“Dear me,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “Am I really that kind of man?”
“Precisement.
You have shrewd judgment and observation, and you like keeping its results to yourself.
Your opinions of people are your private collection. You do not display them for all the world to see.”
“I believe,” began Mr. Satterthwaite, but he was interrupted by the return of Sir Charles.
The actor came in with a springing buoyant step.
“Brrr,” he said. “It’s a wild night.” He poured himself out a whisky and soda.
Mr. Satterthwaite and Poirot both declined.
“Well,” said Sir Charles, “let’s map out our plan of campaign.
Where’s that list, Satterthwaite?
An, thanks.
Now M. Poirot, counsel’s opinion, if you please.
How shall we divide up the spadework?” “How would you suggest yourself, Sir Charles?” “Well, we might divide these people up - division of labour - eh?
First, there’s Mrs. Dacres. Egg seems rather keen to take her on.
She seems to think that anyone so perfectly turned out won’t get impartial treatment from mere males.
It seems quite a good idea to approach her through the professional side. Satterthwaite and I might work the other gambit as well if it seemed advisable.
Then there’s Dacres.
I know some of his racing pals. I daresay I could pick up something that way.
Then there’s Angela Sutcliffe.”
“That also seems to be your work, Cartwright,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “You know her pretty well, don’t you?”
“Yes.
That’s why I’d rather somebody else tackled her ... Firstly,” he smiled ruefully, “I shall be accused of not putting my back into the job, and secondly - well - she’s a friend - you understand?”
“Parfaitement, parfaitement - you feel the natural delicacy. It is most understandable.
This good Mr. Satterthwaite - he will replace you in the task.”
“Lady Mary and Egg - they don’t count, of course.
What about young Manders?
His presence on the night of Tollie’s death was an accident; still, I suppose we ought to include him.”
“Mr. Satterthwaite will look after young Manders, said Poirot. But I think, Sir Charles, you have missed out a name on your list.
You have passed over Miss Muriel Wills.”
“So I have.
Well, if Satterthwaite takes on Manders, I’ll take on Miss Wills.
Is that settled?
Any suggestions, M. Poirot?”
“No, no - I do not think so.
I shall be interested to hear your results.”
“Of course - that goes without saying.
Another idea: If we procured photographs of these people we might use them in making inquiries in Gilling.”
“Excellent,” approved Poirot. “There was something - ah, yes, your friend, Sir Bartholomew, he did not drink cocktails, but he did drink the port?”
“Yes, he had a particular weakness for port.”
“It seems odd to me that he did not taste anything unusual.
Pure nicotine has a most pungent and unpleasant taste.”
“You’ve got to remember,” said Sir Charles, “that there probably wasn’t any nicotine in the port.
The contents of the glass were analysed, remember.”
“Ah, yes - foolish of me.
But, however it was administered - nicotine has a very disagreeable taste.”
“I don’t know that that would matter,” said Sir Charles slowly. “Tollie had a very bad go of influenza last spring, and it left him with his sense of taste and smell a good deal impaired.”
“Ah, yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “That might account for it. That simplifies things considerably.” Sir Charles went to the window and looked out. “Still blowing a gale. I’ll send for your things, M. Poirot. The Rose and Crown is all very well for enthusiastic artists, but I think you’d prefer proper sanitation and a comfortable bed.” “You are extremely amiable, Sir Charles.” “Not at all. I’ll see to it now.” He left the room. Poirot looked at Mr. Satterthwaite. “If I may permit myself a suggestion.”
Poirot leaned forward, and said in a low voice:
“Ask young Manders why he faked an accident.
Tell him the police suspect him - and see what he says.”