“Certainly—certainly,” Mr. Satterthwaite answered complacently.
“From what you have told me, I gather that Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore went together to interview Mrs. Babbington.”
“Yes.”
“You did not accompany them?”
“No. Three would have been rather a crowd.”
Poirot smiled.
“And also, perhaps, your inclinations led you elsewhere. You had, as they say, different fish to fry. Where did you go, Mr. Satterthwaite?”
“I had tea with Lady Mary Lytton Gore,” said Mr. Satterthwaite stiffly.
“And what did you talk about?”
“She was so good as to confide in me some of the troubles of her early married life.”
He repeated the substance of Lady Mary’s story. Poirot nodded his head sympathetically.
“That is so true to life—the idealistic young girl who marries the bad hat and will listen to nobody. But did you talk of nothing else? Did you, for instance, not speak of Mr. Oliver Manders?”
“As a matter of fact we did.”
“And you learnt about him—what?”
Mr. Satterthwaite repeated what Lady Mary had told him. Then he said:
“What made you think we had talked of him?”
“Because you went there for that reason. Oh, yes, do not protest. You may hope that Mrs. Dacres or her husband committed the crime, but you think that young Manders did.”
He stilled Mr. Satterthwaite’s protests.
“Yes, yes, you have the secretive nature. You have your ideas, but you like keeping them to yourself. I have sympathy with you. I do the same myself….”
“I don’t suspect him—that’s absurd. But I just wanted to know more about him.”
“That is as I say. He is your instinctive choice. I, too, am interested in that young man. I was interested in him on the night of the dinner here, because I saw—”
“What did you see?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite eagerly.
“I saw that there were two people at least (perhaps more) who were playing a part. One was Sir Charles.” He smiled. “He was playing the naval officer, am I not right? That is quite natural. A great actor does not cease to act because he is not on the stage anymore. But young Manders, he too was acting. He was playing the part of the bored and blasé young man—but in reality he was neither bored nor blasé—he was very keenly alive. And therefore, my friend, I noticed him.”
“How did you know I’d been wondering about him?”
“In many little ways. You had been interested in that accident of his that brought him to Melfort Abbey that night. You had not gone with Sir Charles and Miss Lytton Gore to see Mrs. Babbington. Why? Because you wanted to follow out some line of your own unobserved. You went to Lady Mary’s to find out about someone. Who? It could only be someone local. Oliver Manders. And then, most characteristic, you put his name at the bottom of the list. Who are really the least likely suspects in your mind—Lady Mary and Mademoiselle Egg—but you put his name after theirs, because he is your dark horse, and you want to keep him to yourself.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Am I really that kind of man?”
“Précisément. You have shrewd judgment and observation, and you like keeping its results to yourself. Your opinions of people are your private collection. You do not display them for all the world to see.”
“I believe,” began Mr. Satterthwaite, but he was interrupted by the return of Sir Charles.
The actor came in with a springing buoyant step.
“Brrr,” he said. “It’s a wild night.”
He poured himself out a whisky and soda.
Mr. Satterthwaite and Poirot both declined.
“Well,” said Sir Charles, “let’s map out our plan of campaign. Where’s that list, Satterthwaite? Ah, thanks. Now M. Poirot, Counsel’s opinion, if you please. How shall we divide up the spadework?”
“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.”
“Yes?”
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.”
Six
CYNTHIA DACRES
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 snakelike young women with beautiful bored faces pass sinuously before her. Egg was principally concerned with endeavouring to appear as though fifty or sixt
y 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 pounds 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 sorts 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.
As she emerged into Bruton Street, Egg glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes to one. Before very long she might be able to put her second plan into operation.
She walked as far as Berkeley Square, and then slowly back again. At one o’clock she had her nose glued to a window displaying Chinese objets d’art.
Miss Doris Sims came rapidly out into Bruton Street and turned in the direction of Berkeley Square. Just before she got there a voice spoke at her elbow.
“Excuse me,” said Egg, “but can I speak to you a minute?”
The girl turned, surprised.
“You’re one of the mannequins at Ambrosine’s, aren’t you? I noticed you this morning. I hope you won’t be frightfully offended if I say I think you’ve got simply the most perfect figure I’ve ever seen.”
Doris Sims was not offended. She was merely slightly confused.
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure, madam,” she said.
“You look frightfully good-natured, too,” said Egg. “That’s why I’m going to ask you a favour. Will you have lunch with me at the Berkeley or the Ritz and let me tell you about it?”
After a moment’s hesitation Doris Sims agreed. She was curious and she liked good food.
Once established at a table and lunch ordered, Egg plunged into explanations.
“I hope you’ll keep this to yourself,” she said. “You see, I’ve got a job—writing up various professions for women. I want you to tell me all about the dressmaking business.”
Doris looked slightly disappointed, but she complied amiably enough, giving bald statements as to hours, rates of pay, conveniences and inconveniences of her employment. Egg entered particulars in a little notebook.
“It’s awfully kind of you,” she said. “I’m very stupid at this. It’s quite new to me. You see I’m frightfully badly off, and this little bit of journalistic work will make all the difference.”
She went on confidentially.
“It was rather nerve on my part, walking into Ambrosine’s and pretending I could buy lots of your models. Really, I’ve got just a few pounds of my dress allowance to last me till Christmas. I expect Mrs. Dacres would be simply wild if she knew.”
Doris giggled.
“I should say she would.”
“Did I do it well?” asked Egg. “Did I look as though I had money?”
“You did it splendidly, Miss Lytton Gore. Madam thinks you’re going to get quite a lot of things.”
“I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed,” said Egg.
Doris giggled more. She was enjoying her lunch, and she felt attracted to Egg. “She may be a Society young lady,” she thought to herself, “but she doesn’t put on airs. She’s as natural as can be.”
These pleasant relations once established, Egg found no difficulty in inducing her companion to talk freely on the subject of her employer.
“I always think,” said Egg, “that Mrs. Dacres looks a frightful cat. Is she?”
“None of us like her, Miss Lytton Gore, and that’s a fact. But she’s clever, of course, and she’s got a rare head for business. Not like some Society ladies who take up the dressmaking business and go bankrupt because their friends get clothes and don’t pay. She’s as hard as nails, Madam is—though I will say she’s fair enough—and she’s got real taste—she knows what’s what, and she’s clever at getting people to have the style that suits them.”
“I suppose she makes a lot of money?”
A queer knowing look came into Doris’s eye.
“It’s not for me to say anything—or to gossip.”
“Of course not,” said Egg. “Go on.”
“But if you ask me—the firm’s not far off Queer Street. There was a Jewish gentleman came to see Madam, and there have been one or two things—it’s my belief she’s been borrowing to keep going in the hope that trade would revive, and that she’s got in deep. Really, Miss Lytton Gore, she looks terrible sometimes. Quite desperate. I don’t know what she’d look like without her makeup. I don’t believe she sleeps of nights.”
“What’s her husband like?”
“He’s a queer fish. Bit of a bad lot, if you ask me. Not that we ever see much of him. None of the other girls agree with me, but I believe she’s very keen on him still. Of course a lot of nast
y things have been said—”
“Such as?” asked Egg.
“Well, I don’t like to repeat things. I never have been one for that.”
“Of course not. Go on, you were saying—?”
“Well, there’s been a lot of talk among the girls. About a young fellow—very rich and very soft. Not exactly balmy, if you know what I mean—sort of betwixt and between. Madam’s been running him for all she was worth. He might have put things right—he was soft enough for anything—but then he was ordered on a sea voyage—suddenly.”
“Ordered by whom—a doctor?”
“Yes, someone in Harley Street. I believe now that it was the same doctor who was murdered up in Yorkshire—poisoned, so they said.”
“Sir Bartholomew Strange?”
“That was the name. Madam was at the house party, and we girls said among ourselves—just laughing, you know—well, we said, supposing Madam did him in—out of revenge, you know! Of course it was just fun—”
“Naturally,” said Egg. “Girlish fun. I quite understand. You know, Mrs. Dacres is quite my idea of a murderess—so hard and remorseless.”
“She’s ever so hard—and she’s got a wicked temper! When she lets go, there’s not one of us dares to come near her. They say her husband’s frightened of her—and no wonder.”
“Have you ever heard her speak of anyone called Babbington or of a place in Kent—Gilling?”
“Really, now, I can’t call to mind that I have.”
Doris looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation.
“Oh, dear, I must hurry. I shall be late.”
“Good-bye, and thanks so much for coming.”
“It’s been a pleasure, I’m sure. Good-bye, Miss Lytton Gore, and I hope the article will be a great success. I shall look out for it.”
“You’ll look in vain, my girl,” thought Egg, as she asked for her bill.
Then, drawing a line through the supposed jottings for the article, she wrote in her little notebook:
“Cynthia Dacres. Believed to be in financial difficulties. Described as having a ‘wicked temper.’ Young man (rich) with whom she was believed to be having an affair was ordered on sea voyage by Sir Bartholomew Strange. Showed no reaction at mention of Gilling or at statement that Babbington knew her.”