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“But someone has—someone must have done. Someone has put the police onto me.”
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.
“No, no.”
“Then why did you come here today?”
“Partly as the result of my—er—investigations on the spot.” Mr. Satterthwaite spoke a little pompously. “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.
Eleven
POIROT GIVES A SHERRY PARTY
I
Sitting in a comfortable armchair in his slightly florid suite at the Ritz, Hercule Poirot listened.
Egg was perched on the arm of a chair, Sir Charles stood in front of the fireplace, Mr. Satterthwaite sat a little farther away observing the group.
“It’s failure all along the line,” said Egg.
Poirot shook his head gently.
“No, no, you exaggerate. As regards a link with Mr. Babbington, you have drawn the blank—yes; but you have collected other suggestive information.”
“The Wills woman knows something,” said Sir Charles. “I’ll swear she knows something.”
“And Captain Dacres, he too has not the clear conscience. And Mrs. Dacres was desperately in want of money, and Sir Bartholomew spoilt her chance of laying hold of some.”
“What do you think of young Manders’s story?” asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
“It strikes me as peculiar and as being highly uncharacteristic of the late Sir Bartholomew Strange.”
“You mean it’s a lie?” asked Sir Charles bluntly.
“There are so many kinds of lies,” said Hercule Poirot.
He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
“This Miss Wills, she has written a play for Miss Sutcliffe?”
“Yes. The first night is Wednesday next.”
