamed of himself for
thinking in quotations; Tennyson, too, was
very little thought of nowadays. Besides, though Sir Charles was bronzed, he was not scarred, and Egg Lytton Gore, though doubtless
capable of a healthy passion, did not
look at all likely to perish of love and drift
about rivers on a barge. There was nothing
of the lily maid of Astolat about her.
"Except," thought Mr. Satterthwaite, "her
youth."
Girls were always attracted to middle-aged
men with interesting pasts. Egg seemed to
be no exception to this rule.
"Why hasn't he ever married?" she asked
abruptly.
"Well," Mr. Satterthwaite paused. His
own answer, put bluntly, would have been
"Caution," but he realized that such a word
would be unacceptable to Egg Lytton Gore.
Sir Charles Cartwright had had plenty of affairs with women, actresses and others, but he had always managed to steer clear of matrimony.
Egg was clearly seeking for a more
romantic explanation.
"That girl who died of consumption-some actress, name began with an R--wasn't he suDDOsed to be very fond of her?"
Mr. Satterthwaite remembered the lady in
question. Rumor had coupled Charles
Cartwright's name with hers, but only very
slightly, and Mr. Satterthwaite did not for a
moment believe that Sir Charles had remained
unmarried in order to be faithful to
her memory. He conveyed as much tactfully.
"I suppose he's had lots of affairs," said
Egg.
"Er--h'm--probably," said Mr. Satterthwaite, feeling Victorian.
"I like men to have affairs," said Egg. "It
shows they're not queer or anything."
Mr. Satterthwaite's Victorianism suffered
a further pang. He was at a loss for a reply.
Egg did not notice his discomfiture. She went
on musingly:
"You know. Sir Charles is really cleverer
than you'd think. He poses a lot, of course, dramatizes himself, but behind all that he's got brains. He's far better sailing a boat than
you'd ever think to hear him talk. You'd
think, to listen to him, that it was all pose, but it isn't. It's the same about this business. You think it's all done for effect--that he
wants to play the part of the great detective.
All I say is I think he'd play it rather well."
"Possibly," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.
' ------""' -^f\a.f*-i r^irt f\f 1-tio ^7/Mr*^ shoWPfl hiS fed ings clearly enough. Egg pounced on them
and expressed them in words:
"But your view is that Death of a Clergyman
isn't a thriller. It's merely Regrettable
Incident at a Dinner Party. Purely a social
catastrophe. What did M. Poirot think? He
ought to know."
"M. Poirot advised us to wait for the analysis
of the cocktail, but, in his opinion, everything
was quite all right."
"Oh, well," said Egg, "he's getting old.
He's a back number." Mr. Satterthwaite
winced. Egg went on, unconscious of brutality:
"Come home and have tea with mother.
She likes you. She said so."
Delicately flattered, Mr. Satterthwaite accepted
the invitation.
On arrival. Egg volunteered to ring up Sir
Charles and explain the non-appearance of
his guest.
Mr. Satterthwaite sat down in the tiny
sitting room with its faded chintzes and its
well-polished pieces of old furniture. It was a
Victorian room, what Mr. Satterthwaite
called in his own mind a lady's room, and he
approved of it.
His conversation with Lady Mary was
agreeable; nothing brilliant, but pleasantly
chatty. They spoke of Sir Charles. Did Mr.
Satterthwaite know him well? Not intimately, Mr. Satterthwaite said. He had a financial interest in one of Sir Charles' plays
some years ago. They had been friends ever
since.
"He has great charm," said Lady Mary, smiling. "I feel it as well as Egg. I suppose you've discovered that Egg is suffering badly
from hero worship?"
Mr. Satterthwaite wondered if, as a
mother. Lady Mary was not made slightly
uneasy by that hero worship. But it did not
seem so.
"Egg sees so little of the world," she said, sighing. "We are so badly off. One of my cousins presented her and took her to a few
things in town, but since then she has hardly
been away from here, except for an occasional
visit. Young people, I feel, should see
plenty of people and places--especially people.
Otherwise--well, propinquity is sometimes
a dangerous thing."
Mr. Satterthwaite agreed, thinking of Sir
Charles and the sailing, but that this was not
what was in Lady Mary's mind she showed a
moment or two later.
"Sir Charles' coming has done a lot for
Egg. It has widened her horizon. You see,
-i ----,,_ _._--. -c^,,, >>T/^,,->rr >>->>^r>>r>>1^ rinwn here, especially men. I've always been afraid that
Egg might marry someone simply from being
thrown with one person only and seeing
no one else."
Mr. Satterthwaite had a quick intuition.