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Poirot was still speaking. His tone was dreamy—brooding.
“A knowledge of human nature—what a dangerous thing it can be.”
“A useful thing,” corrected Mr. Satterthwaite.
“Perhaps. It depends upon the point of view.”
“Well—” Mr. Satterthwaite hesitated—got up. He was a little disappointed. He had cast the bait and the fish had not risen. He felt that his own knowledge of human nature was at fault. “I will wish you a pleasant holiday.”
“I thank you.”
“I hope that when you are next in London you will come and see me.” He produced a card. “This is my address.”
“You are most amiable, Mr. Satterthwaite. I shall be charmed.”
“Good-bye for the present, then.”
“Good-bye, and bon voyage
.”
Mr. Satterthwaite moved away. Poirot looked after him for a moment or two, then once more he stared straight ahead of him, looking out over the blue Mediterranean.
So he sat for at least ten minutes.
The English child reappeared.
“I’ve looked at the sea, Mummy. What shall I do next?”
“An admirable question,” said Hercule Poirot under his breath.
He rose and walked slowly away—in the direction of the Wagon Lits offices.
Two
THE MISSING BUTLER
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite were sitting in Colonel Johnson’s study. The chief constable was a big red-faced man with a barrack-room voice and a hearty manner.
He had greeted Mr. Satterthwaite with every sign of pleasure and was obviously delighted to make the acquaintance of the famous Charles Cartwright.
“My missus is a great playgoer. She’s one of your—what do the Americans call it?—fans. That’s it—fans. I like a good play myself—good clean stuff that is, some of the things they put on the stage nowadays—faugh!”
Sir Charles, conscious of rectitude in this respect—he had never put on “daring” plays, responded suitably with all his easy charm of manner. When they came to mention the object of their visit Colonel Johnson was only too ready to tell them all he could.
“Friend of yours, you say? Too bad—too bad. Yes, he was very popular round here. That sanatorium of his is very highly spoken of, and by all accounts Sir Bartholomew was a first-rate fellow, as well as being at the top of his profession. Kind, generous, popular all round. Last man in the world you’d expect to be murdered—and murder is what it looks like. There’s nothing to indicate suicide, and anything like accident seems out of the question.”
“Satterthwaite and I have just come back from abroad,” said Sir Charles. “We’ve only seen snippets here and there in the papers.”
“And naturally you want to know all about it. Well, I’ll tell you exactly how the matter stands. I think there’s no doubt the butler’s the man we’ve got to look for. He was a new man—Sir Bartholomew had only had him a fortnight, and the moment after the crime he disappears—vanishes into thin air. That looks a bit fishy, doesn’t it? Eh, what?”
“You’ve no notion where he went?”
Colonel Johnson’s naturally red face got a little redder.
“Negligence on our part, you think. I admit it damn’ well looks like it. Naturally the fellow was under observation—just the same as everyone else. He answered our questions quite satisfactorily—gave the London agency which obtained him the place. Last employer, Sir Horace Bird. All very civil spoken, no signs of panic. Next thing was he’d gone—and the house under observation. I’ve hauled my men over the coals, but they swear they didn’t bat an eyelid.”
“Very remarkable,” said Mr. Satterthwaite.
