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Then, drawing a line through the supposed jottings for the article, she wrote in her little notebook:
“Cynthia Dacres. Believed to be in financial difficulties. Described as having a ‘wicked temper.’ Young man (rich) with whom she was believed to be having an affair was ordered on sea voyage by Sir Bartholomew Strange. Showed no reaction at mention of Gilling or at statement that Babbington knew her.”
“There doesn’t seem much there,” said Egg to herself. “A possible motive for the murder of Sir Bartholomew, but very thin. M. Poirot may be able to make something of that. I can’t.”
Seven
CAPTAIN DACRES
Egg had not yet finished her programme for the day. Her next move was to St. John’s House, in which building the Dacres had a flat. St. John’s House was a new block of extremely expensive flats. There were sumptuous window boxes and uniformed porters of such magnificence that they looked like foreign generals.
Egg did not enter the building. She strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street. After about an hour of this she calculated that she must have walked several miles. It was half past five.
Then a taxi drew up at the Mansions, and Captain Dacres alighted from it. Egg allowed three minutes to elapse, then she crossed the road and entered the building.
Egg pressed the doorbell of No. 3. Dacres himself opened the door. He was still engaged in taking off his overcoat.
“Oh,” said Egg. “How do you do? You do remember me, don’t you? We met in Cornwall, and again in Yorkshire.”
“Of course—of course. In at the death both times, weren’t we? Come in, Miss Lytton Gore.”
“I wanted to see your wife. Is she in?”
“She’s round in Bruton Street—at her dressmaking place.”
“I know. I was there today. I thought perhaps she’d be back by now, and that she wouldn’t mind, perhaps, if I came here—only, of course, I suppose I’m being a frightful bother—”
Egg paused appealingly.
Freddie Dacres said to himself:
“Nice-looking filly. Damned pretty girl, in fact.”
Aloud he said:
“Cynthia won’t be back till well after six. I’ve just come back from Newbury. Had a rotten day and left early. Come round to the Seventy-Two Club and have a cocktail?”
Egg accepted, though she had a shrewd suspicion that Dacres had already had quite as much alcohol as was good for him.
Sitting in the underground dimness of the Seventy-Two Club, and sipping a Martini, Egg said: “This is great fun. I’ve never been here before.”
Freddie Dacres smiled indulgently. He liked a young and pretty girl. Not perhaps as much as he liked some other things—but well enough.
“Upsettin’ sort of time, wasn’t it?” he said. “Up in Yorkshire, I mean. Something rather amusin’ about a doctor being poisoned—you see what I mean—wrong way about. A doctor’s a chap who poisons other people.”
He laughed uproariously at his own remark and ordered another pink gin.
“That’s rather clever of you,” said Egg. “I never thought of it that way before.”
“Only a joke, of course,” said Freddie Dacres.
“It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Egg, “that when we meet it’s always at a death.”
“Bit odd,” admitted Captain Dacres. “You mean the old clergyman chap at what’s his name’s—the actor fellow’s place?”
“Yes. It was very queer the way he died so suddenly.”
“Damn’ disturbin’,” said Dacres. “Makes you feel a bit gruey, fellows popping off all over the place. You know, you think ‘my turn next,’ and it gives you the shivers.”
