Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page B

know the Chief Constable in that part of the world rather well—Colonel Johnson. That will come in useful.”
    â€œGood man,” cried Sir Charles. “Let’s go round to the Wagon Lits offices.”
    Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself:
    â€œThe girl’s done it. She’s got him back. She said she would. I wonder just exactly how much of her letter was genuine.”
    Decidedly, Egg Lytton Gore was an opportunist.
    When Sir Charles had gone off to the Wagon Lits offices, Mr. Satterthwaite strolled slowly through the gardens. His mind was still pleasantly engaged with the problem of Egg Lytton Gore. He admired her resource and her driving power, and stifled that slightly Victorian side of his nature which disapproved of a member of the fairer sex taking the initiative in affairs of the heart.
    Mr. Satterthwaite was an observant man. In the midst of his cogitations on the female sex in general, and Egg Lytton Gore in particular, he was unable to resist saying to himself:
    â€œNow 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.
    â€œDon’t do that, darling,” said her mother, who was absorbed in a fashion paper.
    â€œI haven’t anything to do,” said the child.
    The little man turned his head to look at her, and Mr. Satterthwaite recognized him.
    â€œM. Poirot,” he said. “This is a very pleasant surprise.” M. Poirot rose and bowed.
    â€œ Enchanté, monsieur. ”
    They shook hands, and Mr. Satterthwaite sat down.
    â€œEveryone seems to be in Monte Carlo. Not half an hour ago I ran across Sir Charles Cartwright, and now you.”
    â€œSir Charles, he also is here?”
    â€œHe’s been yachting. You know that he gave up his house at Loomouth?”
    â€œAh, no, I did not know it. I am surprised.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œAh, 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.
    â€œOh, so you noticed that?”
    â€œAssuredly I noticed. I have the heart very susceptible to lovers—you too, I think. And la jeunesse, it is always touching.”
    He sighed.
    â€œI think,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that actually you have hit on Sir Charles’s reason for leaving Loomouth. He was running away.”
    â€œFrom Mademoiselle Egg? But it is obvious that he adores her. Why, then, run?”
    â€œAh,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “you don’t understand our Anglo-Saxon complexes.”
    M. Poirot was following his own line of reasoning.
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œI don’t think it was quite that way,” he said. “Tell me, what are you doing out here? A holiday?”
    â€œMy time is all holidays nowadays. I have succeeded. I am rich. I retire. Now I travel about seeing the world.”
    â€œSplendid,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
    â€œ N’est-ce pas? ”
    â€œMummy,” said the English child, “isn’t there anything to do? ”
    â€œDarling,” said her mother reproachfully, “isn’t it lovely to have come abroad and to be in the beautiful sunshine?”
    â€œYes, but there’s