Three Act Tragedy

‘Now where have I seen that particular shaped head before?’

The owner of the head was sitting on a seat gazing thoughtfully ahead of him. He was a little man whose moustaches were out of proportion to his size.

A discontented-looking English child was standing nearby, standing first on one foot, then the other, and occasionally meditatively kicking the lobelia edging.

‘Don’t do that, darling,’ said her mother, who was absorbed in a fashion paper.

‘I haven’t anything to do,’ said the child.

The little man turned his head to look at her, and Mr Satterthwaite recognized him.

‘M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘This is a very pleasant surprise.’

M. Poirot rose and bowed.

‘Enchanté, monsieur.’

They shook hands, and Mr Satterthwaite sat down.

‘Everyone seems to be in Monte Carlo. Not half an hour ago I ran across Sir Charles Cartwright, and now you.’

‘Sir Charles, he also is here?’

‘He’s been yachting. You know that he gave up his house at Loomouth?’

‘Ah, no, I did not know it. I am surprised.’

‘I don’t know that I am. I don’t think Cartwright is really the kind of man who likes to live permanently out of the world.’

‘Ah, no, I agree with you there. I was surprised for another reason. It seemed to me that Sir Charles had a particular reason for staying in Loomouth—a very charming reason, eh? Am I not right? The little demoiselle who calls herself, so amusingly, the egg?’

His eyes were twinkling gently.

‘Oh, so you noticed that?’

‘Assuredly I noticed. I have the heart very susceptible to lovers—you too, I think. And la jeunesse, it is always touching.’

He sighed.

‘I think,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘that actually you have hit on Sir Charles’s reason for leaving Loomouth. He was running away.’

‘From Mademoiselle Egg? But it is obvious that he adores her. Why, then, run?’

‘Ah,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘you don’t understand our Anglo-Saxon complexes.’

M. Poirot was following his own line of reasoning.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it is a good move to pursue. Run from a woman—immediately she follows. Doubtless Sir Charles, a man of much experience, knows that.’

Mr Satterthwaite was rather amused.

‘I don’t think it was quite that way,’ he said. ‘Tell me, what are you doing out here? A holiday?’

‘My time is all holidays nowadays. I have succeeded. I am rich. I retire. Now I travel about seeing the world.’

‘Splendid,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.

‘N’est-ce pas?’

‘Mummy,’ said the English child, ‘isn’t there anything to do?’

‘Darling,’ said her mother reproachfully, ‘isn’t it lovely to have come abroad and to be in the beautiful sunshine?’

‘Yes, but there’s nothing to do.’

‘Run about—amuse yourself. Go and look at the sea.’

‘Maman,’ said a French child, suddenly appearing. ‘Joue avec moi.’

A French mother looked up from her book.

‘Amuse toi avec ta balle, Marcelle.’

Obediently the French child bounced her ball with a gloomy face.

‘Je m’amuse,’ said Hercule Poirot; and there was a very curious expression on his face.

Then, as if in answer to something he read in Mr Satterthwaite’s face, he said:

‘But yet, you have the quick perceptions. It is as you think—’

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

‘See you, as a boy I was poor. There were many of us. We had to get on in the world. I entered the Police Force. I worked hard. Slowly I rose in that Force. I began to make a name for myself. I made a name for myself. I began to acquire an international reputation. At last, I was due to retire. There came the War. I was injured. I came, a sad and weary refugee, to England. A kind lady gave me hospitality. She died—not naturally; no, she was killed. Eh bien, I set my wits to work. I employed my little grey cells. I discovered her murderer. I found that I was not yet finished. No, indeed, my powers were stronger than ever. Then began my second career, that of a private inquiry agent in England. I have solved many fascinating and baffling problems. Ah, monsieur, I have lived! The psychology of human nature, it is wonderful. I grew rich. Some day, I said to myself, I will have all the money I need. I will realize all my dreams.’

He laid a hand on Mr Satterthwaite’s knee.

‘My friend, beware of the day when your dreams come true. That child near us, doubtless she too has dreamt of coming abroad—of the excitement—of how different everything would be. You understand?’

‘I understand,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘that you are not amusing yourself.’

Poirot nodded.

‘Exactly.’

There were moments when Mr Satterthwaite looked like Puck. This was one of them. His little wrinkled face twitched impishly. He hesitated. Should he? Should he not?

Slowly he unfolded the newspaper he was still carrying.