Three-Act Tragedy

by Agatha Christie

  ‘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 note-book.

  ‘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 make-up. 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 nasty 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 Madame 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.’

  ‘Goodbye, and thanks so much for coming.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, I’m sure. Goodbye, 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 note-book:

  ‘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.’

  ‘There doesn’t seem much there,’ said Egg to herself. ‘A possible motive for the murder of Sir Bartholomew, but very thin. M. Poirot may be able to make something of that. I can’t.’

  Chapter 7

  Captain Dacres

  Egg had not yet finished her programme for the day. Her next move was to St John’s House, in which building the Dacres had a flat. St John’s House was a new block of extremely expensive flats. There were sumptuous window-boxes and uniformed porters of such magnificence that they looked like foreign generals.

  Egg did not enter the building. She strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street. After about an hour of this she calculated that she must have walked several miles. It was half-past five.

  Then a taxi drew up at the Mansions, and Captain Dacres alighted from it. Egg allowed three minutes to elapse, then she crossed the road and entered the building.

  Egg pressed the door-bell of No. 3. Dacres himself opened the door. He was still engaged in taking off his overcoat.

  ‘Oh,’ said Egg. ‘How do you do? You do remember me, don’t you? We met in Cornwall, and again in Yorkshire.’

  ‘Of course—of course. In at the death both times, weren’t we? Come in, Miss Lytton Gore.’

  ‘I wanted to see your wife. Is she in?’

  ‘She’s round in Bruton Street—at her dressmaking place.’

  ‘I know. I was there today. I thought perhaps she’d be back by now, and that she wouldn’t mind, perhaps, if I came here—only, of course, I suppose I’m being a frightful bother—’

  Egg paused appealingly.

  Freddie Dacres said to himself:

  ‘Nice looking filly. Damned pretty girl, in fact.’

  Aloud he said:

  ‘Cynthia won’t be back till well after six. I’ve just come back from Newbury. Had a rotten day and left early. Come round to the Seventy
-Two Club and have a cocktail?’

  Egg accepted, though she had a shrewd suspicion that Dacres had already had quite as much alcohol as was good for him.

  Sitting in the underground dimness of the Seventy-Two Club, and sipping a Martini, Egg said: ‘This is great fun. I’ve never been here before.’

  Freddie Dacres smiled indulgently. He liked a young and pretty girl. Not perhaps as much as he liked some other things—but well enough.

  ‘Upsettin’ sort of time, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Up in Yorkshire, I mean. Something rather amusin’ about a doctor being poisoned—you see what I mean—wrong way about. A doctor’s a chap who poisons other people.’

  He laughed uproariously at his own remark and ordered another pink gin.

  ‘That’s rather clever of you,’ said Egg. ‘I never thought of it that way before.’

  ‘Only a joke, of course,’ said Freddie Dacres.

  ‘It’s odd, isn’t it,’ said Egg, ‘that when we meet it’s always at a death.’

  ‘Bit odd,’ admitted Captain Dacres. ‘You mean the old clergyman chap at what’s his name’s—the actor fellow’s place?’

  ‘Yes. It was very queer the way he died so suddenly.’

  ‘Damn’ disturbin’,’ said Dacres. ‘Makes you feel a bit gruey, fellows popping off all over the place. You know, you think “my turn next”, and it gives you the shivers.’

  ‘You knew Mr Babbington before, didn’t you, at Gilling?’

  ‘Don’t know the place. No, I never set eyes on the old chap before. Funny thing is he popped off just the same way as old Strange did. Bit odd, that. Can’t have been bumped off, too, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Dacres shook his head.

  ‘Can’t have been,’ he said decisively. ‘Nobody murders parsons. Doctors are different.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Egg. ‘I suppose doctors are different.’

  ‘’Course they are. Stands to reason. Doctors are interfering devils.’ He slurred the words a little. He leant forward. ‘Won’t let well alone. Understand?’

  ‘No,’ said Egg.

  ‘They monkey about with fellows’ lives. They’ve got a damned sight too much power. Oughtn’t to be allowed.’

  ‘I don’t quite see what you mean.’

  ‘M’ dear girl, I’m telling you. Get a fellow shut up—that’s what I mean—put him in hell. God, they’re cruel. Shut him up and keep the stuff from him—and however much you beg and pray they won’t give it you. Don’t care a damn what torture you’re in. That’s doctors for you. I’m telling you—and I know.’

  His face twitched painfully. His little pinpoint pupils stared past her.

  ‘It’s hell, I tell you—hell. And they call it curing you! Pretend they’re doing a decent action. Swine!’

  ‘Did Sir Bartholomew Strange—?’ began Egg cautiously.

  He took the words out of her mouth.

  ‘Sir Bartholomew Strange. Sir Bartholomew Humbug. I’d like to know what goes on in that precious Sanatorium of his. Nerve cases. That’s what they say. You’re in there and you can’t get out. And they say you’ve gone of your own free will. Free will! Just because they get hold of you when you’ve got the horrors.’

  He was shaking now. His mouth drooped suddenly.

  ‘I’m all to pieces,’ he said apologetically. ‘All to pieces.’ He called to the waiter, pressed Egg to have another drink, and when she refused, ordered one himself.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said as he drained the glass. ‘Got my nerve back now. Nasty business losing your nerve. Mustn’t make Cynthia angry. She told me not to talk.’ He nodded his head once or twice. ‘Wouldn’t do to tell the police all this,’ he said. ‘They might think I’d bumped old Strange off. Eh? You realize, don’t you, that someone must have done it? One of us must have killed him. That’s a funny thought. Which of us? That’s the question.’

  ‘Perhaps you know which,’ said Egg.

  ‘What d’you say that for? Why should I know?’

  He looked at her angrily and suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t know anything about it, I tell you. I wasn’t going to take that damnable “cure” of his. No matter what Cynthia said—I wasn’t going to take it. He was up to something—they were both up to something. But they couldn’t fool me.’

  He drew himself up.

  ‘I’m a shtrong man, Mish Lytton Gore.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said Egg. ‘Tell me, do you know anything of a Mrs de Rushbridger who is at the Sanatorium?’

  ‘Rushbridger? Rushbridger? Old Strange said something about her. Now what was it? Can’t remember anything.’

  He sighed, shook his head.

  ‘Memory’s going, that’s what it is. And I’ve got enemies—a lot of enemies. They may be spying on me now.’

  He looked round uneasily. Then he leant across the table to Egg.

  ‘What was that woman doing in my room that day?’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘Rabbit-faced woman. Writes plays. It was the morning after—after he died. I’d just come up from breakfast. She came out of my room and went through the baize door at the end of the passage—went through into the servants’ quarters. Odd, eh? Why did she go into my room? What did she think she’d find there? What did she want to go nosing about for, anyway? What’s it got to do with her?’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘Or do you think it’s true what Cynthia says?’

  ‘What does Mrs Dacres say?’

  ‘Says I imagined it. Says I was “seeing things”.’ He laughed uncertainly. ‘I do see things now and again. Pink mice—snakes—all that sort of thing. But seein’ a woman’s different…I did see her. She’s a queer fish, that woman. Nasty sort of eye she’s got. Goes through you.’

  He leaned back on the soft couch. He seemed to be dropping asleep.

  Egg got up.

  ‘I must be going. Thank you very much, Captain Dacres.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Delighted. Absolutely delighted…’

  His voice tailed off.

  ‘I’d better go before he passes out altogether,’ thought Egg.

  She emerged from the smoky atmosphere of the Seventy-Two Club into the cool evening air.

  Beatrice, the housemaid, had said that Miss Wills poked and pried. Now came this story from Freddie Dacres. What had Miss Wills been looking for? What had she found? Was it possible that Miss Wills knew something?

  Was there anything in this rather muddled story about Sir Bartholomew Strange? Had Freddie Dacres secretly feared and hated him?

  It seemed possible.

  But in all this no hint of any guilty knowledge in the Babbington case.

  ‘How odd it would be,’ said Egg to herself, ‘if he wasn’t murdered after all.’

  And then she caught her breath sharply as she caught sight of the words on a newspaper placard a few feet away:

  ‘CORNISH EXHUMATION CASE—RESULT.’

  Hastily she held out a penny and snatched a paper. As she did so she collided with another woman doing the same thing. As Egg apologized she recognized Sir Charles’s secretary, the efficient Miss Milray.

  Standing side by side, they both sought the stop-press news. Yes, there it was.

  ‘RESULT OF CORNISH EXHUMATION.’

  The words danced before Egg’s eyes. Analysis of the organs…Nicotine…

  ‘So he was murdered,’ said Egg.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Miss Milray. ‘This is terrible—terrible—’

  Her rugged countenance was distorted with emotion. Egg looked at her in surprise. She had always regarded Miss Milray as something less than human.

  ‘It upsets me,’ said Miss Milray, in explanation. ‘You see, I’ve known him all my life.’

  ‘Mr Babbington?’

  ‘Yes. You see, my mother lives at Gilling, where he used to be vicar. Naturally it’s upsetting.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’

  ‘In fact,’ said Miss Milray, ‘I don’t know what to do.’
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br />   She flushed a little before Egg’s look of astonishment.

  ‘I’d like to write to Mrs Babbington,’ she said quickly. ‘Only it doesn’t seem quite—well, quite…I don’t know what I had better do about it.’