Agatha Christie - Three Act Tragedy

“How would you suggest yourself, Sir Charles?”

“Well, we might divide these people up – division of labour – eh? First, there’s Mrs. Dacres. Egg seems rather keen to take her on. She seems to think that anyone so perfectly turned out won’t get impartial treatment from mere males. It seems quite a good idea to approach her through the professional side. Satterthwaite and I might work the other gambit as well if it seemed advisable. Then there’s Dacres. I know some of his racing pals. I daresay I could pick up something that way. Then there’s Angela Sutcliffe.”

“That also seems to be your work, Cartwright,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “You know her pretty well, don’t you?”

“Yes. That’s why I’d rather somebody else tackled her… Firstly,” he smiled ruefully, “I shall be accused of not putting my back into the job, and secondly – well – she’s a friend – you understand?”

“ Parfaitement, parfaitement - you feel the natural delicacy. It is most understandable. This good Mr. Satterthwaite – he will replace you in the task.”

“Lady Mary and Egg – they don’t count, of course. What about young Manders? His presence on the night of Tollie’s death was an accident; still, I suppose we ought to include him.”

“Mr. Satterthwaite will look after young Manders,” said Poirot. “But I think, Sir Charles, you have missed out a name on your list. You have passed over Miss Muriel Wills.”

“So I have. Well, if Satterthwaite takes on Manders, I’ll take on Miss Wills. Is that settled? Any suggestions, M. Poirot?”

“No, no – I do not think so. I shall be interested to hear your results.”

“Of course – that goes without saying. Another idea: If we procured photographs of these people we might use them in making inquiries in Gilling.”

“Excellent,” approved Poirot. “There was something – ah, yes, your friend, Sir Bartholomew, he did not drink cocktails, but he did drink the port?”

“Yes, he had a particular weakness for port.”

“It seems odd to me that he did not taste anything unusual. Pure nicotine has a most pungent and unpleasant taste.”

“You’ve got to remember,” said Sir Charles, “that there probably wasn’t any nicotine in the port. The contents of the glass were analysed, remember.”

“Ah, yes – foolish of me. But, however it was administered – nicotine has a very disagreeable taste.”

“I don’t know that that would matter,” said Sir Charles slowly. “Tollie had a very bad go of influenza last spring, and it left him with his sense of taste and smell a good deal impaired.”

“Ah, yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “That might account for it. That simplifies things considerably.”

Sir Charles went to the window and looked out.

“Still blowing a gale. I’ll send for your things, M. Poirot. The Rose and Crown is all very well for enthusiastic artists, but I think you’d prefer proper sanitation and a comfortable bed.”

“You are extremely amiable, Sir Charles.”

“Not at all. I’ll see to it now.”

He left the room.

Poirot looked at Mr. Satterthwaite.

“If I may permit myself a suggestion.”

Poirot leaned forward, and said in a low voice:

“ Ask young Manders why he faked an accident . Tell him the police suspect him – and see what he says.”

The showrooms of Ambrosine, Ltd., were very pure in appearance. The walls were a shade just off white – the thick pile carpet was so neutral as to be almost colourless – so was the upholstery. Chromium gleamed here and there, and on one wall was a gigantic geometric design in vivid blue and lemon yellow. The room had been designed by Mr. Sydney Sandford – the newest and youngest decorator of the moment.

Egg Lytton Gore sat in an armchair of modern design – faintly reminiscent of a dentist’s chair, and watched exquisite snake-like young women with beautiful bored faces pass sinuously before her. Egg was principally concerned with endeavouring to appear as though fifty or sixty pounds was a mere bagatelle to pay for a dress.

Mrs. Dacres, looking as usual marvellously unreal, was (as Egg put it to herself) doing her stuff.

“Now, do you like this? Those shoulder knots – rather amusing, don’t you think? And the waistline’s rather penetrating. I shouldn’t have the red lead colour, though – I should have it in the new colour – Espanol – most attractive – like mustard, with a dash of cayenne in it. How do you like Vin Ordinaire? Rather absurd, isn’t it? Quite penetrating and ridiculous. Clothes simply must not be serious nowadays.”

“It’s very difficult to decide,” said Egg. “You see” – she became confidential – “I’ve never been able to afford any clothes before. We were always so dreadfully poor. I remembered how simply marvellous you looked that night at Crow's Nest, and I thought, Now that I’ve got money to spend, I shall go to Mrs. Dacres and ask her to advise me. I did admire you so much that night.”

“My dear, how charming of you. I simply adore dressing a young girl. It’s so important that girls shouldn’t look raw – if you know what I mean.”

“Nothing raw about you,” thought Egg ungratefully. “Cooked to a turn, you are.”

“You’ve got so much personality,” continued Mrs. Dacres. “You mustn’t have anything at all ordinary. Your clothes must be simple and penetrating – and just faintly visible. You understand? Do you want several things?”

“I thought about four evening frocks, and a couple of day things and a sports suit or two – that sort of thing.”

The honey of Mrs. Dacres’s manner became sweeter. It was fortunate that she did not know that at that moment Egg’s bank balance was exactly fifteen pound twelve shillings, and that the said balance had got to last her until December.

More girls in gowns filed past Egg. In the intervals of technical conversation, Egg interspersed other matters.

“I suppose you’ve never been to Crow's Nest since?” she said.

“No. My dear, I couldn’t. It was so upsetting – and, anyway, I always think Cornwall is rather terribly artisty… I simply cannot bear artists. Their bodies are always such a curious shape.”

“It was a shattering business, wasn’t it?” said Egg. “Old Mr. Babbington was rather a pet, too.”

“Quite a period piece, I should imagine,” said Mrs. Dacres.

“You’d met him before somewhere, hadn’t you?”

“That dear old dug-out? Had I? I don’t remember.”

“I think I remember his saying so,” said Egg. “Not in Cornwall, though. I think it was at a place called Gilling.”

“Was it?” Mrs. Dacres’s eyes were vague. “No, Marcelle – Petite Scandale is what I want – the Jenny model – and after that blue Patou.”

“Wasn’t it extraordinary,” said Egg, “about Sir Bartholomew being poisoned?”

“My dear, it was too penetrating for words! It’s done me a world of good. All sort of dreadful women come and order frocks from me just for the sensation. Now this Patou model would be perfect for you. Look at that perfectly useless and ridiculous frill – it makes the whole thing adorable. Young without being tiresome. Yes, poor Sir Bartholomew’s death has been rather a godsend to me. There’s just an off chance, you see, that I might have murdered him. I’ve rather played up to that. Extraordinary fat women come and positively goggle at me. Too penetrating. And then, you see – ”

But she was interrupted by the advent of a monumental American, evidently a valued client.

While the American was unburdening herself of her requirements, which sounded comprehensive and expensive, Egg managed to make an unobtrusive exit, telling the young lady who had succeeded Mrs. Dacres that she would think it over before making a final choice.