Chapter 22 Chapter Ten Oliver Mendes

At the door of the offices of Spearrose & Co. Mr. Satterthwaite asked where Mr. Oliver Mendes was and handed him his card. He was quickly ushered into a small room.Oliver is sitting at the desk. The young man stood up and shook his hand. "How do you do, sir, come and see me," he said. The subtext of his tone is: "That's all I can say. It's actually fucking annoying." At any rate Mr. Satterthwaite took off his coat with some difficulty and sat down.He blew his nose thoughtfully, examining his handkerchief. "Did you see the news this morning?"

"You're talking about the new financial market, eh? The dollar..." "It's not dollars," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It's death. It's the Lewmouth autopsy. Babington was poisoned—with nicotine." "Oh, that's the thing. I read it. Our passionate balls girl must be very happy. She always insists it's murder." "Aren't you interested yourself?" "My interests are not so vulgar. After all, murder isn't..." He shrugged. "It's no fun." "Not quite so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That depends on who's doing it. If it were you, I believe, you'd do it in a very artistic way."

"Thank you for saying that about me, Oliver." "To tell you the truth, my dear boy, I haven't given much thought to your intentional accident. Neither have the police, I suppose." There was a silence in the room.A pen fell to the floor. Oliver said, "Sorry, I don't quite understand what you mean." "I was talking about your lack of art at Melfort Abbey. What interests me is why did you do that?" There was another silence, and then Oliver said, "You say the police ... suspect?" Mr. Satterthwaite nodded. "That seems a little doubtful, don't you think?" he asked kindly, "but you may explain it best."

"I can explain," Oliver said slowly. "Whether it's good or bad, I don't know." "Say it and let me hear it." After a pause, Oliver said: "I went there in my own way, on Sir Bartholomew's advice." "What?" Mr. Satterthwaite was surprised. "It's kind of weird, isn't it? But it's true. I got a letter from him advising me to fake an accident and ask for a convent reception. He said he couldn't write the reason on the letter, but he would when we met Explain it to me." "Did he explain it later?"

"No, he didn't... I got there before the party. I saw he wasn't alone. He died before the party was over." Oliver looked tired.His dark eyes were fixed on Mr. Satterthwaite.He seemed to be carefully observing the reactions his words evoked. "Do you still have this letter?" "No. I tore it off." "What a pity," said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly. "Didn't you report it to the police?" "No, everything is...unbelievable." "It's incredible." Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head.Did Sir Bartholomew ever write this letter?This thing seems very unreasonable.It was a bluff, and very out of character with the doctor's jovial character.

He looked up at the young man.Oliver was still watching him.Mr. Satterthwaite thought, "He's seeing if I've believed the story." He said: "Has Sir Bartholomew not given you any reason for this request?" "Not at all." "What a surreal story." Oliver stopped talking. "You actually obeyed the order." Oliver looked tired again. "Yeah, it was refreshing and a little bit of a break from my boring life. Frankly, I was curious." "What else?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite. "What else? What do you mean?" Mr. Satterthwaite did not know what he meant.It was a vague instinct that said it.

"I mean," he said, "is there anything else you can tell me . . . about you?" After a pause, the young man shrugged and said, "I think I'll tell you all. That woman probably won't keep her mouth shut." Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him suspiciously. "It was the morning after the murder and I was talking to the woman from the Anthony Armstrong firm. As I was taking the notebook out of my wallet, something fell on the floor. She picked it up hand to me." "What is it?" "As luck would have it, she glanced at it before handing it to me. It was a newspaper clipping about nicotine—how deadly nicotine is and all that."

"Why are you interested in this matter?" "I didn't. I figured I must have put that clipping in my purse sometime, but I forgot, too. What a mess, eh?" Mr. Satterthwaite thought: "An unremarkable story." "I think," continued Oliver, "that she went to the police and reported it." Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "I don't think she would. I think she's a tight-lipped woman. She has a lot of knowledge..." Oliver suddenly leaned forward. "I am innocent, sir, I am absolutely innocent." "I didn't say you were guilty," said Mr. Satterthwaite softly.

"But someone...someone must think I'm guilty. Someone's gone to the police and charged me." Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "No no." "Then why did you come to me today?" "Partly because I'm going to make my own inquiries," said Mr. Satterthwaite, with a touch of grandiosity. "And part of it was at the behest of a friend." "What friend?" "Hercule Poirot." "That man!" blurted Oliver. "Has he returned to England?" "yes." "Why did he come back?" Mr. Satterthwaite rose.

"Why do dogs hunt?" he asked rhetorically. He left the house, quite satisfied with his rhetorical question.