“Master Bun, the baker’s son - I always loved him.
And here’s Mrs. Mug, the milkman’s wife.
Oh, dear, I suppose that’s me.”
“Why is that funny picture you, mademoiselle?”
“Because of the name.”
Egg laughed at his bewildered face and then began explaining.
When she had finished he said: “Ah, it was that that Sir Charles meant last night. I wondered ... Mugg - ah, yes, one says in slang, does one not, you are a mug - a fool?
Naturally you would change your name.
You would not like to be Lady Mugg, eh?”
Egg laughed.
She said: “Well, wish me happiness.”
“I do wish you happiness, mademoiselle. Not the brief happiness of youth, but the happiness that endures - the happiness that is built upon a rock.”
“I’ll tell Charles you call him a rock,” said Egg. “And now for what I came to see you about. I’ve been worrying and worrying about that cutting from the paper that Oliver dropped from his wallet. You know, the one Miss Wills picked up and handed back to him.
It seems to me that either Oliver is telling a downright lie when he says he doesn’t remember its being there, or else it never was there.
He dropped some odd bit of paper, and that woman pretended it was the nicotine cutting.”
“Why should she have done that, mademoiselle?”
“Because she wanted to get rid of it. She planted it one Oliver.”
“You mean she is a criminal?”
“Yes.”
“What was her motive?”
“It’s no good asking me that.
I can only suggest that she’s a lunatic.
Clever people often are rather mad.
I can’t see any other reason - in fact I can’t see any motive anywhere.”
“Decidedly, that is the impasse.
I should not ask you to guess at a motive.
It is of myself that I ask that question without ceasing.
What was the motive behind Mr. Babbington’s death?
When I can answer that the case will be solved.”
“You don’t think just madness - ?” suggested Egg.
“No, mademoiselle - not madness in the sense you mean.
There is a reason. I must find that reason.”
“Well, good-bye,” said Egg. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but the idea just occurred to me.
I must hurry.
I’m going with Charles to the dress rehearsal of Little Dog Laughed - you know, the play Miss Wills has written for Angela Sutcliffe.
It’s the first night tomorrow.”
“Mon dieu!” cried Poirot.
“What is it?
Has anything happened?”
“Yes, indeed something has happened.
An idea.
A superb idea.
Oh, but I have been blind - blind - ”
Egg stared at him.
As though realising his eccentricity, Poirot took a hold on himself. He patted Egg on the shoulder.
“You think I am mad.
Not at all.
I heard what you said.
You go to see The Little Dog Laughed, and Miss Sutcliffe acts in it.
Go then, and pay no attention to what I have said.”