Three Act Tragedy (13 page)

T
he 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 sixty 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 require
ments, 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 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 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:

“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.”

E
gg 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 doorbell 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.”

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.”

Somehow, to Egg, the explanation was not quite satisfying.