Agatha Christie - Three Act Tragedy

“There is one thing I want to know.”

“Ask then.”

“Why do you sometimes speak perfectly good English and at other times not?”

Poirot laughed.

“Ah, I will explain. It is true that I can speak the exact, the idiomatic English. But, my friend, to speak the broken English if an enormous asset. It leads people to despise you. They say – a foreigner – he can’t even speak English properly. It is not my policy to terrify people – instead I invite their gentle ridicule. Also I boast! An Englishman he says often, ‘A fellow who thinks as much of himself as that cannot be worth much.’ That is the English point of view. It is not at all true. And so, you see, I put people off their guard. Besides, he added, it has become a habit.”

“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “quite the cunning of the serpent.”

He was silent for a moment or two, thinking over the case.

“I’m afraid I have not shone over this matter,” he said vexedly.

“On the contrary. You appreciated that important point – Sir Bartholomew’s remark about the butler – you realised that astute observation of Miss Wills. I fact, you could have solved the whole thing but for your playgoer’s reaction to dramatic effect.”

Mr. Satterthwaite looked cheerful.

Suddenly an idea struck him. His jaw fell.

“My goodness,” he cried, “I’ve only just realised it. That rascal, with his poisoned cocktail! Anyone might have drunk it. It might have been me .”

“There is an even more terrible possibility that you have not considered,” said Poirot.

“Eh?”

“It might have been ME,” said Hercule Poirot.