doctor died. I haven’t said anything to the police - yet. If you will meet me -
This letter broke off in a different way - after the “me” the pen had tailed off in a scrawl, and the last five words were all blurred and blotchy. Clearly it was when writing this that Ellis had heard something that alarmed him. He had crumpled up the papers and dashed to conceal them.
Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath.
“I congratulate you, Cartwright,” he said. “Your instinct about that ink-stain was right. Good work. Now let’s see exactly where we stand.”
He paused a minute.
“Ellis, as we thought, is a scoundrel. He wasn’t the murderer, but he knew who the murderer was, and he was preparing to blackmail him or her - ”
“Him or her,” interrupted Sir Charles. “Annoying we don’t know which. Why couldn’t the fellow begin one of his effusions Sir or Madam, then we’d know where we are. Ellis seems to have been an artistic sort of fellow. He was taking a lot of trouble over his blackmailing letter. If only he’d given us one clue - one simple little clue - as to whom that letter was addressed.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We are getting on. You remember you said that what we wanted to find in this room was a proof of Ellis’s innocence. Well, we’ve found it. These letters show that he was innocent - of murder, I mean. He was a thorough-paced scoundrel in other ways. But he didn’t murder Sir Bartholomew Strange. Somebody else did it that. Someone who murdered Babbington also. I think even the police will have to come round to our view now.”
“You’re going to tell them about this?”
Sir Charles’s voice expressed dissatisfaction.
“I don’t see that we can do otherwise. Why?”
“Well -” Sir Charles sat down on the bed. His brow furrowed itself in thought. “How can I put it best? At the moment we know something that nobody else does. The police are looking for Ellis. They think he’s the murderer. Everyone knows that they think he’s the murderer. So the real criminal must be feeling pretty good. He (or she) will be not exactly off his or her guard, but feeling - well, comfortable. Isn’t it a pity to upset that state of things? Isn’t that just our chance? I mean our chance of finding a connection between Babbington and one of these people. They don’t know that anyone has connected this death with Babbington’s death. They’ll be unsuspicious. It’s a chance in a hundred.”
“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “And I agree with you. It is a chance. But, all the same, I don’t think we can take it. It is our duty as citizens to report this discovery of ours to the police at once. We have no right to withhold it from them.”
Sir Charles looked at him quizzically.
“You’re the pattern of a good citizen, Satterthwaite. I’ve no doubt the orthodox thing must be done - but I’m not nearly such a good citizen as you are. I should have no scruples in keeping this find to myself for a day or two - only a day or two - eh? No? Well, I give in. let us be pillars of law and order.”
“You see,” explained Mr. Satterthwaite, “Johnson is a friend of mine, and he was very decent about it all - let us into all the police were doing - gave us full information, and all that.”
“Oh, you’re right,” sighed Sir Charles. “Quite right. Only, after all, no one but me thought of looking under that gas stove. The idea never occurred to one of those thickheaded policeman ... But have it your own way. I say, Satterthwaite, where do you think Ellis is now?”
“I presume,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that he got what he wanted. He was paid to disappear, and he did disappear - most effectually.”
“Yes,” said Sir Charles. “I suppose that is the explanation.”
He gave a slight shiver.
“I don’t like this room, Satterthwaite. Come out of it.”
Three Act Tragedy
12
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite arrived back in London the
This letter broke off in a different way - after the “me” the pen had tailed off in a scrawl, and the last five words were all blurred and blotchy. Clearly it was when writing this that Ellis had heard something that alarmed him. He had crumpled up the papers and dashed to conceal them.
Mr. Satterthwaite drew a deep breath.
“I congratulate you, Cartwright,” he said. “Your instinct about that ink-stain was right. Good work. Now let’s see exactly where we stand.”
He paused a minute.
“Ellis, as we thought, is a scoundrel. He wasn’t the murderer, but he knew who the murderer was, and he was preparing to blackmail him or her - ”
“Him or her,” interrupted Sir Charles. “Annoying we don’t know which. Why couldn’t the fellow begin one of his effusions Sir or Madam, then we’d know where we are. Ellis seems to have been an artistic sort of fellow. He was taking a lot of trouble over his blackmailing letter. If only he’d given us one clue - one simple little clue - as to whom that letter was addressed.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We are getting on. You remember you said that what we wanted to find in this room was a proof of Ellis’s innocence. Well, we’ve found it. These letters show that he was innocent - of murder, I mean. He was a thorough-paced scoundrel in other ways. But he didn’t murder Sir Bartholomew Strange. Somebody else did it that. Someone who murdered Babbington also. I think even the police will have to come round to our view now.”
“You’re going to tell them about this?”
Sir Charles’s voice expressed dissatisfaction.
“I don’t see that we can do otherwise. Why?”
“Well -” Sir Charles sat down on the bed. His brow furrowed itself in thought. “How can I put it best? At the moment we know something that nobody else does. The police are looking for Ellis. They think he’s the murderer. Everyone knows that they think he’s the murderer. So the real criminal must be feeling pretty good. He (or she) will be not exactly off his or her guard, but feeling - well, comfortable. Isn’t it a pity to upset that state of things? Isn’t that just our chance? I mean our chance of finding a connection between Babbington and one of these people. They don’t know that anyone has connected this death with Babbington’s death. They’ll be unsuspicious. It’s a chance in a hundred.”
“I see what you mean,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “And I agree with you. It is a chance. But, all the same, I don’t think we can take it. It is our duty as citizens to report this discovery of ours to the police at once. We have no right to withhold it from them.”
Sir Charles looked at him quizzically.
“You’re the pattern of a good citizen, Satterthwaite. I’ve no doubt the orthodox thing must be done - but I’m not nearly such a good citizen as you are. I should have no scruples in keeping this find to myself for a day or two - only a day or two - eh? No? Well, I give in. let us be pillars of law and order.”
“You see,” explained Mr. Satterthwaite, “Johnson is a friend of mine, and he was very decent about it all - let us into all the police were doing - gave us full information, and all that.”
“Oh, you’re right,” sighed Sir Charles. “Quite right. Only, after all, no one but me thought of looking under that gas stove. The idea never occurred to one of those thickheaded policeman ... But have it your own way. I say, Satterthwaite, where do you think Ellis is now?”
“I presume,” said Mr. Satterthwaite, “that he got what he wanted. He was paid to disappear, and he did disappear - most effectually.”
“Yes,” said Sir Charles. “I suppose that is the explanation.”
He gave a slight shiver.
“I don’t like this room, Satterthwaite. Come out of it.”
Three Act Tragedy
12
Sir Charles and Mr. Satterthwaite arrived back in London the
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