Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie [61]
‘I was, as a matter of fact.’
‘Another play?’
‘Yes. To tell you the truth, I thought of using some of the characters at the house-party at Melfort Abbey.’
‘What about libel?’
‘That’s quite all right, Sir Charles, I find people never recognize themselves.’ She giggled. ‘Not if, as you said just now, one is really merciless.’
‘You mean,’ said Sir Charles, ‘that we all have an exaggerated idea of our own personalities and don’t recognize the truth if it’s sufficiently brutally portrayed. I was quite right, Miss Wills, you are a cruel woman.’
Miss Wills tittered.
‘You needn’t be afraid, Sir Charles. Women aren’t usually cruel to men—unless it’s some particular man—they’re only cruel to other women.’
‘Meaning you’ve got your analytical knife into some unfortunate female. Which one? Well, perhaps I can guess. Cynthia’s not beloved by her own sex.’
Miss Wills said nothing. She continued to smile—rather a catlike smile.
‘Do you write your stuff or dictate it?’
‘Oh, I write it and send it to be typed.’
‘You ought to have a secretary.’
‘Perhaps. Have you still got that clever Miss—Miss Milray, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’ve got Miss Milray. She went away for a time to look after her mother in the country, but she’s back again now. Most efficient woman.’
‘So I should think. Perhaps a little impulsive.’
‘Impulsive? Miss Milray?’
Sir Charles stared. Never in his wildest flights of fancy had he associated impulse with Miss Milray.
‘Only on occasions, perhaps,’ said Miss Wills.
Sir Charles shook his head.
‘Miss Milray’s the perfect robot. Goodbye, Miss Wills. Forgive me for bothering you, and don’t forget to let the police know about that thingummybob.’
‘The mark on the butler’s right wrist? No, I won’t forget.’
‘Well, goodbye—half a sec.—did you say right wrist? You said left just now.’
‘Did I? How stupid of me.’
‘Well, which was it?’
Miss Wills frowned and half closed her eyes.
‘Let me see. I was sitting so—and he—would you mind, Sir Charles, handing me that brass plate as though it was a vegetable dish. Left side.’
Sir Charles presented the beaten brass atrocity as directed.
‘Cabbage, madam?’
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Wills, ‘I’m quite sure now. It was the left wrist, as I said first. Stupid of me.’
‘No, no,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Left and right are always puzzling.’
He said goodbye for the third time.
As he closed the door he looked back. Miss Wills was not looking at him. She was standing where he had left her. She was gazing at the fire, and on her lips was a smile of satisfied malice.
Sir Charles was startled.
‘That woman knows something,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll swear she knows something. And she won’t say…But what the devil is it she knows?’
Chapter 10
Oliver Manders
At the office of Messrs Speier & Ross, Mr Satterthwaite asked for Mr Oliver Manders and sent in his card.
Presently he was ushered into a small room, where Oliver was sitting at a writing-table.
The young man got up and shook hands.
‘Good of you to look me up, sir,’ he said.
His tone implied:
‘I have to say that, but really it’s a damned bore.’
Mr Satterthwaite, however, was not easily put off. He sat down, blew his nose thoughtfully, and, peering over the top of his handkerchief, said:
‘Seen the news this morning?’
‘You mean the new financial situation? Well, the dollar—’
‘Not dollars,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Death. The result of the Loomouth exhumation. Babbington was poisoned—by nicotine.’
‘Oh, that—yes, I saw that. Our energetic Egg will be pleased. She always insisted it was murder.’
‘But it doesn’t interest you?’
‘My tastes aren’t so crude. After all, murder—’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘So violent and inartistic.’
‘Not always inartistic,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘No? Well, perhaps not.’
‘It depends, does it not, on who commits the murder. You, for instance, would, I am sure, commit a murder in a very artistic manner.’
‘Nice of you to say so,’ drawled Oliver.
‘But frankly, my dear boy, I don’t