Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie Page A

reason?”
    Mr. Satterthwaite did not reply, but from his silence Poirot seemed to deduce an answer.
    â€œI see,” he said. “The bright eyes of Mademoiselle are concerned in this. It is not only crime that calls?”
    â€œShe wrote to him,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “begging him to return.”
    Poirot nodded.
    â€œI wonder now,” he said. “I do not quite understand—”
    Mr. Satterthwaite interrupted.
    â€œYou do not understand the modern English girl? Well, that is not surprising. I do not always understand them myself. A girl like Miss Lytton Gore—”
    In his turn Poirot interrupted.
    â€œPardon. You have misunderstood me. I understand Miss Lytton Gore very well. I have met such another—many such others. You call the type modern; but it is—how shall I say?—agelong.”
    Mr. Satterthwaite was slightly annoyed. He felt that he—and only he—understood Egg. This preposterous foreigner knew nothing about young English womanhood.
    Poirot was still speaking. His tone was dreamy—brooding.
    â€œA knowledge of human nature—what a dangerous thing it can be.”
    â€œA useful thing,” corrected Mr. Satterthwaite.
    â€œPerhaps. It depends upon the point of view.”
    â€œWell—” Mr. Satterthwaite hesitated—got up. He was a little disappointed. He had cast the bait and the fish had not risen. He felt that his own knowledge of human nature was at fault. “I will wish you a pleasant holiday.”
    â€œI thank you.”
    â€œI hope that when you are next in London you will come and see me.” He produced a card. “This is my address.”
    â€œYou are most amiable, Mr. Satterthwaite. I shall be charmed.”
    â€œGood-bye for the present, then.”
    â€œGood-bye, and bon voyage. ”
    Mr. Satterthwaite moved away. Poirot looked after him for a moment or two, then once more he stared straight ahead of him, looking out over the blue Mediterranean.
    So he sat for at least ten minutes.
    The English child reappeared.
    â€œI’ve looked at the sea, Mummy. What shall I do next?”
    â€œAn admirable question,” said Hercule Poirot under his breath.
    He rose and walked slowly away—in the direction of the Wagon Lits offices.

Two
T HE M ISSING B UTLER
    S ir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were sitting in Colonel Johnson’s study. The chief constable was a big red-faced man with a barrack-room voice and a hearty manner.
    He had greeted Mr. Satterthwaite with every sign of pleasure and was obviously delighted to make the acquaintance of the famous Charles Cartwright.
    â€œMy missus is a great playgoer. She’s one of your—what do the Americans call it?—fans. That’s it—fans. I like a good play myself—good clean stuff that is, some of the things they put on the stage nowadays—faugh!”
    Sir Charles, conscious of rectitude in this respect—he had never put on “daring” plays, responded suitably with all his easy charm of manner. When they came to mention the object of their visit Colonel Johnson was only too ready to tell them all he could.
    â€œFriend of yours, you say? Too bad—too bad. Yes, he was very popular round here. That sanatorium of his is very highly spoken of, and by all accounts Sir Bartholomew was a first-rate fellow, aswell as being at the top of his profession. Kind, generous, popular all round. Last man in the world you’d expect to be murdered—and murder is what it looks like. There’s nothing to indicate suicide, and anything like accident seems out of the question.”
    â€œSatterthwaite and I have just come back from abroad,” said Sir Charles. “We’ve only seen snippets here and there in the papers.”
    â€œAnd naturally you want to know all about it. Well, I’ll tell you exactly how the matter stands. I think there’s no doubt the butler’s the man we’ve