22
At the office of Messrs. Speier & Ross, Mr. Satterthwaite asked for Mr. Oliver Manders and sent in his card.
Presently he was ushered¹ 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 exhumation². Babbington was poisoned - by nicotine³.”
“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 shrugged⁴ 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 artistic⁵ manner.”
“Nice of you to say so,” drawled Oliver.
“But frankly⁶, my dear boy, I don’t think much of the accident you faked. No more do the police, I understand.”
There was a moment’s silence - then a pen dropped to the floor. Oliver said:
“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand you.”
“That rather inartistic performance of yours at Melfort Abbey. I
should be interested to know - just why you did it.”
There was another silence, then Oliver said:
“You say the police - suspect?”
Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.
“It looks a little suspicious, don’t you think?” he asked pleasantly.
“But perhaps you have a perfectly⁷ good explanation.”
“I’ve got an explanation,” said Oliver slowly. “Whether it’s a good one or not, I don’t know.”
“Will you let me judge?”
There was a pause, then Oliver said:
“I came here - the way I did - at Sir Bartholomew’s own suggestion.”
“What?” Mr. Satterthwaite was astonished.
“A bit odd, isn’t it? But it’s true. I got a letter from him suggesting that I should have a sham⁸ accident and claim hospitality. He said he couldn’t put his reason in writing, but he would explain them to me at the first opportunity.”
“And did he explain?”
“No, he didn’t ... I got there just before dinner. I didn’t see him alone. At the end of dinner he - he died.”
The weariness had gone out of Oliver’s manner. His dark eyes were fixed⁹ on Mr. Satterthwaite. He seemed to be studying attentively¹⁰ the reactions aroused by his words.
“You’ve got this letter?”
“No, I tore it up.”
“A pity,” said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly. “And you said nothing to the police?”
“No, it all seemed - well, rather fantastic.”
“It is fantastic.”
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. Had Bartholomew Strange written such a letter? It seemed highly uncharacteristic. The story had a melodramatic touch most unlike the physician’s cheerful common sense.
He looked up at the young man. Oliver was still watching him. Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “He’s looking to see if I swallow this story.”
He said, “And Sir Bartholomew gave absolutely no reason for his request?”
“None whatever.”
“An extraordinary story.”
Oliver did not speak.
“Yet you obeyed the summons?”
Something of the weary manner returned.
“Yes, it seemed refreshingly¹¹ out of the way to a somewhat jaded¹² palate. I was curious, I must confess.”
“Is there anything else?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“What do you mean, sir, anything else?”
Mr. Satterthwaite did not really know what he meant. He was led by some obscure instinct.
“I mean,” he said, “is there anything else that might tell - against you?”
There was a pause. Then the young man shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose I might as well make a clean breast of it. The woman isn’t likely to hold her tongue about it.”
Mr. Satterthwaite looked a question.
“It was the morning after the murder stuff. I was talking to the Anthony Armstrong woman. I took out my pocket-book and something fell out of it. She picked it up and handed it back to me.”
“And this something?”
“Unfortunately she glanced at it before returning it to me. It was a cutting from a newspaper about nicotine - what a deadly poison it was, and so on.”
“How did you come to have such an interest in the subject?”
“I didn’t. I suppose I must have put that cutting in my wallet sometime or other, but I can’t remember doing so. Bit awkward, eh?”
Mr. Satterthwaite thought: “A thin story.”
“I suppose, went on Oliver Manders, she went to the police about it?”
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.
“I don’t think so. I fancy she’s a woman who likes - well, to keep things to herself. She’s a collector of knowledge.”
Oliver Manders leaned forward suddenly.
“I’m innocent, sir, absolutely innocent.”
“I haven’t suggested that you are guilty,” said Mr. Satterthwaite mildly.
“But someone has - someone must have done. Someone has put the police on to me.”
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.
“No, no.”
“Then why did you come here today?”
“Partly as the result of my - er - investigations¹³ on the spot. Mr. Satterthwaite spoke¹⁴ a little pompously¹⁵. And partly at the suggestion of - a friend.”
“What friend?”
“Hercule Poirot.”
“That man! The expression burst from Oliver. Is he back in England?”
“Yes.”
“Why has he come back?”
Mr. Satterthwaite rose.
“Why does a dog go hunting?” he inquired.
And, rather pleased with his retort, he left the room.

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