Agatha Christie

Cards on the Table

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

Foreword

There is an idea prevalent that a detective story is rather like a big raceâa number of startersâlikely horses and jockeys. âYou pays your money and you takes your choice!â The favourite is by common consent the opposite of a favourite on the race course. In other words he is likely to be a complete outsider! Spot the least likely person to have committed the crime and in nine times out of ten your task is finished.

Since I do not want my faithful readers to fling away this book in disgust, I prefer to warn them beforehand that this is not that kind of book. There are only four starters and any one of them, given the right circumstances, might have committed the crime. That knocks out forcibly the element of surprise. Nevertheless there should be, I think, an equal interest attached to four persons, each of whom has committed murder and is capable of committing further murders. They are four widely divergent types, the motive that drives each one of them to crime is peculiar to that person, and each one would employ a different method. The deduction must, therefore, be entirely psychological, but it is none the less interesting for that, because when all is said and done it is the mind of the murderer that is of supreme interest.

I may say, as an additional argument in favour of this story, that it was one of Hercule Poirotâs favourite cases. His friend, Captain Hastings, however, when Poirot described it to him, considered it very dull! I wonder with which of them my readers will agree.

One

MR. SHAITANA

âMy dear M. Poirot!â

It was a soft purring voiceâa voice used deliberately as an instrumentânothing impulsive or premeditated about it.

Hercule Poirot swung round.

He bowed.

He shook hands ceremoniously.

There was something in his eye that was unusual. One would have said that this chance encounter awakened in him an emotion that he seldom had occasion to feel.

âMy dear Mr. Shaitana,â he said.

They both paused. They were like duellists en garde.

Around them a well-dressed languid London crowd eddied mildly. Voices drawled or murmured.

âDarlingâexquisite!â

âSimply divine, arenât they, my dear?â

It was the Exhibition of Snuffboxes at Wessex House. Admission one guinea, in aid of the London hospitals.

âMy dear man,â said Mr. Shaitana, âhow nice to see you! Not hanging or guillotining much just at present? Slack season in the criminal world? Or is there to be a robbery here this afternoonâthat would be too delicious.â

âAlas, Monsieur,â said Poirot. âI came here in a purely private capacity.â

Mr. Shaitana was diverted for a moment by a Lovely Young Thing with tight poodle curls up one side of her head and three cornucopias in black straw on the other.

He said:

âMy dearâwhy didnât you come to my party? It really was a marvellous party! Quite a lot of people actually spoke to me! One woman even said, âHow do you do,â and âGood-byeâ and âThank you so muchââbut of course she came from a Garden City, poor dear!â

While the Lovely Young Thing made a suitable reply, Poirot allowed himself a good study of the hirsute adornment on Mr. Shaitanaâs upper lip.

A fine moustacheâa very fine moustacheâthe only moustache in London, perhaps, that could compete with that of M. Hercule Poirot.

âBut it is not so luxuriant,â he murmured to himself. âNo, decidedly it is inferior in every respect. Tout de mÃªme, it catches the eye.â

The whole of Mr. Shaitanaâs person caught the eyeâit was designed to do so. He deliberately attempted a Mephistophelian effect. He was tall and thin, his face was long and melancholy, his eyebrows were heavily accented and jet black, he wore a moustache with stiff waxed ends and a tiny black imperial. His clothes were works of artâof exquisite cutâbut with a suggestion of bizarre.

Every healthy Englishman who saw him longed earnestly and fervently to kick him! They said, with a singular lack of originality, âThereâs that damned Dago, Shaitana!â

Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers said, varying the idiom according to their generation, words to this effect: âI know, my dear. Of course, he is too terrible. But so rich! And such marvellous parties! And heâs always got something amusing and spiteful to tell you about people.â

Whether Mr. Shaitana was an Argentine, or a Portuguese, or a Greek, or some other nationality rightly despised by the insular Briton, nobody knew.

But three facts were quite certain:

He existed richly and beautifully in a super flat in Park Lane.

He gave wonderful partiesâlarge parties, small parties, macabre parties, respectable parties and definitely âqueerâ parties.

He was a man of whom nearly everybody was a little afraid.

Why this last was so can hardly be stated in definite words. There was a feeling, perhaps, that he knew a little too much about everybody. And there was a feeling, too, that his sense of humour was a curious one.

People nearly always felt that it would be better not to risk offending Mr. Shaitana.

It was his humour this afternoon to bait that ridiculous-looking little man, Hercule Poirot.

âSo even a policeman needs recreation?â he said. âYou study the arts in your old age, M. Poirot?â

Poirot smiled good-humouredly.

âI see,â he said, âthat you yourself have lent three snuffboxes to the Exhibition.â

Mr. Shaitana waved a deprecating hand.

âOne picks up trifles here and there. You must come to my flat one day. I have some interesting pieces. I do not confine myself to any particular period or class of object.â

âYour tastes are catholic,â said Poirot smiling.

âAs you say.â

Suddenly Mr. Shaitanaâs eyes danced, the corners of his lips curled up, his eyebrows assumed a fantastic tilt.

âI could even show you objects in your own line, M. Poirot!â

âYou have then a private âBlack Museum.ââ

âBah!â Mr. Shaitana snapped disdainful fingers. âThe cup used by the Brighton murderer, the jemmy of a celebrated burglarâabsurd childishness! I should never burden myself with rubbish like that. I collect only the best objects of their kind.â

âAnd what do you consider the best objects, artistically speaking, in crime?â inquired Poirot.

Mr. Shaitana leaned forward and laid two fingers on Poirotâs shoulder. He hissed his words dramatically.

âThe human beings who commit them, M. Poirot.â

Poirotâs eyebrows rose a trifle.

âAha, I have startled you,â said Mr. Shaitana. âMy dear, dear man, you and I look on these things as from poles apart! For you crime is a matter of routine: a murder, an investigation, a clue, and ultimately (for you are undoubtedly an able fellow) a conviction. Such banalities would not interest me! I am not interested in poor specimens of any kind. And the caught murderer is necessarily one of the failures. He is second-rate. No, I look on the matter from the artistic point of view. I collect only the best!â

âThe best beingâ?â asked Poirot.

âMy dear fellowâthe ones who have got away with it! The successes! The criminals who lead an agreeable life which no breath of suspicion has ever touched. Admit that is an amusing hobby.â

âIt was another word I was thinking ofânot amusing.â

âAn idea!â cried Shaitana, paying no attention to Poirot. âA little dinner! A dinner to meet my exhibits! Really, that is a most amusing thought. I cannot think why it has never occurred to me before. Yesâyes, I see it exactly â¦ You must give me a little timeânot next weekâlet us say the week after next. You are free? What day shall we say?â

âAny day of the week after next would suit me,â said Poirot with a bow.

âGoodâthen let us say Friday. Friday the 18th, that will be. I will write it down at once in my little book. Really, the idea pleases me enormously.â

âI am not quite sure if it pleases me,â said Poirot slowly. âI do not mean that I am insensible to the kindness of your invitationânoânot thatââ

Shaitana interrupted him.

âBut it shocks your bourgeois sensibilities? My dear fellow, you must free yourself from the limitations of the policeman mentality.â

Poirot said slowly:

âIt is true that I have a thoroughly bourgeois attitude to murder.â

âBut, my dear, why? A stupid, bungled, butchering businessâyes, I agree with you. But murder can be an art! A murderer can be an artist.â

âOh, I admit it.â

âWell then?â Mr. Shaitana asked.

âBut he is still a murderer!â

âSurely, my dear M. Poirot, to do a thing supremely well is a justification! You want, very unimaginatively, to take every murderer, handcuff him, shut him up, and eventually break his neck for him in the early hours of the morning. In my opinion a really successful murderer should be granted a pension out of the public funds and asked out to dinner!â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âI am not as insensitive to art in crime as you think. I can admire the perfect murderâI can also admire a tigerâthat splendid tawny-striped beast. But I will admire him from outside his cage. I will not go inside. That is to say, not unless it is my duty to do so. For you see, Mr. Shaitana, the tiger might springâ¦.â

Mr. Shaitana laughed.

âI see. And the murderer?â

âMight murder,â said Poirot gravely.

âMy dear fellowâwhat an alarmist you are! Then you will not come to meet my collection ofâtigers?â

âOn the contrary, I shall be enchanted.â

âHow brave!â

âYou do not quite understand me, Mr. Shaitana. My words were in the nature of a warning. You asked me just now to admit that your idea of a collection of murderers was amusing. I said I could think of another word other than amusing. That word was dangerous. I fancy, Mr. Shaitana, that your hobby might be a dangerous one!â

Mr. Shaitana laughed, a very Mephistophelian laugh.

He said:

âI may expect you, then, on the 18th?â

Poirot gave a little bow.

âYou may expect me on the 18th. Mille remerciments.â

âI shall arrange a little party,â mused Shaitana. âDo not forget. Eight oâclock.â

He moved away. Poirot stood a minute or two looking after him.

He shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

Two

DINNER AT MR. SHAITANAâS

The door of Mr. Shaitanaâs flat opened noiselessly. A grey-haired butler drew it back to let Poirot enter. He closed it equally noiselessly and deftly relieved the guest of his overcoat and hat.

He murmured in a low expressionless voice:

âWhat name shall I say?â

âM. Hercule Poirot.â

There was a little hum of talk that eddied out into the hall as the butler opened a door and announced:

âM. Hercule Poirot.â

Sherry glass in hand, Shaitana came forward to meet him. He was, as usual, immaculately dressed. The Mephistophelian suggestion was heightened tonight, the eyebrows seemed accentuated in their mocking twist.

âLet me introduce youâdo you know Mrs. Oliver?â

The showman in him enjoyed the little start of surprise that Poirot gave.

Mrs. Ariadne Oliver was extremely well-known as one of the foremost writers of detective and other sensational stories. She wrote chatty (if not particularly grammatical) articles on The Tendency of the Criminal; Famous Crimes Passionnels; Murder for Love v. Murder for Gain. She was also a hotheaded feminist, and when any murder of importance was occupying space in the Press there was sure to be an interview with Mrs. Oliver, and it was mentioned that Mrs. Oliver had said, âNow if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard!â She was an earnest believer in womanâs intuition.

For the rest she was an agreeable woman of middle age, handsome in a rather untidy fashion with fine eyes, substantial shoulders and a large quantity of rebellious grey hair with which she was continually experimenting. One day her appearance would be highly intellectualâa brow with the hair scraped back from it and coiled in a large bun in the neckâon another Mrs. Oliver would suddenly appear with Madonna loops, or large masses of slightly untidy curls. On this particular evening Mrs. Oliver was trying out a fringe.

She greeted Poirot, whom she had met before at a literary dinner, in an agreeable bass voice.

âAnd Superintendent Battle you doubtless know,â said Mr. Shaitana.

A big, square, wooden-faced man moved forward. Not only did an onlooker feel that Superintendent Battle was carved out of woodâhe also managed to convey the impression that the wood in question was the timber out of a battleship.

Superintendent Battle was supposed to be Scotland Yardâs best representative. He always looked stolid and rather stupid.

âI know M. Poirot,â said Superintendent Battle.

And his wooden face creased into a smile and then returned to its former unexpressiveness.

âColonel Race,â went on Mr. Shaitana.

Poirot had not previously met Colonel Race, but he knew something about him. A dark, handsome, deeply bronzed man of fifty, he was usually to be found in some outpost of empireâespecially if there were trouble brewing. Secret Service is a melodramatic term, but it described pretty accurately to the lay mind the nature and scope of Colonel Raceâs activities.

Poirot had by now taken in and appreciated the particular essence of his hostâs humorous intentions.

âOur other guests are late,â said Mr. Shaitana. âMy fault, perhaps. I believe I told them 8:15.â

But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced:

âDr. Roberts.â

The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes, a touch of baldness, a tendency to embonpoint and a general air of well-scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. You felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practicalââa little champagne in convalescence perhaps.â A man of the world!

âNot late, I hope?â said Dr. Roberts genially.

He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Battle.

âWhy, youâre one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, arenât you? This is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, perhaps. Mustnât say so to my nervous patientsâha ha!â

Again the door opened.

âMrs. Lorrimer.â

Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had finely cut features, beautifully arranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive voice.

âI hope Iâm not late,â she said, advancing to her host.

She turned from him to greet Dr. Roberts, with whom she was acquainted.

The butler announced:

âMajor Despard.â

Major Despard was a tall, lean, handsome man, his face slightly marred by a scar on the temple. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Raceâand the two men were soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on safari.

For the last time the door opened and the butler announced:

âMiss Meredith.â

A girl in the early twenties entered. She was of medium height and pretty. Brown curls clustered in her neck, her grey eyes were large and wide apart. Her face was powdered but not made-up. Her voice was slow and rather shy.

She said:

âOh dear, am I the last?â

Mr. Shaitana descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious.

Miss Meredith was left sipping her sherry by Poirotâs side.

âOur friend is very punctilious,â said Poirot with a smile.

The girl agreed.

âI know. People rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say âI expect you know everybodyâ and leave it at that.â

âWhether you do or you donât?â

âWhether you do or donât. Sometimes it makes it awkwardâbut I think this is more awe-inspiring.â

She hesitated and then said:

âIs that Mrs. Oliver, the novelist?â

Mrs. Oliverâs bass voice rose powerfully at that minute, speaking to Dr. Roberts.

âYou canât get away from a womanâs instinct, doctor. Women know these things.â

Forgetting that she no longer had a brow she endeavoured to sweep her hair back from it but was foiled by the fringe.

âThat is Mrs. Oliver,â said Poirot.

âThe one who wrote The Body in the Library?â

âThat identical one.â

Miss Meredith frowned a little.

âAnd that wooden-looking manâa superintendent did Mr. Shaitana say?â

âFrom Scotland Yard.â

âAnd you?â

âAnd me?â

âI know all about you, M. Poirot. It was you who really solved the A.B.C. crimes.â

âMadamoiselle, you cover me with confusion.â

Miss Meredith drew her brows together.

âMr. Shaitana,â she began and then stopped. âMr. Shaitanaââ

Poirot said quietly:

âOne might say he was âcrime-minded.â It seems so. Doubtless he wishes to hear us dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Oliver and Dr. Roberts. They are now discussing untraceable poisons.â

Miss Meredith gave a little gasp as she said:

âWhat a queer man he is!â

âDr. Roberts?â

âNo, Mr. Shaitana.â

She shivered a little and said:

âThereâs always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never know what would strike him as amusing. It mightâit might be something cruel.â

âSuch as foxhunting, eh?â

Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.

âI meantâoh! something Oriental!â

âHe has perhaps the tortuous mind,â admitted Poirot.

âTorturerâs?â

âNo, no tortuous, I said.â

âI donât think I like him frightfully,â confided Miss Meredith, her voice dropping.

âYou will like his dinner, though,â Poirot assured her. âHe has a marvellous cook.â

She looked at him doubtfully and then laughed.

âWhy,â she exclaimed, âI believe you are quite human.â

âBut certainly I am human!â

âYou see,â said Miss Meredith, âall these celebrities are rather intimidating.â

âMademoiselle, you should not be intimidatedâyou should be thrilled! You should have all ready your autograph book and your fountain pen.â

âWell, you see, Iâm not really terribly interested in crime. I donât think women are: itâs always men who read detective stories.â

Hercule Poirot sighed affectedly.

âAlas!â he murmured. âWhat would I not give at this minute to be even the most minor of film stars!â

The butler threw the door open.

âDinner is served,â he murmured.

Poirotâs prognostication was amply justified. The dinner was delicious and its serving perfection. Subdued light, polished wood, the blue gleam of Irish glass. In the dimness, at the head of the table, Mr. Shaitana looked more than ever diabolical.

He apologized gracefully for the uneven number of the sexes.

Mrs. Lorrimer was on his right hand, Mrs. Oliver on his left. Miss Meredith was between Superintendent Battle and Major Despard. Poirot was between Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts.

The latter murmured facetiously to him.

âYouâre not going to be allowed to monopolize the only pretty girl all the evening. You French fellows, you donât waste your time, do you?â

âI happen to be Belgian,â murmured Poirot.

âSame thing where the ladies are concerned, I expect, my boy,â said the doctor cheerfully.

Then, dropping the facetiousness, and adopting a professional tone, he began to talk to Colonel Race on his other side about the latest developments in the treatment of sleeping sickness.

Mrs. Lorrimer turned to Poirot and began to talk of the latest plays. Her judgements were sound and her criticisms apt. They drifted on to books and then to world politics. He found her a well-informed and thoroughly intelligent woman.

On the opposite side of the table Mrs. Oliver was asking Major Despard if he knew of any unheard-of-out-of-the-way poisons.

âWell, thereâs curare.â

âMy dear man, vieux jeu! Thatâs been done hundreds of times. I mean something new!â

Major Despard said drily:

âPrimitive tribes are rather old-fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them.â

âVery tiresome of them,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI should have thought they were always experimenting with pounding up herbs and things. Such a chance for explorers, I always think. They could come home and kill off all their rich old uncles with some new drug that no oneâs ever heard of.â

âYou should go to civilization, not to the wilds for that,â said Despard. âIn the modern laboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent-looking germs that will produce bona fide diseases.â

âThat wouldnât do for my public,â said Mrs. Oliver. âBesides one is so apt to get the names wrongâstaphylococcus and streptococcus and all those thingsâso difficult for my secretary and anyway rather dull, donât you think so? What do you think, Superintendent Battle?â

âIn real life people donât bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Oliver,â said the superintendent. âThey usually stick to arsenic because itâs nice and handy to get hold of.â

âNonsense,â said Mrs. Oliver. âThatâs simply because there are lots of crimes you people at Scotland Yard never find out. Now if you had a woman thereââ

âAs a matter of fact we haveââ

âYes, those dreadful policewomen in funny hats who bother people in parks! I mean a woman at the head of things. Women know about crime.â

âTheyâre usually very successful criminals,â said Superintendent Battle. âKeep their heads well. Itâs amazing how theyâll brazen things out.â

Mr. Shaitana laughed gently.

âPoison is a womanâs weapon,â he said. âThere must be many secret women poisonersânever found out.â

âOf course there are,â said Mrs. Oliver happily, helping herself lavishly to a mousse of foie gras.

âA doctor, too, has opportunities,â went on Mr. Shaitana thoughtfully.

âI protest,â cried Dr. Roberts. âWhen we poison our patients itâs entirely by accident.â He laughed heartily.

âBut if I were to commit a crime,â went on Mr. Shaitana.

He stopped, and something in that pause compelled attention.

All faces were turned to him.

âI should make it very simple, I think. Thereâs always an accidentâa shooting accident, for instanceâor the domestic kind of accident.â

Then he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his wineglass.

âBut who am I to pronounceâwith so many experts presentâ¦.â

He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine onto his face with its waxed moustache, its little imperial, its fantastic eyebrowsâ¦.

There was a momentary silence.

Mrs. Oliver said:

âIs it twenty-to or twenty past? An angel passing â¦ My feet arenât crossedâit must be a black angel!â

Three

A GAME OF BRIDGE

When the company returned to the drawing room a bridge table had been set out. Coffee was handed round.

âWho plays bridge?â asked Mr. Shaitana. âMrs. Lorrimer, I know. And Dr. Roberts. Do you play, Miss Meredith?â

âYes. Iâm not frightfully good, though.â

âExcellent. And Major Despard? Good. Supposing you four play here.â

âThank goodness thereâs to be bridge,â said Mrs. Lorrimer in an aside to Poirot. âIâm one of the worst bridge fiends that ever lived. Itâs growing on me. I simply will not go out to dinner now if thereâs no bridge afterwards! I just fall asleep. Iâm ashamed of myself, but there it is.â

They cut for partners. Mrs. Lorrimer was partnered with Anne Meredith against Major Despard and Dr. Roberts.

âWomen against men,â said Mrs. Lorrimer as she took her seat and began shuffling the cards in an expert manner. âThe blue cards, donât you think, partner? Iâm a forcing two.â

âMind you win,â said Mrs. Oliver, her feminist feelings rising. âShow the men they canât have it all their own way.â

âThey havenât got a hope, the poor dears,â said Dr. Roberts cheerfully as he started shuffling the other pack. âYour deal, I think, Mrs. Lorrimer.â

Major Despard sat down rather slowly. He was looking at Anne Meredith as though he had just made the discovery that she was remarkably pretty.

âCut, please,â said Mrs. Lorrimer impatiently. And with a start of apology he cut the pack she was presenting to him.

Mrs. Lorrimer began to deal with a practised hand.

âThere is another bridge table in the other room,â said Mr. Shaitana.

He crossed to a second door and the other four followed him into a small comfortably furnished smoking room where a second bridge table was set ready.

âWe must cut out,â said Colonel Race.

Mr. Shaitana shook his head.

âI do not play,â he said. âBridge is not one of the games that amuse me.â

The others protested that they would much rather not play, but he overruled them firmly and in the end they sat down. Poirot and Mrs. Oliver against Battle and Race.

Mr. Shaitana watched them for a little while, smiled in a Mephistophelian manner as he observed on what hand Mrs. Oliver declared Two No Trumps, and then went noiselessly through into the other room.

There they were well down to it, their faces serious, the bids coming quickly. âOne heart.â âPass.â âThree clubs.â âThree spades.â âFour diamonds.â âDouble.â âFour hearts.â

Mr. Shaitana stood watching a moment, smiling to himself.

Then he crossed the room and sat down in a big chair by the fireplace. A tray of drinks had been brought in and placed on an adjacent table. The firelight gleamed on the crystal stoppers.

Always an artist in lighting, Mr. Shaitana had simulated the appearance of a merely firelit room. A small shaded lamp at his elbow gave him light to read by if he so desired. Discreet floodlighting gave the room a subdued look. A slightly stronger light shone over the bridge table, from whence the monotonous ejaculations continued.

âOne no trumpââclear and decisiveâMrs. Lorrimer.

âThree heartsââan aggressive note in the voiceâDr. Roberts.

âNo bidââa quiet voiceâAnne Meredithâs.

A slight pause always before Despardâs voice came. Not so much a slow thinker as a man who liked to be sure before he spoke.

âFour hearts.â

âDouble.â

His face lit up by the flickering firelight, Mr. Shaitana smiled.

He smiled and he went on smiling. His eyelids flickered a littleâ¦.

His party was amusing him.

II

âFive diamonds. Game and rubber,â said Colonel Race.

âGood for you, partner,â he said to Poirot. âI didnât think youâd do it. Lucky they didnât lead a spade.â

âWouldnât have made much difference, I expect,â said Superintendent Battle, a man of gentle magnanimity.

He had called spades. His partner, Mrs. Oliver, had had a spade, but âsomething had told herâ to lead a clubâwith disastrous results.

Colonel Race looked at his watch.

âTen past twelve. Time for another?â

âYouâll excuse me,â said Superintendent Battle. âBut Iâm by way of being an âearly-to-bedâ man.â

âI, too,â said Hercule Poirot.

âWeâd better add up,â said Race.

The result of the eveningâs five rubbers was an overwhelming victory for the male sex. Mrs. Oliver had lost three pounds and seven shillings to the other three. The biggest winner was Colonel Race.

Mrs. Oliver, though a bad bridge player, was a sporting loser. She paid up cheerfully.

âEverything went wrong for me tonight,â she said. âIt is like that sometimes. I held the most beautiful cards yesterday. A hundred and fifty honours three times running.â

She rose and gathered up her embroidered evening bag, just refraining in time from stroking her hair off her brow.

âI suppose our host is next door,â she said.

She went through the communicating door, the others behind her.

Mr. Shaitana was in his chair by the fire. The bridge players were absorbed in their game.

âDouble five clubs,â Mrs. Lorrimer was saying in her cool, incisive voice.

âFive No Trumps.â

âDouble five No Trumps.â

Mrs. Oliver came up to the bridge table. This was likely to be an exciting hand.

Superintendent Battle came with her.

Colonel Race went towards Mr. Shaitana, Poirot behind him.

âGot to be going, Shaitana,â said Race.

Mr. Shaitana did not answer. His head had fallen forward, and he seemed to be asleep. Race gave a momentary whimsical glance at Poirot and went a little nearer. Suddenly he uttered a muffled exclamation, bent forward. Poirot was beside him in a minute, he, too, looking where Colonel Race was pointingâsomething that might have been a particularly ornate shirt studâbut was notâ¦.

Poirot bent, raised one of Mr. Shaitanaâs hands, then let it fall. He met Raceâs inquiring glance and nodded. The latter raised his voice.

âSuperintendent Battle, just a minute.â

The superintendent came over to them. Mrs. Oliver continued to watch the play of Five No Trumps doubled.

Superintendent Battle, despite his appearance of stolidity, was a very quick man. His eyebrows went up and he said in a low voice as he joined them:

âSomething wrong?â

With a nod Colonel Race indicated the silent figure in the chair.

As Battle bent over it, Poirot looked thoughtfully at what he could see of Mr. Shaitanaâs face. Rather a silly face it looked now, the mouth drooping openâthe devilish expression lackingâ¦.

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

Superintendent Battle straightened himself. He had examined, without touching, the thing which looked like an extra stud in Mr. Shaitanaâs shirtâand it was not an extra stud. He had raised the limp hand and let it fall.

Now he stood up, unemotional, capable, soldierlyâprepared to take charge efficiently of the situation.

âJust a minute, please,â he said.

And the raised voice was his official voice, so different that all the heads at the bridge table turned to him, and Anne Meredithâs hand remained poised over an ace of spades in dummy.

âIâm sorry to tell you all,â he said, âthat our host, Mr. Shaitana, is dead.â

Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts rose to their feet. Despard stared and frowned. Anne Meredith gave a little gasp.

âAre you sure, man?â

Dr. Roberts, his professional instincts aroused, came briskly across the floor with a bounding medical âin-at-the-deathâ step.

Without seeming to, the bulk of Superintendent Battle impeded his progress.

âJust a minute, Dr. Roberts. Can you tell me first whoâs been in and out of this room this evening?â

Roberts stared at him.

âIn and out? I donât understand you. Nobody has.â

The superintendent transferred his gaze.

âIs that right, Mrs. Lorrimer?â

âQuite right.â

âNot the butler nor any of the servants?â

âNo. The butler brought in that tray as we sat down to bridge. He has not been in since.â

Superintendent Battle looked at Despard.

Despard nodded in agreement.

Anne said rather breathlessly, âYesâyes, thatâs right.â

âWhatâs all this, man,â said Roberts impatiently. âJust let me examine him; maybe just a fainting fit.â

âIt isnât a fainting fit, and Iâm sorryâbut nobodyâs going to touch him until the divisional surgeon comes. Mr. Shaitanaâs been murdered, ladies and gentlemen.â

âMurdered?â A horrified incredulous sigh from Anne.

A stareâa very blank stareâfrom Despard.

A sharp incisive âMurdered?â from Mrs. Lorrimer.

A âGood God!â from Dr. Roberts.

Superintendent Battle nodded his head slowly. He looked rather like a Chinese porcelain mandarin. His expression was quite blank.

âStabbed,â he said. âThatâs the way of it. Stabbed.â

Then he shot out a question:

âAny of you leave the bridge table during the evening?â

He saw four expressions break upâwaver. He saw fearâcomprehensionâindignationâdismayâhorror; but he saw nothing definitely helpful.

âWell?â

There was a pause, and then Major Despard said quietly (he had risen now and was standing like a soldier on parade, his narrow, intelligent face turned to Battle):

âI think every one of us, at one time or another, moved from the bridge tableâeither to get drinks or to put wood on the fire. I did both. When I went to the fire Shaitana was asleep in the chair.â

âAsleep?â

âI thought soâyes.â

âHe may have been,â said Battle. âOr he may have been dead then. Weâll go into that presently. Iâll ask you now to go into the room next door.â He turned to the quiet figure at his elbow: âColonel Race, perhaps youâll go with them?â

Race gave a quick nod of comprehension.

âRight, Superintendent.â

The four bridge players went slowly through the doorway.

Mrs. Oliver sat down in a chair at the far end of the room and began to sob quietly.

Battle took up the telephone receiver and spoke. Then he said:

âThe local police will be round immediately. Orders from headquarters are that Iâm to take on the case. Divisional surgeon will be here almost at once. How long should you say heâd been dead, M. Poirot? Iâd say well over an hour myself.â

âI agree. Alas, that one cannot be more exactâthat one cannot say, âThis man has been dead one hour, twenty-five minutes and forty seconds.ââ

Battle nodded absently.

âHe was sitting right in front of the fire. That makes a slight difference. Over an hourânot more than two and a half: thatâs what our doctor will say, Iâll be bound. And nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Amazing! What a desperate chance to take. He might have cried out.â

âBut he did not. The murdererâs luck held. As you say, mon ami, it was a very desperate business.â

âAny idea, M. Poirot, as to motive? Anything of that kind?â

Poirot said slowly:

âYes, I have something to say on that score. Tell me, M. Shaitanaâhe did not give you any hint of what kind of a party you were coming to tonight?â

Superintendent Battle looked at him curiously.

âNo, M. Poirot. He didnât say anything at all. Why?â

A bell whirred in the distance and a knocker was plied.

âThatâs our people,â said Superintendent Battle. âIâll go and let âem in. Weâll have your story presently. Must get on with the routine work.â

Poirot nodded.

Battle left the room.

Mrs. Oliver continued to sob.

Poirot went over to the bridge table. Without touching anything, he examined the scores. He shook his head once or twice.

âThe stupid little man! Oh, the stupid little man,â murmured Hercule Poirot. âTo dress up as the devil and try to frighten people. Quel enfantillage!â

The door opened. The divisional surgeon came in, bag in hand. He was followed by the divisional inspector, talking to Battle. A camera man came next. There was a constable in the hall.

The routine of the detection of crime had begun.

Four

FIRST MURDERER?

Hercule Poirot, Mrs. Oliver, Colonel Race and Superintendent Battle sat round the dining room table.

It was an hour later. The body had been examined, photographed and removed. A fingerprint expert had been and gone.

Superintendent Battle looked at Poirot.

âBefore I have those four in, I want to hear what youâve got to tell me. According to you there was something behind this party tonight?â

Very deliberately and carefully Poirot retold the conversation he had held with Shaitana at Wessex House.

Superintendent Battle pursed his lips. He very nearly whistled.

âExhibitsâeh? Murderers all alive oh! And you think he meant it? You donât think he was pulling your leg?â

Poirot shook his head.

âOh, no, he meant it. Shaitana was a man who prided himself on his Mephistophelian attitude to life. He was a man of great vanity. He was also a stupid manâthat is why he is dead.â

âI get you,â said Superintendent Battle, following things out in his mind. âA party of eight and himself. Four âsleuths,â so to speakâand four murderers!â

âItâs impossible!â cried Mrs. Oliver. âAbsolutely impossible. None of those people can be criminals.â

Superintendent Battle shook his head thoughtfully.

âI wouldnât be so sure of that, Mrs. Oliver. Murderers look and behave very much like everybody else. Nice, quiet, well-behaved, reasonable folk very often.â

âIn that case, itâs Dr. Roberts,â said Mrs. Oliver firmly. âI felt instinctively that there was something wrong with that man as soon as I saw him. My instincts never lie.â

Battle turned to Colonel Race.

Race shrugged his shoulders. He took the question as referring to Poirotâs statment and not to Mrs. Oliverâs suspicions.

âIt could be,â he said. âIt could be. It shows that Shaitana was right in one case at least! After all, he can only have suspected that these people were murderersâhe canât have been sure. He may have been right in all four cases, he may have been right in only one caseâbut he was right in one case; his death proved that.â

âOne of them got the wind up. Think thatâs it, M. Poirot?â

Poirot nodded.

âThe late Mr. Shaitana had a reputation,â he said. âHe had a dangerous sense of humour, and was reputed to be merciless. The victim thought that Shaitana was giving himself an eveningâs amusement, leading up to a moment when heâd hand the victim over to the policeâyou! He (or she) must have thought that Shaitana had definite evidence.â

âHad he?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âThat we shall never know.â

âDr. Roberts!â repeated Mrs. Oliver firmly. âSuch a hearty man. Murderers are often heartyâas a disguise! If I were you, Superintendent Battle, I should arrest him at once.â

âI daresay we would if there was a Woman at the Head of Scotland Yard,â said Superintendent Battle, a momentary twinkle showing in his unemotional eye. âBut, you see, mere men being in charge, weâve got to be careful. Weâve got to get there slowly.â

âOh, menâmen,â sighed Mrs. Oliver, and began to compose newspaper articles in her head.

âBetter have them in now,â said Superintendent Battle. âIt wonât do to keep them hanging about too long.â

Colonel Race half rose.

âIf youâd like us to goââ

Superintendent Battle hesitated a minute as he caught Mrs. Oliverâs eloquent eye. He was well aware of Colonel Raceâs official position, and Poirot had worked with the police on many occasions. For Mrs. Oliver to remain was decidedly stretching a point. But Battle was a kindly man. He remembered that Mrs. Oliver had lost three pounds and seven shillings at bridge, and that she had been a cheerful loser.

âYou can all stay,â he said, âas far as Iâm concerned. But no interruptions, please (he looked at Mrs. Oliver), and there mustnât be a hint of what M. Poirot has just told us. That was Shaitanaâs little secret, and to all intents and purposes it died with him. Understand?â

âPerfectly,â said Mrs. Oliver.

Battle strode to the door and called the constable who was on duty in the hall.

âGo to the little smoking room. Youâll find Anderson there with four guests. Ask Dr. Roberts if heâll be so good as to step this way.â

âI should have kept him to the end,â said Mrs. Oliver. âIn a book, I mean,â she added apologetically.

âReal lifeâs a bit different,â said Battle.

âI know,â said Mrs. Oliver. âBadly constructed.â

Dr. Roberts entered with the springiness of his step slightly subdued.

âI say, Battle,â he said. âThis is the devil of a business! Excuse me, Mrs. Oliver, but it is. Professionally speaking, I could hardly have believed it! To stab a man with three other people a few yards away.â He shook his head. âWhew! I wouldnât like to have done it!â A slight smile twitched up the corners of his mouth. âWhat can I say or do to convince you that I didnât do it?â

âWell, thereâs motive, Dr. Roberts.â

The doctor nodded his head emphatically.

âThatâs all clear. I hadnât the shadow of a motive for doing away with poor Shaitana. I didnât even know him very well. He amused meâhe was such a fantastic fellow. Touch of the Oriental about him. Naturally, youâll investigate my relations with him closelyâI expect that. Iâm not a fool. But you wonât find anything. Iâd no reason for killing Shaitana, and I didnât kill him.â

Superintendent Battle nodded woodenly.

âThatâs all right, Dr. Roberts. Iâve got to investigate as you know. Youâre a sensible man. Now, can you tell me anything about the other three people?â

âIâm afraid I donât know very much. Despard and Miss Meredith I met for the first time tonight. I knew of Despard beforeâread his travel book, and a jolly good yarn it is.â

âDid you know that he and Mr. Shaitana were acquainted?â

âNo. Shaitana never mentioned him to me. As I say, Iâd heard of him, but never met him. Miss Meredith Iâve never seen before. Mrs. Lorrimer I know slightly.â

âWhat do you know about her?â

Roberts shrugged his shoulders.

âSheâs a widow. Moderately well off. Intelligent, well-bred womanâfirst-class bridge player. Thatâs where Iâve met her, as a matter of factâplaying bridge.â

âAnd Mr. Shaitana never mentioned her, either?â

âNo.â

âHâmâthat doesnât help us much. Now, Dr. Roberts, perhaps youâll be so kind as to tax your memory carefully and tell me how often you yourself left your seat at the bridge table, and all you can remember about the movements of the others.â

Dr. Roberts took a few minutes to think.

âItâs difficult,â he said frankly. âI can remember my own movements, more or less. I got up three timesâthat is, on three occasions when I was dummy I left my seat and made myself useful. Once I went over and put wood on the fire. Once I brought drinks to the two ladies. Once I poured out a whisky and soda for myself.â

âCan you remember the times?â

âI could only say very roughly. We began to play about nine thirty, I imagine. I should say it was about an hour later that I stoked the fire, quite a short time after that I fetched the drinks (next hand but one, I think), and perhaps half past eleven when I got myself a whisky and sodaâbut those times are quite approximate. I couldnât answer for their being correct.â

âThe table with the drinks was beyond Mr. Shaitanaâs chair?â

âYes. Thatâs to say, I passed quite near him three times.â

âAnd each time, to the best of your belief, he was asleep?â

âThatâs what I thought the first time. The second time I didnât even look at him. Third time I rather fancy the thought just passed through my mind: âHow the beggar does sleep.â But I didnât really look closely at him.â

âVery good. Now, when did your fellow players leave their seats?â

Dr. Roberts frowned.

âDifficultâvery difficult. Despard went and fetched an extra ashtray, I think. And he went for a drink. That was before me, for I remember he asked me if Iâd have one, and I said I wasnât quite ready.â

âAnd the ladies?â

âMrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once. Poked it, I think. I rather fancy she spoke to Shaitana, but I donât know. I was playing a rather tricky no trump at the time.â

âAnd Miss Meredith?â

âShe certainly left the table once. Came round and looked at my handâI was her partner at the time. Then she looked at the other peopleâs hands, and then she wandered round the room. I donât know what she was doing exactly. I wasnât paying attention.â

Superintendent Battle said thoughtfully:

âAs you were sitting at the bridge table, no oneâs chair was directly facing the fireplace?â

âNo, sort of sideways on, and there was a big cabinet betweenâChinese piece, very handsome. I can see, of course, that it would be perfectly possible to stab the old boy. After all, when youâre playing bridge, youâre playing bridge. Youâre not looking round you, and noticing what is going on. The only person whoâs likely to be doing that is dummy. And in this caseââ

âIn this case, undoubtedly, dummy was the murderer,â said Superintendent Battle.

âAll the same,â said Dr. Roberts, âit wanted nerve, you know. After all, who is to say that somebody wonât look up just at the critical moment?â

âYes,â said Battle. âIt was a big risk. The motive must have been a strong one. I wish we knew what it was,â he added with unblushing mendacity.

âYouâll find out, I expect,â said Roberts. âYouâll go through his papers, and all that sort of thing. There will probably be a clue.â

âWeâll hope so,â said Superintendent Battle gloomily.

He shot a keen glance at the other.

âI wonder if youâd oblige me, Dr. Roberts, by giving me a personal opinionâas man to man.â

âCertainly.â

âWhich do you fancy yourself of the three?â

Dr. Roberts shrugged his shoulders.

âThatâs easy. Offhand, Iâd say Despard. The manâs got plenty of nerve; heâs used to a dangerous life where youâve got to act quickly. He wouldnât mind taking a risk. It doesnât seem to me likely the women are in on this. Take a bit of strength, I should imagine.â

âNot so much as you might think. Take a look at this.â

Rather like a conjurer, Battle suddenly produced a long thin instrument of gleaming metal with a small round jewelled head.

Dr. Roberts leaned forward, took it, and examined it with rich professional appreciation. He tried the point and whistled.

âWhat a tool! What a tool! Absolutely made for murder, this little boy. Go in like butterâabsolutely like butter. Brought it with him, I suppose.â

âNo. It was Mr. Shaitanaâs. It lay on the table near the door with a good many other knickknacks.â

âSo the murderer helped himself. A bit of luck finding a tool like that.â

âWell, thatâs one way of looking at it,â said Battle slowly.

âWell, of course, it wasnât luck for Shaitana, poor fellow.â

âI didnât mean that, Dr. Roberts. I meant that there was another angle of looking at the business. It occurs to me that it was noticing this weapon that put the idea of murder into our criminalâs mind.â

âYou mean it was a sudden inspirationâthat the murder wasnât premeditated? He conceived the idea after he got here? Erâanything to suggest that idea to you?â

He glanced at him searchingly.

âItâs just an idea,â said Superintendent Battle stolidly.

âWell, it might be so, of course,â said Dr. Roberts slowly.

Superintendent Battle cleared his throat.

âWell, I wonât keep you any longer, doctor. Thank you for your help. Perhaps youâll leave your address.â

âCertainly. 200 Gloucester Terrace, W. 2. Telephone No. Bayswater 23896.â

âThank you. I may have to call upon you shortly.â

âDelighted to see you anytime. Hope there wonât be too much in the papers. I donât want my nervous patients upset.â

Superintendent Battle looked round at Poirot.

âExcuse me, M. Poirot. If youâd like to ask any questions, Iâm sure the doctor wouldnât mind.â

âOf course not. Of course not. Great admirer of yours, M. Poirot. Little grey cellsâorder and method. I know all about it. I feel sure youâll think of something most intriguing to ask me.â

Hercule Poirot spread out his hands in his most foreign manner.

âNo, no. I just like to get all the details clear in my mind. For instance, how many rubbers did you play?â

âThree,â said Roberts promptly. âWeâd got to one game all, in the fourth rubber, when you came in.â

âAnd who played with who?â

âFirst rubber, Despard and I against the ladies. They beat us, God bless âem. Walk over; we never held a card.

âSecond rubber, Miss Meredith and I against Despard and Mrs. Lorrimer. Third rubber, Mrs. Lorrimer and I against Miss Meredith and Despard. We cut each time, but it worked out like a pivot. Fourth rubber, Miss Meredith and I again.â

âWho won and who lost?â

âMrs. Lorrimer won every rubber. Miss Meredith won the first and lost the next two. I was a bit up and Miss Meredith and Despard must have been down.â

Poirot said, smiling, âThe good superintendent has asked you your opinion of your companions as candidates for murder. I now ask you for your opinion of them as bridge players.â

âMrs. Lorrimerâs first class,â Dr. Roberts replied promptly. âIâll bet she makes a good income a year out of bridge. Despardâs a good player, tooâwhat I call a sound playerâlongheaded chap. Miss Meredith you might describe as quite a safe player. She doesnât make mistakes, but she isnât brilliant.â

âAnd you yourself, doctor?â

Robertsâ eyes twinkled.

âI overcall my hand a bit, or so they say. But Iâve always found it pays.â

Poirot smiled.

Dr. Roberts rose.

âAnything more?â

Poirot shook his head.

âWell, goodnight, then. Goodnight, Mrs. Oliver. You ought to get some copy out of this. Better than your untraceable poisons, eh?â

Dr. Roberts left the room, his bearing springy once more. Mrs. Oliver said bitterly as the door closed behind him:

âCopy! Copy indeed! People are so unintelligent. I could invent a better murder any day than anything real. Iâm never at a loss for a plot. And the people who read my books like untraceable poisons!â

Five

SECOND MURDERER?

Mrs. Lorrimer came into the dining room like a gentlewoman. She looked a little pale, but composed.

âIâm sorry to have to bother you,â Superintendent Battle began.

âYou must do your duty, of course,â said Mrs. Lorrimer quietly. âIt is, I agree, an unpleasant position in which to be placed, but there is no good shirking it. I quite realize that one of the four people in that room must be guilty. Naturally, I canât expect you to take my word that I am not the person.â

She accepted the chair that Colonel Race offered her and sat down opposite the superintendent. Her intelligent grey eyes met his. She waited attentively.

âYou knew Mr. Shaitana well?â began the superintendent.

âNot very well. I have known him over a period of some years, but never intimately.â

âWhere did you meet him?â

âAt a hotel in Egyptâthe Winter Palace at Luxor, I think.â

âWhat did you think of him?â

Mrs. Lorrimer shrugged her shoulders slightly.

âI thought himâI may as well say soârather a charlatan.â

âYou hadâexcuse me for askingâno motive for wishing him out of the way?â

Mrs. Lorrimer looked slightly amused.

âReally, Superintendent Battle, do you think I should admit it if I had?â

âYou might,â said Battle. âA really intelligent person might know that a thing was bound to come out.â

Mrs. Lorrimer inclined her head thoughtfully.

âThere is that, of course. No, Superintendent Battle, I had no motive for wishing Mr. Shaitana out of the way. It is really a matter of indifference to me whether he is alive or dead. I thought him a poseur, and rather theatrical, and sometimes he irritated me. That isâor rather wasâmy attitude towards him.â

âThat is that, then. Now, Mrs. Lorrimer, can you tell me anything about your three companions?â

âIâm afraid not. Major Despard and Miss Meredith I met for the first time tonight. Both of them seem charming people. Dr. Roberts I know slightly. Heâs a very popular doctor, I believe.â

âHe is not your own doctor?â

âOh, no.â

âNow, Mrs. Lorrimer, can you tell me how often you got up from your seat tonight, and will you also describe the movements of the other three?â

Mrs. Lorrimer did not take any time to think.

âI thought you would probably ask me that. I have been trying to think it out. I got up once myself when I was dummy. I went over to the fire. Mr. Shaitana was alive then. I mentioned to him how nice it was to see a wood fire.â

âAnd he answered?â

âThat he hated radiators.â

âDid anyone overhear your conversation?â

âI donât think so. I lowered my voice, not to interrupt the players.â She added dryly: âIn fact, you have only my word for it that Mr. Shaitana was alive and spoke to me.â

Superintendent Battle made no protest. He went on with his quiet methodical questioning.

âWhat time was that?â

âI should think we had been playing a little over an hour.â

âWhat about the others?â

âDr. Roberts got me a drink. He also got himself oneâthat was later. Major Despard also went to get a drinkâat about 11:15, I should say.â

âOnly once?â

âNoâtwice, I think. The men moved about a fair amountâbut I didnât notice what they did. Miss Meredith left her seat once only, I think. She went round to look at her partnerâs hand.â

âBut she remained near the bridge table?â

âI couldnât say at all. She may have moved away.â

Battle nodded.

âItâs all very vague,â he grumbled.

âI am sorry.â

Once again Battle did his conjuring trick and produced the long delicate stiletto.

âWill you look at this, Mrs. Lorrimer?â

Mrs. Lorrimer took it without emotion.

âHave you ever seen that before?â

âNever.â

âYet it was lying on a table in the drawing room.â

âI didnât notice it.â

âYou realize, perhaps, Mrs. Lorrimer, that with a weapon like that a woman could do the trick just as easily as a man.â

âI suppose she could,â said Mrs. Lorrimer quietly.

She leaned forward and handed the dainty little thing back to him.

âBut all the same,â said Superintendent Battle, âthe woman would have to be pretty desperate. It was a long chance to take.â

He waited a minute, but Mrs. Lorrimer did not speak.

âDo you know anything of the relations between the other three and Mr. Shaitana?â

She shook her head.

âNothing at all.â

âWould you care to give me an opinion as to which of them you consider the most likely person?â

Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up stiffly.

âI should not care to do anything of the kind. I consider that a most improper question.â

The superintendent looked like an abashed little boy who has been reprimanded by his grandmother.

âAddress, please,â he mumbled, drawing his notebook towards him.

â111 Cheyne Lane, Chelsea.â

âTelephone number?â

âChelsea 45632.â

Mrs. Lorrimer rose.

âAnything you want to ask, M. Poirot?â said Battle hurriedly.

Mrs. Lorrimer paused, her head slightly inclined.

âWould it be a proper question, madame, to ask you your opinion of your companions, not as potential murderers but as bridge players?â

Mrs. Lorrimer answered coldly:

âI have no objection to answering thatâif it bears upon the matter at issue in any wayâthough I fail to see how it can.â

âI will be the judge of that. Your answer, if you please, madame.â

In the tone of a patient adult humouring an idiot child, Mrs. Lorrimer replied:

âMajor Despard is a good sound player. Dr. Roberts overcalls, but plays his hand brilliantly. Miss Meredith is quite a nice little player, but a bit too cautious. Anything more?â

In his turn doing a conjuring trick, Poirot produced four crumpled bridge scores.

âThese scores, madame, is one of these yours?â

She examined them.

âThis is my writing. It is the score of the third rubber.â

âAnd this score?â

âThat must be Major Despardâs. He cancels as he goes.â

âAnd this one?â

âMiss Meredithâs. The first rubber.â

âSo this unfinished one is Dr. Robertsâ?â

âYes.â

âThank you, madame, I think that is all.â

Mrs. Lorrimer turned to Mrs. Oliver.

âGoodnight, Mrs. Oliver. Goodnight, Colonel Race.â

Then, having shaken hands with all four of them, she went out.

Six

THIRD MURDERER?

âDidnât get any extra change out of her,â commented Battle. âPut me in my place, too. Sheâs the old-fashioned kind, full of consideration for others, but arrogant as the devil! I canât believe she did it, but you never know! Sheâs got plenty of resolution. Whatâs the idea of the bridge scores, M. Poirot?â

Poirot spread them on the table.

âThey are illuminating, do you not think? What do we want in this case? A clue to character. And a clue not to one character, but to four characters. And this is where we are most likely to find itâin these scribbled figures. Here is the first rubber, you seeâa tame business, soon over. Small neat figuresâcareful addition and subtractionâthat is Miss Meredithâs score. She was playing with Mrs. Lorrimer. They had the cards, and they won.

âIn this next one it is not so easy to follow the play, since it is kept in the cancellation style. But it tells us perhaps something about Major Despardâa man who likes the whole time to know at a glance where he stands. The figures are small and full of character.

âThis next score is Mrs. Lorrimerâsâshe and Dr. Roberts against the other twoâa Homeric combatâfigures mounting up above the line each side. Overcalling on the doctorâs part, and they go down; but, since they are both first-class players, they never go down very much. If the doctorâs overcalling induces rash bidding on the other side there is the chance seized of doubling. Seeâthese figures here are doubled tricks gone down. A characteristic handwriting, graceful, very legible, firm.

âHere is the last scoreâthe unfinished rubber. I collected one score in each personâs handwriting, you see. Figures rather flamboyant. Not such high scores as the preceding rubber. That is probably because the doctor was playing with Miss Meredith, and she is a timid player. His calling would make her more so!

âYou think, perhaps, that they are foolish, these questions that I ask? But it is not so. I want to get at the characters of these four players, and when it is only about bridge I ask, everyone is ready and willing to speak.â

âI never think your questions foolish, M. Poirot,â said Battle. âIâve seen too much of your work. Everyoneâs got their own ways of working. I know that. I give my inspectors a free hand always. Everyoneâs got to find out for themselves what method suits them best. But weâd better not discuss that now. Weâll have the girl in.â

Anne Meredith was upset. She stopped in the doorway. Her breath came unevenly.

Superintendent Battle was immediately fatherly. He rose, set a chair for her at a slightly different angle.

âSit down, Miss Meredith, sit down, Now, donât be alarmed. I know all this seems rather dreadful, but itâs not so bad, really.â

âI donât think anything could be worse,â said the girl in a low voice. âItâs so awfulâso awfulâto think that one of usâthat one of usââ

âYou let me do the thinking,â said Battle kindly. âNow, then, Miss Meredith, suppose we have your address first of all.â

âWendon Cottage, Wallingford.â

âNo address in town?â

âNo, Iâm staying at my club for a day or two.â

âAnd your club is?â

âLadiesâ Naval and Military.â

âGood. Now, then, Miss Meredith, how well did you know Mr. Shaitana?â

âI didnât know him well at all. I always thought he was a most frightening man.â

âWhy?â

âOh, well he was! That awful smile! And a way he had of bending over you. As though he might bite you.â

âHad you known him long?â

âAbout nine months. I met him in Switzerland during the winter sports.â

âI should never have thought he went in for winter sports,â said Battle, surprised.

âHe only skated. He was a marvellous skater. Lots of figures and tricks.â

âYes, that sounds more like him. And did you see much of him after that?â

âWellâa fair amount. He asked me to parties and things like that. They were rather fun.â

âBut you didnât like him himself?â

âNo, I thought he was a shivery kind of man.â

Battle said gently:

âBut youâd no special reason for being afraid of him?â

Anne Meredith raised wide limpid eyes to his.

âSpecial reason? Oh, no.â

âThatâs all right, then. Now about tonight. Did you leave your seat at all?â

âI donât think so. Oh, yes, I may have done once. I went round to look at the othersâ hands.â

âBut you stayed by the bridge table all the time?â

âYes.â

âQuite sure, Miss Meredith?â

The girlâs cheeks flamed suddenly.

âNoâno, I think I walked about.â

âRight. Youâll excuse me, Miss Meredith, but try and speak the truth. I know youâre nervous, and when oneâs nervous oneâs apt toâwell, to say the thing the way you want it to be. But that doesnât really pay in the end. You walked about. Did you walk over in the direction of Mr. Shaitana?â

The girl was silent for a minute, then she said:

âHonestlyâhonestlyâI donât remember.â

âWell, weâll leave it that you may have done. Know anything about the other three?â

The girl shook her head.

âIâve never seen any of them before.â

âWhat do you think of them? Any likely murderers amongst them?â

âI canât believe it. I just canât believe it. It couldnât be Major Despard. And I donât believe it could be the doctorâafter all, a doctor could kill anyone in much easier ways. A drugâor something like that.â

âThen, if itâs anyone, you think itâs Mrs. Lorrimer.â

âOh, I donât. Iâm sure she wouldnât. Sheâs so charmingâand so kind to play bridge with. Sheâs so good herself, and yet she doesnât make one feel nervous, or point out oneâs mistakes.â

âYet you left her name to the last,â said Battle.

âOnly because stabbing seems somehow more like a woman.â

Battle did his conjuring trick. Anne Meredith shrank back.

âOh, horrible. Must Iâtake it?â

âIâd rather you did.â

He watched her as she took the stiletto gingerly, her face contracted with repulsion.

âWith this tiny thingâwith thisââ

âGo in like butter,â said Battle with gusto. âA child could do it.â

âYou meanâyou meanââwide, terrified eyes fixed themselves on his faceââthat I might have done it? But I didnât. Why should I?â

âThatâs just the question weâd like to know,â said Battle. âWhatâs the motive? Why did anyone want to kill Shaitana? He was a picturesque person, but he wasnât dangerous, as far as I can make out.â

Was there a slight indrawing of her breathâa sudden lifting of her breast?

âNot a blackmailer, for instance, or anything of that sort?â went on Battle. âAnd anyway, Miss Meredith, you donât look the sort of girl whoâs got a lot of guilty secrets.â

For the first time she smiled, reassured by his geniality.

âNo, indeed I havenât. I havenât got any secrets at all.â

âThen donât worry, Miss Meredith. We shall have to come round and ask you a few more questions, I expect, but it will be all a matter of routine.â

He got up.

âNow off you go. My constable will get you a taxi; and donât you lie awake worrying yourself. Take a couple of aspirins.â

He ushered her out. As he came back Colonel Race said in a low, amused voice:

âBattle, what a really accomplished liar you are! Your fatherly air was unsurpassed.â

âNo good dallying about with her, Colonel Race. Either the poor kid is dead scaredâin which case itâs cruelty, and Iâm not a cruel man; I never have beenâor sheâs a highly accomplished little actress, and we shouldnât get any further if we were to keep her here half the night.â

Mrs. Oliver gave a sigh and ran her hands freely through her fringe until it stood upright and gave her a wholly drunken appearance.

âDo you know,â she said, âI rather believe now that she did it! Itâs lucky itâs not in a book. They donât really like the young and beautiful girl to have done it. All the same, I rather think she did. What do you think, M. Poirot?â

âMe, I have just made a discovery.â

âIn the bridge scores again?â

âYes, Miss Anne Meredith turns her score over, draws lines and uses the back.â

âAnd what does that mean?â

âIt means she has the habit of poverty or else is of a naturally economical turn of mind.â

âSheâs expensively dressed,â said Mrs. Oliver.

âSend in Major Despard,â said Superintendent Battle.

Seven

FOURTH MURDERER?

Despard entered the room with a quick springing stepâa step that reminded Poirot of something or someone.

âIâm sorry to have kept you waiting all this while, Major Despard,â said Battle. âBut I wanted to let the ladies get away as soon as possible.â

âDonât apologize. I understand.â

He sat down and looked inquiringly at the superintendent.

âHow well did you know Mr. Shaitana?â began the latter.

âIâve met him twice,â said Despard crisply.

âOnly twice?â

âThatâs all.â

âOn what occasions?â

âAbout a month ago we were both dining at the same house. Then he asked me to a cocktail party a week later.â

âA cocktail party here?â

âYes.â

âWhere did it take placeâthis room or the drawing room?â

âIn all the rooms.â

âSee this little thing lying about?â

Battle once more produced the stiletto.

Major Despardâs lip twisted slightly.

âNo,â he said. âI didnât mark it down on that occasion for future use.â

âThereâs no need to go ahead of what I say, Major Despard.â

âI beg your pardon. The inference was fairly obvious.â

There was a momentâs pause, then Battle resumed his inquiries.

âHad you any motive for disliking Mr. Shaitana?â

âEvery motive.â

âEh?â The superintendent sounded startled.

âFor disliking himânot for killing him,â said Despard. âI hadnât the least wish to kill him, but I would thoroughly have enjoyed kicking him. A pity. Itâs too late now.â

âWhy did you want to kick him, Major Despard?â

âBecause he was the sort of Dago who needed kicking badly. He used to make the toe of my boot fairly itch.â

âKnow anything about himâto his discredit, I mean?â

âHe was too well dressedâhe wore his hair too longâand he smelt of scent.â

âYet you accepted his invitation to dinner,â Battle pointed out.

âIf I were only to dine in houses where I thoroughly approved of my host Iâm afraid I shouldnât dine out very much, Superintendent Battle,â said Despard drily.

âYou like society, but you donât approve of it?â suggested the other.

âI like it for very short periods. To come back from the wilds to lighted rooms and women in lovely clothes, to dancing and good food and laughterâyes, I enjoy thatâfor a time. And then the insincerity of it all sickens me, and I want to be off again.â

âIt must be a dangerous sort of life that you lead, Major Despard, wandering about in these wild places.â

Despard shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly.

âMr. Shaitana didnât lead a dangerous lifeâbut he is dead, and I am alive!â

âHe may have led a more dangerous life than you think,â said Battle meaningly.

âWhat do you mean?â

âThe late Mr. Shaitana was a bit of a Nosey Parker,â said Battle.

The other leaned forward.

âYou mean that he meddled with other peopleâs livesâthat he discoveredâwhat?â

âI really meant that perhaps he was the sort of man who meddledâerâwell, with women.â

Major Despard leant back in his chair. He laughed, an amused but indifferent laugh.

âI donât think women would take a mountebank like that seriously.â

âWhatâs your theory of who killed him, Major Despard?â

âWell, I know I didnât. Little Miss Meredith didnât. I canât imagine Mrs. Lorrimer doing soâshe reminds me of one of my more God-fearing aunts. That leaves the medical gentleman.â

âCan you describe your own and other peopleâs movements this evening?â

âI got up twiceâonce for an ashtray, and I also poked the fireâand once for a drinkââ

âAt what times?â

âI couldnât say. First time might have been about half past ten, the second time eleven, but thatâs pure guesswork. Mrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once and said something to Shaitana. I didnât actually hear him answer, but, then, I wasnât paying attention. I couldnât swear he didnât. Miss Meredith wandered about the room a bit, but I donât think she went over near the fireplace. Roberts was always jumping up and downâthree or four times at least.â

âIâll ask you M. Poirotâs question,â said Battle with a smile. âWhat did you think of them as bridge players?â

âMiss Meredithâs quite a good player. Roberts overcalls his hand disgracefully. He deserves to go down more than he does. Mrs. Lorrimerâs damned good.â

Battle turned to Poirot.

âAnything else, M. Poirot?â

Poirot shook his head.

Despard gave his address as the Albany, wished them goodnight and left the room.

As he closed the door behind him, Poirot made a slight movement.

âWhat is it?â demanded Battle.

âNothing,â said Poirot. âIt just occurred to me that he walked like a tigerâyes, just soâlithe, easy, does the tiger move along.â

âHâm!â said Battle. âNow, thenââhis eyes glanced round at his three companionsââwhich of âem did it?â

Eight

WHICH OF THEM?

Battle looked from one face to another. Only one person answered his question. Mrs. Oliver, never averse to giving her views, rushed into speech.

âThe girl or the doctor,â she said.

Battle looked questioningly at the other two. But both the men were unwilling to make a pronouncement. Race shook his head. Poirot carefully smoothed his crumpled bridge scores.

âOne of âem did it,â said Battle musingly. âOne of âemâs lying like hell. But which? Itâs not easyâno, itâs not easy.â

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

âIf weâre to go by what they say, the medico thinks Despard did it, Despard thinks the medico did it, the girl thinks Mrs. Lorrimer did itâand Mrs. Lorrimer wonât say! Nothing very illuminating there.â

âPerhaps not,â said Poirot.

Battle shot him a quick glance.

âYou think there is?â

Poirot waved an airy hand.

âA nuanceânothing more! Nothing to go upon.â

Battle continued:

âYou two gentlemen wonât say what you thinkââ

âNo evidence,â said Race curtly.

âOh, you men!â sighed Mrs. Oliver, despising such reticence.

âLetâs look at the rough possibilities,â said Battle. He considered a minute. âI put the doctor first, I think. Specious sort of customer. Would know the right spot to shove the dagger in. But thereâs not much more than that to it. Then take Despard. Thereâs a man with any amount of nerve. A man accustomed to quick decisions and a man whoâs quite at home doing dangerous things. Mrs. Lorrmier? Sheâs got any amount of nerve, too, and sheâs the sort of woman who might have a secret in her life. She looks as though sheâs known trouble. On the other hand, Iâd say sheâs what I call a high-principled womanâsort of woman who might be headmistress of a girlsâ school. It isnât easy to think of her sticking a knife into anyone. In fact, I donât think she did. And lastly, thereâs little Miss Meredith. We donât know anything about her. She seems an ordinary good-looking, rather shy girl. But one doesnât know, as I say, anything about her.â

âWe know that Shaitana believed she had committed murder,â said Poirot.

âThe angelic face masking the demon,â mused Mrs. Oliver.

âThis getting us anywhere, Battle?â asked Colonel Race.

âUnprofitable speculation, you think, sir? Well, thereâs bound to be speculation in a case like this.â

âIsnât it better to find out something about these people?â

Battle smiled.

âOh, we shall be hard at work on that. I think you could help us there.â

âCertainly. How?â

âAs regards Major Despard. Heâs been abroad a lotâin South America, in East Africa, in South Africaâyouâve means of knowing those parts. You could get information about him.â

Race nodded.

âIt shall be done. Iâll get all available data.â

âOh,â cried Mrs. Oliver. âIâve got a plan. There are four of usâfour sleuths, as you might sayâand four of them! How would it be if we each took one. Backed our fancy! Colonel Race takes Major Despard, Superintendent Battle takes Dr. Roberts, Iâll take Anne Meredith, and M. Poirot takes Mrs. Lorrimer. Each of us to follow our own line!â

Superintendent Battle shook his head decisively.

âCouldnât quite do that, Mrs. Oliver. That is official, you see. Iâm in charge. Iâve got to investigate all lines. Besides, itâs all very well to say back your fancy. Two of us might want to back the same horse! Colonel Race hasnât said he suspects Major Despard. And M. Poirot maynât be putting his money on Mrs. Lorrimer.â

Mrs. Oliver sighed.

âIt was such a good plan,â she sighed regretfully. âSo neat.â Then she cheered up a little. âBut you donât mind me doing a little investigating on my own, do you?â

âNo,â said Superintendent Battle slowly. âI canât say I object to that. In fact, itâs out of my power to object. Having been at this party tonight, youâre naturally free to do anything your own curiosity or interest suggests. But Iâd like to point out to you, Mrs. Oliver, that youâd better be a little careful.â

âDiscretion itself,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI shanât breathe a word ofâof anythingââ she ended a little lamely.

âI do not think that was quite Superintendent Battleâs meaning,â said Hercule Poirot. âHe meant that you will be dealing with a person who has already, to the best of our belief, killed twice. A person, therefore, who will not hesitate to kill a third timeâif he considers it necessary.â

Mrs. Oliver looked at him thoughtfully. Then she smiledâan agreeable engaging smile, rather like that of an impudent small child.

âYOU HAVE BEEN WARNED,â she quoted. âThank you, M. Poirot. Iâll watch my step. But Iâm not going to be out of this.â

Poirot bowed gracefully.

âPermit me to sayâyou are the sport, madame.â

âI presume,â said Mrs. Oliver, sitting up very straight and speaking in a businesslike committee-meeting manner, âthat all information we receive will be pooledâthat is that we will not keep any knowledge to ourselves. Our own deductions and impressions, of course, we are entitled to keep up our sleeves.â

Superintendent Battle sighed.

âThis isnât a detective story, Mrs. Oliver,â he said.

Race said:

âNaturally, all information must be handed over to the police.â

Having said this in his most âOrderly Roomâ voice, he added with a slight twinkle in his eye: âIâm sure youâll play fair, Mrs. Oliverâthe stained glove, the fingerprint on the tooth glass, the fragment of burnt paperâyouâll turn them over to Battle here.â

âYou may laugh,â said Mrs. Oliver. âBut a womanâs intuitionââ

She nodded her head with decision.

Race rose to his feet.

âIâll have Despard looked up for you. It may take a little time. Anything else I can do?â

âI donât think so, thank you, sir. Youâve no hints? Iâd value anything of that kind.â

âHâm. WellâIâd keep a special lookout for shooting or poison or accidents, but I expect youâre onto that already.â

âIâd made a note of thatâyes, sir.â

âGood man, Battle. You donât need me to teach you your job. Goodnight, Mrs. Oliver. Goodnight, M. Poirot.â

And with a final nod to Battle, Colonel Race left the room.

âWho is he?â asked Mrs. Oliver.

âVery fine Army record,â said Battle. âTravelled a lot, too. Not many parts of the world he doesnât know about.â

âSecret Service, I suppose,â said Mrs. Oliver. âYou canât tell me soâI know; but he wouldnât have been asked otherwise this evening. The four murderers and the four sleuthsâScotland Yard. Secret Service. Private. Fiction. A clever idea.â

Poirot shook his head.

âYou are in error, madame. It was a very stupid idea. The tiger was alarmedâand the tiger sprang.â

âThe tiger? Why the tiger?â

âBy the tiger I mean the murderer,â said Poirot.

Battle said bluntly:

âWhatâs your idea of the right line to take, M. Poirot? Thatâs one question. And Iâd also like to know what you think of the psychology of these four people. Youâre rather hot on that.â

Still smoothing his bridge scores, Poirot said:

âYou are rightâpsychology is very important. We know the kind of murder that has been committed, the way it was committed. If we have a person who from the psychological point of view could not have committed that particular type of murder, then we can dismiss that person from our calculations. We know something about these people. We have our own impression of them, we know the line that each has elected to take, and we know something about their minds and their characters from what we have learned about them as card players and from the study of their handwriting and of these scores. But alas! it is not too easy to give a definite pronouncement. This murder required audacity and nerveâa person who was willing to take a risk. Well, we have Dr. Robertsâa blufferâan overcaller of his handâa man with complete confidence in his own powers to pull off a risky thing. His psychology fits very well with the crime. One might say, then, that that automatically wipes out Miss Meredith. She is timid, frightened of overcalling her hand, careful, economical, prudent and lacking in self-confidence. The last type of person to carry out a bold and risky coup. But a timid person will murder out of fear. A frightened nervous person can be made desperate, can turn like a rat at bay if driven into a corner. If Miss Meredith had committed a crime in the past, and if she believed that Mr. Shaitana knew the circumstances of that crime and was about to deliver her up to justice she would be wild with terrorâshe would stick at nothing to save herself. It would be the same result, though brought about through a different reactionânot cool nerve and daring, but desperate panic. Then take Major Despardâa cool, resourceful man willing to try a long shot if he believed it absolutely necessary. He would weigh the pros and cons and might decide that there was a sporting chance in his favourâand he is the type of man to prefer action to inaction, and a man who would never shrink from taking the dangerous way if he believed there was a reasonable chance of success. Finally, there is Mrs. Lorrimer, an elderly woman, but a woman in full possession of her wits and faculties. A cool woman. A woman with a mathematical brain. She has probably the best brain of the four. I confess that if Mrs. Lorrimer committed a crime, I should expect it to be a premeditated crime. I can see her planning a crime slowly and carefully, making sure that there were no flaws in her scheme. For that reason she seems to me slightly more unlikely than the other three. She is, however, the most dominating personality, and whatever she undertook she would probably carry through without a flaw. She is a thoroughly efficient woman.â

He paused:

âSo you see, that does not help us much. Noâthere is only one way in this crime. We must go back into the past.â

Battle sighed.

âYouâve said it,â he murmured.

âIn the opinion of Mr. Shaitana, each of those four people had committed murder. Had he evidence? Or was it a guess? We cannot tell. It is unlikely, I think, that he could have had actual evidence in all four casesââ

âI agree with you there,â said Battle, nodding his head. âThat would be a bit too much of a coincidence.â

âI suggest that it might come about this wayâmurder or a certain form of murder is mentioned, and Mr. Shaitana surprised a look on someoneâs face. He was very quickâvery sensitive to expression. It amuses him to experimentâto probe gently in the course of apparently aimless conversationâhe is alert to notice a wince, a reservation, a desire to turn the conversation. Oh, it is easily done. If you suspect a certain secret, nothing is easier than to confirm your suspicion. Every time a word goes home you notice itâif you are watching for such a thing.â

âItâs the sort of game that would have amused our late friend,â said Battle, nodding.

âWe may assume, then, that such was the procedure in one or more cases. He may have come across a piece of actual evidence in another case and followed it up. I doubt whether, in any of the cases, he had sufficient actual knowledge with which, for instance, to have gone to the police.â

âOr it maynât have been the kind of case,â said Battle. âOften enough thereâs a fishy businessâwe suspect foul play, but we canât ever prove it. Anyway, the course is clear. Weâve got to go through the records of all these peopleâand note any deaths that may be significant. I expect you noticed, just as the Colonel did, what Shaitana said at dinner.â

âThe black angel,â murmured Mrs. Oliver.

âA neat little reference to poison, to accident, to a doctorâs opportunities, to shooting accidents. I shouldnât be surprised if he signed his death warrant when he said those words.â

âIt was a nasty sort of pause,â said Mrs. Oliver.

âYes,â said Poirot. âThose words went home to one person at leastâthat person probably thought that Shaitana knew far more than he really did. That listener thought that they were the prelude to the endâthat the party was a dramatic entertainment arranged by Shaitana leading up to arrest for murder as its climax! Yes, as you say, he signed his death warrant when he baited his guests with those words.â

There was a momentâs silence.

âThis will be a long business,â said Battle with a sigh. âWe canât find out all we want in a momentâand weâve got to be careful. We donât want any of the four to suspect what weâre doing. All our questioning and so on must seem to have to do with this murder. There mustnât be a suspicion that weâve got any idea of the motive for the crime. And the devil of it is weâve got to check up on four possible murders in the past, not one.â

Poirot demurred.

âOur friend Mr. Shaitana was not infallible,â he said. âHe mayâit is just possibleâhave made a mistake.â

âAbout all four?â

âNoâhe was more intelligent than that.â

âCall it fifty-fifty?â

âNot even that. For me, I say one in four.â

âOne innocent and three guilty? Thatâs bad enough. And the devil of it is, even if we get at the truth it maynât help us. Even if somebody did push their great-aunts down the stairs in 1912, it wonât be much use to us in 1937.â

âYes, yes, it will be of use to us.â Poirot encouraged him. âYou know that. You know it as well as I do.â

Battle nodded slowly.

âI know what you mean,â he said. âSame hallmark.â

âDo you mean,â said Mrs. Oliver, âthat the former victim will have been stabbed with a dagger too?â

âNot quite as crude as that, Mrs. Oliver,â said Battle turning to her. âBut I donât doubt it will be essentially the same type of crime. The details may be different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. Itâs odd, but a criminal gives himself away every time by that.â

âMan is an unoriginal animal,â said Hercule Poirot.

âWomen,â said Mrs. Oliver, âare capable of infinite variation. I should never commit the same type of murder twice running.â

âDonât you ever write the same plot twice running?â asked Battle.

âThe Lotus Murder,â murmured Poirot. âThe Clue of the Candle Wax.â

Mrs. Oliver turned on him, her eyes beaming appreciation.

âThatâs clever of youâthatâs really very clever of you. Because, of course, those two are exactly the same plotâbut nobody else has seen it. One is stolen papers at an informal weekend party of the Cabinet, and the otherâs a murder in Borneo in a rubber planterâs bungalow.â

âBut the essential point on which the story turns is the same,â said Poirot. âOne of your neatest tricks. The rubber planter arranges his own murderâthe Cabinet Minister arranges the robbery of his own papers. At the last minute the third person steps in and turns deception into reality.â

âI enjoyed your last, Mrs. Oliver,â said Superintendent Battle kindly. âThe one where all the Chief Constables were shot simultaneously. You just slipped up once or twice on official details. I know youâre keen on accuracy, so I wondered ifââ

Mrs. Oliver interrupted him.

âAs a matter of fact I donât care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nobody nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful girl of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favourite labrador, Bob, good-bye, does anybody make a fuss because the girl was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyham terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing, I donât see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic, and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more. What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thingâs getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell somethingâand then theyâre killed first. That always goes down well. It comes in all my booksâcamouflaged different ways, of course. And people like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and girls tied up in cellars with sewer gas or water pouring in (such a troublesome way of killing anyone really) and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villains single-handed. Iâve written thirty-two books by nowâand of course theyâre all exactly the same really, as M. Poirot seems to have noticedâbut nobody else hasâand I only regret one thingâmaking my detective a Finn. I donât really know anything about Finns and Iâm always getting letters from Finland pointing out something impossible that heâs said or done. They seem to read detective stories a good deal in Finland. I suppose itâs the long winters with no daylight. In Bulgaria and Romania they donât seem to read at all. Iâd have done better to have made him a Bulgar.â

She broke off.

âIâm so sorry. Iâm talking shop. And this is a real murder.â Her face lit up. âWhat a good idea it would be if none of them had murdered him. If heâd asked them all, and then quietly committed suicide just for the fun of making a schemozzle.â

Poirot nodded approvingly.

âAn admirable solution. So neat. So ironic. But, alas, Mr. Shaitana was not that sort of man. He was very fond of life.â

âI donât think he was really a nice man,â said Mrs. Oliver slowly.

âHe was not nice, no,â said Poirot. âBut he was aliveâand now he is dead, and as I told him once, I have a bourgeois attitude to murder, I disapprove of it.â

He added softly:

âAnd soâI am prepared to go inside the tigerâs cageâ¦.â

Nine

DR. ROBERTS

âGood morning, Superintendent Battle.â

Dr. Roberts rose from his chair and offered a large pink hand smelling of a mixture of good soap and faint carbolic.

âHow are things going?â he went on.

Superintendent Battle glanced round the comfortable consulting room before answering.

âWell, Dr. Roberts, strictly speaking, theyâre not going. Theyâre standing still.â

âThereâs been nothing much in the papers, Iâve been glad to see.â

âSudden death of the well-known Mr. Shaitana at an evening party in his own home. Itâs left at that for the moment. Weâve had the autopsyâI brought a report of the findings alongâthought it might interest youââ

âThatâs very kind of youâit wouldâhâmâhâm. Yes, very interesting.â

He handed it back.

âAnd weâve interviewed Mr. Shaitanaâs solicitor. We know the terms of his will. Nothing of interest there. He has relatives in Syria, it seems. And then, of course, weâve been through all his private papers.â

Was it fancy or did that broad, clean-shaven countenance look a little strainedâa little wooden?

âAnd?â said Dr. Roberts.

âNothing,â said Superintendent Battle, watching him. There wasnât a sigh of relief. Nothing so blatant as that. But the doctorâs figure seemed to relax just a shade more comfortably in his chair.

âAnd so youâve come to me?â

âAnd so, as you say, Iâve come to you.â

The doctorâs eyebrows rose a little and his shrewd eyes looked into Battleâs.

âWant to go through my private papersâeh?â

âThat was my idea.â

âGot a search warrant?â

âNo.â

âWell; you could get one easily enough, I suppose. Iâm not going to make difficulties. Itâs not very pleasant being suspected of murder but I suppose I canât blame you for whatâs obviously your duty.â

âThank you, sir,â said Superintendent Battle with real gratitude. âI appreciate your attitude, if I may say so, very much. I hope all the others will be as reasonable, Iâm sure.â

âWhat canât be cured must be endured,â said the doctor good-humouredly.

He went on:

âIâve finished seeing my patients here. Iâm just off on my rounds. Iâll leave you my keys and just say a word to my secretary and you can rootle to your heartâs content.â

âThatâs all very nice and pleasant, Iâm sure,â said Battle. âIâd like to ask you a few more questions before you go.â

âAbout the other night? Really, I told you all I know.â

âNo, not about the other night. About yourself.â

âWell, man, ask away, what do you want to know?â

âIâd just like a rough sketch of your career, Dr. Roberts. Birth, marriage, and so on.â

âIt will get me into practice for Whoâs Who,â said the doctor dryly. âMy careerâs a perfectly straightforward one. Iâm a Shropshire man, born at Ludlow. My father was in practice there. He died when I was fifteen. I was educated at Shrewsbury and went in for medicine like my father before me. Iâm a St. Christopherâs manâbut youâll have all the medical details already, I expect.â

âI looked you up, yes, sir. You an only child or have you any brothers or sisters?â

âIâm an only child. Both my parents are dead and Iâm unmarried. Will that do to get on with? I came into partnership here with Dr. Emery. He retired about fifteen years ago. Lives in Ireland. Iâll give you his address if you like. I live here with a cook, a parlour maid and a housemaid. My secretary comes in daily. I make a good income and I only kill a reasonable number of my patients. Howâs that?â

Superintendent Battle grinned.

âThatâs fairly comprehensive, Dr. Roberts. Iâm glad youâve got a sense of humour. Now Iâm going to ask you one more thing.â

âIâm a strictly moral man, superintendent.â

âOh, that wasnât my meaning. No, I was going to ask you if youâd give me the names of four friendsâpeople whoâve known you intimately for a number of years. Kind of references, if you know what I mean.â

âYes, I think so. Let me see now. Youâd prefer people who are actually in London now?â

âIt would make it a bit easier, but it doesnât really matter.â

The doctor thought for a minute or two, then with his fountain pen he scribbled four names and addresses on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk to Battle.

âWill those do? Theyâre the best I can think of on the spur of the moment.â

Battle read carefully, nodded his head in satisfaction and put the sheet of paper away in an inner pocket.

âItâs just a question of elimination,â he said. âThe sooner I can get one person eliminated and go onto the next, the better it is for everyone concerned. Iâve got to make perfectly certain that you werenât on bad terms with the late Mr. Shaitana, that you had no private connections or business dealings with him, that there was no question of his having injured you at any time and your bearing resentment. I may believe you when you say you only knew him slightlyâbut it isnât a question of my belief. Iâve got to say Iâve made sure.â

âOh, I understand perfectly. Youâve got to think everybodyâs a liar till heâs proved heâs speaking the truth. Here are my keys, superintendent. Thatâs the drawers of the deskâthatâs the bureauâthat little oneâs the key of the poison cupboard. Be sure to lock it up again. Perhaps Iâd better just have a word with my secretary.â

He pressed a button on his desk.

Almost immediately the door opened and a competent-looking young woman appeared.

âYou rang, doctor?â

âThis is Miss BurgessâSuperintendent Battle from Scotland Yard.â

Miss Burgess turned a cool gaze on Battle. It seemed to say:

âDear me, what sort of an animal is this?â

âI should be glad, Miss Burgess, if you will answer any questions Superintendent Battle may put to you, and give him any help he may need.â

âCertainly, if you say so, doctor.â

âWell,â said Roberts, rising, âIâll be off. Did you put the morphia in my case? I shall need it for the Lockheart case.â

He bustled out, still talking, and Miss Burgess followed him.

âWill you press that button when you want me, Superintendent Battle?â

Superintendent Battle thanked her and said he would do so. Then he set to work.

His search was careful and methodical, though he had no great hopes of finding anything of importance. Robertsâ ready acquiescence dispelled the chance of that. Roberts was no fool. He would realize that a search would be bound to come and he would make provisions accordingly. There was, however, a faint chance that Battle might come across a hint of the information he was really after, since Roberts would not know the real object of his search.

Superintendent Battle opened and shut drawers, rifled pigeonholes, glanced through a chequebook, estimated the unpaid billsânoted what those same bills were for, scrutinized Robertsâ passbook, ran through his case notes and generally left no written document unturned. The result was meagre in the extreme. He next took a look through the poison cupboard, noted the wholesale firms with which the doctor dealt, and the system of checking, relocked the cupboard and passed on to the bureau. The contents of the latter were of a more personal nature, but Battle found nothing germane to his search. He shook his head, sat down in the doctorâs chair and pressed the desk button.

Miss Burgess appeared with commendable promptitude.

Superintendent Battle asked her politely to be seated and then sat studying her for a moment, before he decided which way to tackle her. He had sensed immediately her hostility and he was uncertain whether to provoke her into unguarded speech by increasing that hostility or whether to try a softer method of approach.

âI suppose you know what all this is about, Miss Burgess?â he said at last.

âDr. Roberts told me,â said Miss Burgess shortly.

âThe whole thingâs rather delicate,â said Superintendent Battle.

âIs it?â said Miss Burgess.

âWell, itâs rather a nasty business. Four people are under suspicion and one of them must have done it. What I want to know is whether youâve ever seen this Mr. Shaitana?â

âNever.â

âEver heard Dr. Roberts speak of him?â

âNeverâno, I am wrong. About a week ago Dr. Roberts told me to enter up a dinner appointment in his engagement book. Mr. Shaitana, 8:15, on the 18th.â

âAnd that is the first you ever heard of this Mr. Shaitana?â

âYes.â

âNever seen his name in the papers? He was often in the fashionable news.â

âIâve got better things to do than reading the fashionable news.â

âI expect you have. Oh, I expect you have,â said the superintendent mildly.

âWell,â he went on. âThere it is. All four of these people will only admit to knowing Mr. Shaitana slightly. But one of them knew him well enough to kill him. Itâs my job to find out which of them it was.â

There was an unhelpful pause. Miss Burgess seemed quite uninterested in the performance of Superintendent Battleâs job. It was her job to obey her employerâs orders and sit here listening to what Superintendent Battle chose to say and answer any direct questions he might choose to put to her.

âYou know, Miss Burgess,â the superintendent found it uphill work but he persevered, âI doubt if you appreciate half the difficulties of our job. People say things, for instance. Well, we maynât believe a word of it, but weâve got to take notice of it all the same. Itâs particularly noticeable in a case of this kind. I donât want to say anything against your sex but thereâs no doubt that a woman, when sheâs rattled, is apt to lash out with her tongue a bit. She makes unfounded accusations, hints this, that and the other, and rakes up all sorts of old scandals that have probably nothing whatever to do with the case.â

âDo you mean,â demanded Miss Burgess, âthat one of these other people has been saying things against the doctor?â

âNot exactly said anything,â said Battle cautiously. âBut all the same, Iâm bound to take notice. Suspicious circumstances about the death of a patient. Probably all a lot of nonsense. Iâm ashamed to bother the doctor with it.â

âI suppose someoneâs got hold of that story about Mrs. Graves,â said Miss Burgess wrathfully. âThe way people talk about things they know nothing whatever about is disgraceful. Lots of old ladies get like thatâthey think everybody is poisoning themâtheir relations and their servants and even their doctors. Mrs. Graves had had three doctors before she came to Dr. Roberts and then when she got the same fancies about him he was quite willing for her to have Dr. Lee instead. Itâs the only thing to do in these cases, he said. And after Dr. Lee she had Dr. Steele, and then Dr. Farmerâuntil she died, poor old thing.â

âYouâd be surprised the way the smallest thing starts a story,â said Battle. âWhenever a doctor benefits by the death of a patient somebody has something ill-natured to say. And yet why shouldnât a grateful patient leave a little something, or even a big something to her medical attendant.â

âItâs the relations,â said Miss Burgess. âI always think thereâs nothing like death for bringing out the meanness of human nature. Squabbling over whoâs to have what before the bodyâs cold. Luckily, Dr. Roberts has never had any trouble of that kind. He always says he hopes his patients wonât leave him anything. I believe he once had a legacy of fifty pounds and heâs had two walking sticks and a gold watch, but nothing else.â

âItâs a difficult life, that of a professional man,â said Battle with a sigh. âHeâs always open to blackmail. The most innocent occurrences lend themselves sometimes to a scandalous appearance. A doctorâs got to avoid even the appearance of evilâthat means heâs got to have his wits about him good and sharp.â

âA lot of what you say is true,â said Miss Burgess. âDoctors have a difficult time with hysterical women.â

âHysterical women. Thatâs right. I thought in my own mind, that that was all it amounted to.â

âI suppose you mean that dreadful Mrs. Craddock?â

Battle pretended to think.

âLet me see, was it three years ago? No, more.â

âFour or five, I think. She was a most unbalanced woman! I was glad when she went abroad and so was Dr. Roberts. She told her husband the most frightful liesâthey always do, of course. Poor man, he wasnât quite himselfâheâd begun to be ill. He died of anthrax, you know, an infected shaving brush.â

âIâd forgotten that,â said Battle untruthfully.

âAnd then she went abroad and died not long afterwards. But I always thought she was a nasty type of womanâman-mad, you know.â

âI know the kind,â said Battle. âVery dangerous, they are. A doctorâs got to give them a wide berth. Whereabouts did she die abroadâI seem to remember.â

âEgypt, I think it was. She got blood poisoningâsome native infection.â

âAnother thing that must be difficult for a doctor,â said Battle, making a conversational leap, âis when he suspects that one of his patients is being poisoned by one of their relatives. Whatâs he to do? Heâs got to be sureâor else hold his tongue. And if heâs done the latter, then itâs awkward for him if thereâs talk of foul play afterwards. I wonder if any case of that kind has ever come Dr. Robertsâ way?â

âI really donât think it has,â said Miss Burgess, considering. âIâve never heard of anything like that.â

âFrom the statistical point of view, it would be interesting to know how many deaths occur among a doctorâs practice per year. For instance now, youâve been with Dr. Roberts some yearsââ

âSeven.â

âSeven. Well, how many deaths have there been in that time offhand?â

âReally, itâs difficult to say.â Miss Burgess gave herself up to calculation. She was by now quite thawed and unsuspicious. âSeven, eightâof course, I canât remember exactlyâI shouldnât say more than thirty in the time.â

âThen I fancy Dr. Roberts must be a better doctor than most,â said Battle genially. âI suppose, too, most of his patients are upper class. They can afford to take care of themselves.â

âHeâs a very popular doctor. Heâs so good at diagnosis.â

Battle sighed and rose to his feet.

âIâm afraid Iâve been wandering from my duty, which is to find out a connection between the doctor and this Mr. Shaitana. Youâre quite sure he wasnât a patient of the doctorâs?â

âQuite sure.â

âUnder another name, perhaps?â Battle handed her a photograph. âRecognize him at all?â

âWhat a very theatrical-looking person. No, Iâve never seen him here at any time.â

âWell, thatâs that.â Battle sighed. âIâm much obliged to the doctor, Iâm sure, for being so pleasant about everything. Tell him from me, will you? Tell him Iâm passing on to No. 2. Good-bye, Miss Burgess, and thank you for your help.â

He shook hands and departed. Walking along the street he took a small notebook from his pocket and made a couple of entries in it under the letter R.

Mrs. Graves? Unlikely.

Mrs. Craddock?

No legacies.

No wife. (Pity.)

Investigate deaths of patients. Difficult.

He closed the book and turned into the Lancaster Gate branch of the London and Wessex Bank.

The display of his official card brought him to a private interview with the manager.

âGood morning, sir. One of your clients is a Dr. Geoffrey Roberts, I understand.â

âQuite correct, superintendent.â

âI shall want some information about that gentlemanâs account going back over a period of years.â

âI will see what I can do for you.â

A complicated half hour followed. Finally Battle, with a sigh, tucked away a sheet of pencilled figures.

âGot what you want?â inquired the bank manager curiously.

âNo, I havenât. Not one suggestive lead. Thank you all the same.â

Â 

At that same moment, Dr. Roberts, washing his hands in his consulting room, said over his shoulder to Miss Burgess:

âWhat about our stolid sleuth, eh? Did he turn the place upside down and you inside out?â

âHe didnât get much out of me, I can tell you,â said Miss Burgess, setting her lips tightly.

âMy dear girl, no need to be an oyster. I told you to tell him all he wanted to know. What did he want to know, by the way?â

âOh, he kept harping on your knowing that man Shaitanaâsuggested even that he might have come here as a patient under a different name. He showed me his photograph. Such a theatrical-looking man!â

âShaitana? Oh, yes, fond of posing as a modern Mephistopheles. It went down rather well on the whole. What else did Battle ask you?â

âReally nothing very much. Exceptâoh, yes, somebody had been telling him some absurd nonsense about Mrs. Gravesâyou know the way she used to go on.â

âGraves? Graves? Oh, yes, old Mrs. Graves. Thatâs rather funny!â The doctor laughed with considerable amusement. âThatâs really very funny indeed.â

And in high good humour he went in to lunch.

Ten

DR. ROBERTS (CONTINUED)

Superintendent Battle was lunching with M. Hercule Poirot.

The former looked downcast, the latter sympathetic.

âYour morning, then, has not been entirely successful,â said Poirot thoughtfully.

Battle shook his head.

âItâs going to be uphill work, M. Poirot.â

âWhat do you think of him?â

âOf the doctor? Well, frankly, I think Shaitana was right. Heâs a killer. Reminds me of Westaway. And of that lawyer chap in Norfolk. Same hearty, self-confident manner. Same popularity. Both of them were clever devilsâsoâs Roberts. All the same, it doesnât follow that Roberts killed Shaitanaâand as a matter of fact I donât think he did. Heâd know the risk too wellâbetter than a layman wouldâthat Shaitana might wake and cry out. No, I donât think Roberts murdered him.â

âBut you think he has murdered someone?â

âPossibly quite a lot of people. Westaway had. But itâs going to be hard to get at. Iâve looked over his bank accountânothing suspicious thereâno large sums suddenly paid in. At any rate, in the last seven years heâs not had any legacy from a patient. That wipes out murder for direct gain. Heâs never marriedâthatâs a pityâso ideally simple for a doctor to kill his own wife. Heâs well-to-do, but then heâs got a thriving practice among well-to-do people.â

âIn fact he appears to lead a thoroughly blameless lifeâand perhaps does do so.â

âMaybe. But I prefer to believe the worst.â

He went on:

âThereâs the hint of a scandal over a womanâone of his patientsâname of Craddock. Thatâs worth looking up, I think. Iâll get someone onto that straightaway. Woman actually died out in Egypt of some local disease so I donât think thereâs anything in thatâbut it might throw a light on his general character and morals.â

âWas there a husband?â

âYes. Husband died of anthrax.â

âAnthrax?â

âYes, there were a lot of cheap shaving brushes on the market just thenâsome of them infected. There was a regular scandal about it.â

âConvenient,â suggested Poirot.

âThatâs what I thought. If her husband were threatening to kick up a rowâBut there, itâs all conjecture. We havenât a leg to stand upon.â

âCourage, my friend. I know your patience. In the end, you will have perhaps as many legs as a centipede.â

âAnd fall into the ditch as a result of thinking about them,â grinned Battle.

Then he asked curiously:

âWhat about you, M. Poirot? Going to take a hand?â

âI, too, might call on Dr. Roberts.â

âTwo of us in one day. That ought to put the wind up him.â

âOh, I shall be very discreet. I shall not inquire into his past life.â

âIâd like to know just exactly what line youâll take,â said Battle curiously, âbut donât tell me unless you want to.â

âDu toutâdu tout. I am most willing. I shall talk a little of bridge, that is all.â

âBridge again. You harp on that, donât you, M. Poirot?â

âI find the subject very useful.â

âWell, every man to his taste. I donât deal much in the fancy approaches. They donât suit my style.â

âWhat is your style, superintendent?â

The superintendent met the twinkle in Poirotâs eyes with an answering twinkle in his own.

âA straightforward, honest, zealous officer doing his duty in the most laborious mannerâthatâs my style. No frills. No fancy work. Just honest perspiration. Stolid and a bit stupidâthatâs my ticket.â

Poirot raised his glass.

âTo our respective methodsâand may success crown our joint efforts.â

âI expect Colonel Race may get us something worth having about Despard,â said Battle. âHeâs got a good many sources of information.â

âAnd Mrs. Oliver?â

âBit of a toss-up there. I rather like that woman. Talks a lot of nonsense, but sheâs a sport. And women get to know things about other women that men canât get at. She may spot something useful.â

They separated. Battle went back to Scotland Yard to issue instructions for certain lines to be followed up. Poirot betook himself to 200 Gloucester Terrace.

Dr. Robertsâ eyebrows rose comically as he greeted his guest.

âTwo sleuths in one day,â he asked. âHandcuffs by this evening, I suppose.â

Poirot smiled.

âI can assure you, Dr. Roberts, that my attentions are being equally divided between all four of you.â

âThatâs something to be thankful for, at all events. Smoke?â

âIf you permit, I prefer my own.â

Poirot lighted one of his tiny Russian cigarettes.

âWell, what can I do for you?â asked Roberts.

Poirot was silent for a minute or two puffing, then he said:

âAre you a keen observer of human nature, doctor?â

âI donât know. I suppose I am. A doctor has to be.â

âThat was exactly my reasoning. I said to myself, âA doctor has always to be studying his patientsâtheir expressions, their colour, how fast they breathe, any signs of restlessnessâa doctor notices these things automatically almost without noticing he notices! Dr. Roberts is the man to help me.ââ

âIâm willing enough to help. Whatâs the trouble?â

Poirot produced from a neat little pocketcase three carefully folded bridge scores.

âThese are the first three rubbers the other evening,â he explained. âHere is the first oneâin Miss Meredithâs handwriting. Now can you tell meâwith this to refresh your memoryâexactly what the calling was and how each hand went?â

Roberts stared at him in astonishment.

âYouâre joking, M. Poirot. How can I possibly remember?â

âCanât you? I should be very grateful if you could. Take this first rubber. The first game must have resulted in a game call in hearts or spades, or else one or other side must have gone down fifty.â

âLet me seeâthat was the first hand. Yes, I think they went out in spades.â

âAnd the next hand?â

âI suppose one or other of us went down fiftyâbut I canât remember which or what it was in. Really, M. Poirot, you can hardly expect me to do so.â

âCanât you remember any of the calling or the hands?â

âI got a grand slamâI remember that. It was doubled too. And I also remember going down a nasty smackâplaying three no trumps, I think it wasâwent down a packet. But that was later on.â

âDo you remember with whom you were playing?â

âMrs. Lorrimer. She looked a bit grim, I remember. Didnât like my overcalling, I expect.â

âAnd you canât remember any other of the hands or the calling?â

Roberts laughed.

âMy dear M. Poirot, did you really expect I could. First there was the murderâenough to drive the most spectacular hands out of oneâs mindâand in addition Iâve played at least half a dozen rubbers since then.â

Poirot sat looking rather crestfallen.

âIâm sorry,â said Roberts.

âIt does not matter very much,â said Poirot slowly. âI hoped that you might remember one or two, at least, of the hands, because I thought they might be valuable landmarks in remembering other things.â

âWhat other things?â

âWell you might have noticed, for instance, that your partner made a mess of playing a perfectly simple no trumper, or that an opponent, say, presented you with a couple of unexpected tricks by failing to lead an obvious card.â

Dr. Roberts became suddenly serious. He leaned forward in his chair.

âAh,â he said. âNow I see what youâre driving at. Forgive me. I thought at first you were talking pure nonsense. You mean that the murderâthe successful accomplishment of the murderâmight have made a definite difference in the guilty partyâs play?â

Poirot nodded.

âYou have seized the idea correctly. It would be a clue of the first excellence if you had been four players who knew each otherâs game well. A variation, a sudden lack of brilliance, a missed opportunityâthat would have been immediately noticed. Unluckily, you were all strangers to each other. Variation in play would not be so noticeable. But think, M. le docteur, I beg of you to think. Do you remember any inequalitiesâany sudden glaring mistakesâin the play of anyone?â

There was silence for a minute or two, then Dr. Roberts shook his head.

âItâs no good. I canât help you,â he said frankly. âI simply donât remember. All I can tell you is what I told you before: Mrs. Lorrimer is a first-class playerâshe never made a slip that I noticed. She was brilliant from start to finish. Despardâs play was uniformly good too. Rather a conventional playerâthat is, his bidding is strictly conventional. He never steps outside the rules. Wonât take a long chance. Miss Meredithââ He hesitated.

âYes? Miss Meredith?â Poirot prompted him.

âShe did make mistakesâonce or twiceâI rememberâtowards the end of the evening, but that may simply have been because she was tiredânot being a very experienced player. Her hand shook, tooââ

He stopped.

âWhen did her hand shake?â

âWhen was it now? I canât remember â¦ I think she was just nervous. M. Poirot, youâre making me imagine things.â

âI apologize. There is another point on which I seek your help.â

âYes?â

Poirot said slowly:

âIt is difficult. I do not, you see, wish to ask you a leading question. If I say, did you notice so and soâwell, I have put the thing into your head. Your answer will not be so valuable. Let me try to get at the matter another way. If you will be so kind, Dr. Roberts, describe to me the contents of the room in which you played.â

Roberts looked thoroughly astonished.

âThe contents of the room?â

âIf you will be so good.â

âMy dear fellow, I simply donât know where to begin.â

âBegin anywhere you choose.â

âWell, there was a good deal of furnitureââ

âNon, non, non, be precise, I pray of you.â

Dr. Roberts sighed.

He began facetiously after the manner of an auctioneer.

âOne large settee upholstered in ivory brocadeâone ditto in green dittoâfour or five large chairs. Eight or nine Persian rugsâa set of twelve small gilt Empire chairs. William and Mary bureau. (I feel just like an auctioneerâs clerk.) Very beautiful Chinese cabinet. Grand piano. There was other furniture but Iâm afraid I didnât notice it. Six first-class Japanese prints. Two Chinese pictures on looking glass. Five or six very beautiful snuffboxes. Some Japanese ivory netsuke figures on a table by themselves. Some old silverâCharles I tazzas, I think. One or two pieces of Battersea enamelââ

âBravo, bravo!â Poirot applauded.

âA couple of old English slipware birdsâand, I think, a Ralph Wood figure. Then there was some Eastern stuffâintricate silver work. Some jewellery, I donât know much about that. Some Chelsea birds, I remember. Oh, and some miniatures in a caseâpretty good ones, I fancy. Thatâs not all by a long wayâbut itâs all I can think of for the minute.â

âIt is magnificent,â said Poirot with due appreciation. âYou have the true observerâs eye.â

The doctor asked curiously:

âHave I included the object you had in mind?â

âThat is the interesting thing about it,â said Poirot. âIf you had mentioned the object I had in mind it would have been extremely surprising to me. As I thought, you could not mention it.â

âWhy?â

Poirot twinkled.

âPerhapsâbecause it was not there to mention.â

Roberts stared.

âThat seems to remind me of something.â

âIt reminds you of Sherlock Holmes, does it not? The curious incident of the dog in the night. The dog did not howl in the night. That is the curious thing! Ah, well, I am not above stealing the tricks of others.â

âDo you know, M. Poirot, I am completely at sea as to what you are driving at.â

âThat is excellent, that. In confidence, that is how I get my little effects.â

Then, as Dr. Roberts still looked rather dazed, Poirot said with a smile as he rose to his feet:

âYou may at least comprehend this, what you have told me is going to be very helpful to me in my next interview.â

The doctor rose also.

âI canât see how, but Iâll take your word for it,â he said.

They shook hands.

Poirot went down the steps of the doctorâs house, and hailed a passing taxi.

â111 Cheyne Lane, Chelsea,â he told the driver.

Eleven

MRS. LORRIMER

111 Cheyne Lane was a small house of very neat and trim appearance standing in a quiet street. The door was painted black and the steps were particularly well whitened, the brass of the knocker and handle gleamed in the afternoon sun.

The door was opened by an elderly parlourmaid with an immaculate white cap and apron.

In answer to Poirotâs inquiry she said that her mistress was at home.

She preceded him up the narrow staircase.

âWhat name, sir?â

âM. Hercule Poirot.â

He was ushered into a drawing room of the usual L shape. Poirot looked about him, noting details. Good furniture, well polished, of the old family type. Shiny chintz on the chairs and settees. A few silver photograph frames about in the old-fashioned manner. Otherwise an agreeable amount of space and light, and some really beautiful chrysanthemums arranged in a tall jar.

Mrs. Lorrimer came forward to meet him.

She shook hands without showing any particular surprise at seeing him, indicated a chair, took one herself and remarked favourably on the weather.

There was a pause.

âI hope, madame,â said Hercule Poirot, âthat you will forgive this visit.â

Looking directly at him, Mrs. Lorrimer asked:

âIs this a professional visit?â

âI confess it.â

âYou realize, I suppose, M. Poirot, that though I shall naturally give Superintendent Battle and the official police any information and help they may require, I am by no means bound to do the same for any unofficial investigator?â

âI am quite aware of that fact, madame. If you show me the door, me, I march to that door with complete submission.â

Mrs. Lorrimer smiled very slightly.

âI am not yet prepared to go to those extremes, M. Poirot. I can give you ten minutes. At the end of that time I have to go out to a bridge party.â

âTen minutes will be ample for my purpose. I want you to describe to me, madame, the room in which you played bridge the other eveningâthe room in which Mr. Shaitana was killed.â

Mrs. Lorrimerâs eyebrows rose.

âWhat an extraordinary question! I do not see the point of it.â

âMadame, if when you were playing bridge, someone were to say to youâwhy do you play that ace or why do you put on the knave that is taken by the queen and not the king which would take the trick? If people were to ask you such questions, the answers would be rather long and tedious, would they not?â

Mrs. Lorrimer smiled slightly.

âMeaning that in this game you are the expert and I am the novice. Very well.â She reflected a minute. âIt was a large room. There were a good many things in it.â

âCan you describe some of those things?â

âThere were some glass flowersâmodernârather beautiful â¦ And I think there were some Chinese or Japanese pictures. And there was a bowl of tiny red tulipsâamazingly early for them.â

âAnything else?â

âIâm afraid I didnât notice anything in detail.â

âThe furnitureâdo you remember the colour of the upholstery?â

âSomething silky, I think. Thatâs all I can say.â

âDid you notice any of the small objects?â

âIâm afraid not. There were so many. I know it struck me as quite a collectorâs room.â

There was silence for a minute. Mrs. Lorrimer said with a faint smile:

âIâm afraid I have not been very helpful.â

âThere is something else.â He produced the bridge scores. âHere are the first three rubbers played. I wondered if you could help me with the aid of these scores to reconstruct the hands.â

âLet me see.â Mrs. Lorrimer looked interested. She bent over the scores.

âThat was the first rubber. Miss Meredith and I were playing against the two men. The first game was played in four spades. We made it and an over trick. Then the next hand was left at two diamonds and Dr. Roberts went down one trick on it. There was quite a lot of bidding on the third hand, I remember. Miss Meredith passed. Major Despard went a heart. I passed. Dr. Roberts gave a jump bid of three clubs. Miss Meredith went three spades. Major Despard bid four diamonds. I doubled. Dr. Roberts took it into four hearts. They went down one.â

âEpatant,â said Poirot. âWhat a memory!â

Mrs. Lorrimer went on, disregarding him:

âOn the next hand Major Despard passed and I bid a no trump. Dr. Roberts bid three hearts. My partner said nothing. Despard put his partner to four. I doubled and they went down two tricks. Then I dealt and we went out on a four-spade call.â

She took up the next score.

âIt is difficult, that,â said Poirot. âMajor Despard scores in the cancellation manner.â

âI rather fancy both sides went down fifty to start withâthen Dr. Roberts went to five diamonds and we doubled and got him down to three tricks. Then we made three clubs, but immediately after the others went game in spades. We made the second game in five clubs. Then we went down a hundred. The others made one heart, we made two no trumps and we finally won the rubber with a four-club call.â

She picked up the next score.

âThis rubber was rather a battle, I remember. It started tamely. Major Despard and Miss Meredith made a one-heart call. Then we went down a couple of fifties trying for four hearts and four spades. Then the others made game in spadesâno use trying to stop them. We went down three hands running after that but undoubled. Then we won the second game in no trumps. Then a battle royal started. Each side went down in turn. Dr. Roberts overcalled but though he went down badly once or twice, his calling paid, for more than once he frightened Miss Meredith out of bidding her hand. Then he bid an original two spades, I gave him three diamonds, he bid four no trumps, I bid five spades and he suddenly jumped to seven diamonds. We were doubled, of course. He had no business to make such a call. By a kind of miracle we got it. I never thought we should when I saw his hand go down. If the others had led a heart we would have been three tricks down. As it was they led the king of clubs and we got it. It was really very exciting.â

âJe crois bienâa Grand Slam Vulnerable doubled. It causes the emotions, that! Me, I admit it, I have not the nerve to go for the slams. I content myself with the game.â

âOh, but you shouldnât,â said Mrs. Lorrimer with energy. âYou must play the game properly.â

âTake risks, you mean?â

âThere is no risk if the bidding is correct. It should be a mathematical certainty. Unfortunately, few people really bid well. They know the opening bids but later they lose their heads. They cannot distinguish between a hand with winning cards in it and a hand without losing cardsâbut I mustnât give you a lecture on bridge, or on the losing count, M. Poirot.â

âIt would improve my play, I am sure, madame.â

Mrs. Lorrimer resumed her study of the score.

âAfter that excitement the next hands were rather tame. Have you the fourth score there? Ah, yes. A ding-dong battleâneither side able to score below.â

âIt is often like that as the evening wears on.â

âYes, one starts tamely and then the cards get worked up.â

Poirot collected the scores and made a little bow.

âMadame, I congratulate you. Your card memory is magnificentâbut magnificent! You remember, one might say, every card that was played!â

âI believe I do!â

âMemory is a wonderful gift. With it the past is never the pastâI should imagine, madame, that to you the past unrolls itself, every incident clear as yesterday. Is that so?â

She looked at him quickly. Her eyes were wide and dark.

It was only for a moment, then she had resumed her woman-of-the-world manner, but Hercule Poirot did not doubt. That shot had gone home.

Mrs. Lorrimer rose.

âIâm afraid I shall have to leave now. I am so sorryâbut I really mustnât be late.â

âOf course notâof course not. I apologize for trespassing on your time.â

âIâm sorry I havenât been able to help you more.â

âBut you have helped me,â said Hercule Poirot.

âI hardly think so.â

She spoke with decision.

âBut yes. You have told me something I wanted to know.â

She asked no question as to what that something was.

He held out his hand.

âThank you, madame, for your forbearance.â

As she shook hands with him she said:

âYou are an extraordinary man, M. Poirot.â

âI am as the good God made me, madame.â

âWe are all that, I suppose.â

âNot all, madame. Some of us have tried to improve on His pattern. Mr. Shaitana, for instance.â

âIn what way do you mean?â

âHe had a very pretty taste in objets de vertu and bric-Ã -bracâhe should have been content with that. Instead, he collected other things.â

âWhat sort of things?â

âWellâshall we sayâsensations?â

âAnd donât you think that was dans son caractÃ¨re?â

Poirot shook his head gravely.

âHe played the part of the devil too successfully. But he was not the devil. Au fond, he was a stupid man. And soâhe died.â

âBecause he was stupid?â

âIt is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, madame.â

There was a silence. Then Poirot said:

âI take my departure. A thousand thanks for your amiability, madame. I will not come again unless you send for me.â

Her eyebrows rose.

âDear me, M. Poirot, why should I send for you?â

âYou might. It is just an idea. If so, I will come. Remember that.â

He bowed once more and left the room.

In the street he said to himself:

âI am right â¦ I am sure I am right â¦ It must be that!â

Twelve

ANNE MEREDITH

Mrs. Oliver extricated herself from the driving seat of her little two-seater with some difficulty. To begin with, the makers of modern motorcars assume that only a pair of sylphlike knees will ever be under the steering wheel. It is also the fashion to sit low. That being so, for a middle-aged woman of generous proportions it requires a good deal of superhuman wriggling to get out from under the steering wheel. In the second place, the seat next to the driving seat was encumbered by several maps, a handbag, three novels and a large bag of apples. Mrs. Oliver was partial to apples and had indeed been known to eat as many as five pounds straight off whilst composing the complicated plot of The Death in the Drain Pipeâcoming to herself with a start and an incipient stomachache an hour and ten minutes after she was due at an important luncheon party given in her honour.

With a final determined heave and a sharp shove with a knee against a recalcitrant door, Mrs. Oliver arrived a little too suddenly on the sidewalk outside the gate of Wendon Cottage, showering apple cores freely round her as she did so.

She gave a deep sigh, pushed back her country hat to an unfashionable angle, looked down with approval at the tweeds she had remembered to put on, frowned a little when she saw that she had absentmindedly retained her London high-heeled patent leather shoes, and pushing open the gate of Wendon Cottage walked up the flagged path to the front door. She rang the bell and executed a cheerful little rat-a-tat-tat on the knockerâa quaint conceit in the form of a toadâs head.

As nothing happened she repeated the performance.

After a further pause of a minute and a half, Mrs. Oliver stepped briskly round the side of the house on a voyage of exploration.

There was a small old-fashioned garden with Michaelmas daisies and straggling chrysanthemums behind the cottage, and beyond it a field. Beyond the field was the river. For an October day the sun was warm.

Two girls were just crossing the field in the direction of the cottage. As they came through the gate into the garden, the foremost of the two stopped dead.

Mrs. Oliver came forward.

âHow do you do, Miss Meredith? You remember me, donât you?â

âOhâoh, of course.â Anne Meredith extended her hand hurriedly. Her eyes looked wide and startled. Then she pulled herself together.

âThis is my friend who lives with meâMiss Dawes. Rhoda, this is Mrs. Oliver.â

The other girl was tall, dark, and vigorous-looking. She said excitedly:

âOh, are you the Mrs. Oliver? Ariadne Oliver?â

âI am,â said Mrs. Oliver, and she added to Anne, âNow let us sit down somewhere, my dear, because Iâve got a lot to say to you.â

âOf course. And weâll have teaââ

âTea can wait,â said Mrs. Oliver.

Anne led the way to a little group of deck and basket chairs, all rather dilapidated. Mrs. Oliver chose the strongest-looking with some care, having had various unfortunate experiences with flimsy summer furniture.

âNow, my dear,â she said briskly. âDonât letâs beat about the bush. About this murder the other evening. Weâve got to get busy and do something.â

âDo something?â queried Anne.

âNaturally,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI donât know what you think, but I havenât the least doubt who did it. That doctor. What was his name? Roberts. Thatâs it! Roberts. A Welsh name! I never trust the Welsh! I had a Welsh nurse and she took me to Harrogate one day and went home having forgotten all about me. Very unstable. But never mind about her. Roberts did itâthatâs the point and we must put our heads together and prove he did.â

Rhoda Dawes laughed suddenlyâthen she blushed.

âI beg your pardon. But youâreâyouâre so different from what I would have imagined.â

âA disappointment, I expect,â said Mrs. Oliver serenely. âIâm used to that. Never mind. What we must do is prove that Roberts did it!â

âHow can we?â said Anne.

âOh, donât be so defeatist, Anne,â cried Rhoda Dawes. âI think Mrs. Oliverâs splendid. Of course, she knows all about these things. Sheâll do just as Sven Hjerson does.â

Blushing slightly at the name of her celebrated Finnish detective, Mrs. Oliver said:

âItâs got to be done, and Iâll tell you why, child. You donât want people thinking you did it?â

âWhy should they?â asked Anne, her colour rising.

âYou know what people are!â said Mrs. Oliver. âThe three who didnât do it will come in for just as much suspicion as the one who did.â

Anne Meredith said slowly:

âI still donât quite see why you come to me, Mrs. Oliver?â

âBecause in my opinion the other two donât matter! Mrs. Lorrimer is one of those women who play bridge at bridge clubs all day. Women like that must be made of armourplatingâthey can look after themselves all right! And anyway sheâs old. It wouldnât matter if anyone thought sheâd done it. A girlâs different. Sheâs got her life in front of her.â

âAnd Major Despard?â asked Anne.

âPah!â said Mrs. Oliver. âHeâs a man! I never worry about men. Men can look after themselves. Do it remarkably well, if you ask me. Besides, Major Despard enjoys a dangerous life. Heâs getting his fun at home instead of on the Irrawaddyâor do I mean the Limpopo? You know what I meanâthat yellow African river that men like so much. No, Iâm not worrying my head about either of those two.â

âItâs very kind of you,â said Anne slowly.

âIt was a beastly thing to happen,â said Rhoda. âItâs broken Anne up, Mrs. Oliver. Sheâs awfully sensitive. And I think youâre quite right. It would be ever so much better to do something than just to sit here thinking about it all.â

âOf course it would,â said Mrs. Oliver. âTo tell you the truth, a real murder has never come my way before. And, to continue telling the truth, I donât believe real murder is very much in my line. Iâm so used to loading the diceâif you understand what I mean. But I wasnât going to be out of it and let those three men have all the fun to themselves. Iâve always said that if a woman were the head of Scotland Yardââ

âYes?â said Rhoda, leaning forward with parted lips. âIf you were head of Scotland Yard, what would you do?â

âI should arrest Dr. Roberts straight awayââ

âYes?â

âHowever, Iâm not the head of Scotland Yard,â said Mrs. Oliver, retreating from dangerous ground. âIâm a private individualââ

âOh, youâre not that,â said Rhoda, confusedly complimentary.

âHere we are,â continued Mrs. Oliver, âthree private individualsâall women. Let us see what we can do by putting our heads together.â

Anne Meredith nodded thoughtfully. Then she said:

âWhy do you think Dr. Roberts did it?â

âHeâs that sort of man,â replied Mrs. Oliver promptly.

âDonât you think, thoughââ Anne hesitated. âWouldnât a doctorâ? I mean something like poison would be so much easier for him.â

âNot at all. Poisonâdrugs of any kind would point straight to a doctor. Look how they are always leaving cases of dangerous drugs in cars all over London and getting them stolen. No, just because he was a doctor heâd take special care not to use anything of a medical kind.â

âI see,â said Anne doubtfully.

Then she said:

âBut why do you think he wanted to kill Mr. Shaitana? Have you any idea?â

âIdea? Iâve got any amount of ideas. In fact, thatâs just the difficulty. It always is my difficulty. I can never think of even one plot at a time. I always think of at least five, and itâs agony to decide between them. I can think of six beautiful reasons for the murder. The trouble is Iâve no earthly means of knowing which is right. To begin with, perhaps Shaitana was a moneylender. He had a very oily look. Roberts was in his clutches, and killed him because he couldnât get the money to repay the loan. Or perhaps Shaitana ruined his daughter or his sister. Or perhaps Roberts is a bigamist, and Shaitana knew it. Or possibly Roberts married Shaitanaâs second cousin, and will inherit all Shaitanaâs money through her. OrâHow many have I got to?â

âFour,â said Rhoda.

âOrâand this is a really good oneâsuppose Shaitana knew some secret in Robertsâ past. Perhaps you didnât notice, my dear, but Shaitana said something rather peculiar at dinnerâjust before a rather queer pause.â

Anne stooped to tickle a caterpillar. She said, âI donât think I remember.â

âWhat did he say?â asked Rhoda.

âSomething aboutâwhat was it?âan accident and poison. Donât you remember?â

Anneâs left hand tightened on the basketwork of her chair.

âI do remember something of the kind,â she said composedly.

Rhoda said suddenly, âDarling, you ought to have a coat. Itâs not summer, remember. Go and get one.â

Anne shook her head.

âIâm quite warm.â

But she gave a queer little shiver as she spoke.

âYou see my theory,â went on Mrs. Oliver. âI daresay one of the doctorâs patients poisoned himself by accident; but, of course, really, it was the doctorâs own doing. I daresay heâs murdered lots of people that way.â

A sudden colour came into Anneâs cheeks. She said, âDo doctors usually want to murder their patients wholesale? Wouldnât it have rather a regrettable effect on their practice?â

âThere would be a reason, of course,â said Mrs. Oliver vaguely.

âI think the idea is absurd,â said Anne crisply. âAbsolutely absurdly melodramatic.â

âOh, Anne!â cried Rhoda in an agony of apology. She looked at Mrs. Oliver. Her eyes, rather like those of an intelligent spaniel, seemed to be trying to say something. âTry and understand. Try and understand,â those eyes said.

âI think itâs a splendid idea, Mrs. Oliver,â Rhoda said earnestly. âAnd a doctor could get hold of something quite untraceable, couldnât he?â

âOh!â exclaimed Anne.

The other two turned to look at her.

âI remember something else,â she said. âMr. Shaitana said something about a doctorâs opportunities in a laboratory. He must have meant something by that.â

âIt wasnât Mr. Shaitana who said that.â Mrs. Oliver shook her head. âIt was Major Despard.â

A footfall on the garden walk made her turn her head.

âWell!â she exclaimed. âTalk of the devil!â

Major Despard had just come round the corner of the house.

Thirteen

SECOND VISITOR

At the sight of Mrs. Oliver, Major Despard looked slightly taken aback. Under his tan his face flushed a rich brick red. Embarrassment made him jerky. He made for Anne.

âI apologize, Miss Meredith,â he said. âBeen ringing your bell. Nothing happened. Was passing this way. Thought I might just look you up.â

âIâm so sorry youâve been ringing,â said Anne. âWe havenât got a maidâonly a woman who comes in the mornings.â

She introduced him to Rhoda.

Rhoda said briskly:

âLetâs have some tea. Itâs getting chilly. Weâd better go in.â

They all went into the house. Rhoda disappeared into the kitchen. Mrs. Oliver said:

âThis is quite a coincidenceâour all meeting here.â

Despard said slowly, âYes.â

His eyes rested on her thoughtfullyâappraising eyes.

âIâve been telling Miss Meredith,â said Mrs. Oliver, who was thoroughly enjoying herself, âthat we ought to have a plan of campaign. About the murder, I mean. Of course, that doctor did it. Donât you agree with me?â

âCouldnât say. Very little to go on.â

Mrs. Oliver put on her âHow like a man!â expression.

A certain air of constraint had settled over the three. Mrs. Oliver sensed it quickly enough. When Rhoda brought in tea she rose and said she must be getting back to town. No, it was ever so kind of them, but she wouldnât have any tea.

âIâm going to leave you my card,â she said. âHere it is, with my address on it. Come and see me when you come up to town, and weâll talk everything over and see if we canât think of something ingenious to get to the bottom of things.â

âIâll come out to the gate with you,â said Rhoda.

Just as they were walking down the path to the front gate, Anne Meredith ran out of the house and overtook them.

âIâve been thinking things over,â she said.

Her pale face looked unusually resolute.

âYes, my dear?â

âItâs extraordinarily kind of you, Mrs. Oliver, to have taken all this trouble. But Iâd really rather not do anything at all. I meanâit was all so horrible. I just want to forget about it.â

âMy dear child, the question is, will you be allowed to forget about it?â

âOh, I quite understand that the police wonât let it drop. Theyâll probably come here and ask me a lot more questions. Iâm prepared for that. But privately, I mean, I donât want to think about itâor be reminded of it in any way. I daresay Iâm a coward, but thatâs how I feel about it.â

âOh, Anne!â cried Rhoda Dawes.

âI can understand your feeling, but Iâm not at all sure that youâre wise,â said Mrs. Oliver. âLeft to themselves, the police will probably never find out the truth.â

Anne Meredith shrugged her shoulders.

âDoes that really matter?â

âMatter?â cried Rhoda. âOf course it matters. It does matter, doesnât it, Mrs. Oliver?â

âI should certainly say so,â said Mrs. Oliver dryly.

âI donât agree,â said Anne obstinately. âNobody who knows me would ever think Iâd done it. I donât see any reason for interfering. Itâs the business of the police to get at the truth.â

âOh, Anne, you are spiritless,â said Rhoda.

âThatâs how I feel, anyway,â said Anne. She held out her hand. âThank you very much, Mrs. Oliver. Itâs very good of you to have bothered.â

âOf course, if you feel that way, thereâs nothing more to be said,â said Mrs. Oliver cheerfully. âI, at any rate, shall not let the grass grow under my feet. Good-bye, my dear. Look me up in London if you change your mind.â

She climbed into the car, started it, and drove off, waving a cheerful hand at the two girls.

Rhoda suddenly made a dash after the car and leapt on the running board.

âWhat you saidâabout looking you up in London,â she said breathlessly. âDid you only mean Anne, or did you mean me, too?â

Mrs. Oliver applied the brake.

âI meant both of you, of course.â

âOh, thank you. Donât stop. Iâperhaps I might come one day. Thereâs somethingâNo, donât stop. I can jump off.â

She did so and, waving a hand, ran back to the gate, where Anne was standing.

âWhat on earthâ?â began Anne.

âIsnât she a duck?â asked Rhoda enthusiastically. âI do like her. She had on odd stockings, did you notice? Iâm sure sheâs frightfully clever. She must beâto write all those books. What fun if she found out the truth when the police and everyone were baffled.â

âWhy did she come here?â asked Anne.

Rhodaâs eyes opened wide.

âDarlingâshe told youââ

Anne made an impatient gesture.

âWe must go in. I forgot. Iâve left him all alone.â

âMajor Despard? Anne, heâs frightfully good-looking, isnât he?â

âI suppose he is.â

They walked up the path together.

Major Despard was standing by the mantelpiece, teacup in hand.

He cut short Anneâs apologies for leaving him.

âMiss Meredith, I want to explain why Iâve butted in like this.â

âOhâbutââ

âI said that I happened to be passingâthat wasnât strictly true. I came here on purpose.â

âHow did you know my address?â asked Anne slowly.

âI got it from Superintendent Battle.â

He saw her shrink slightly at the name.

He went on quickly:

âBattleâs on his way here now. I happened to see him at Paddington. I got my car out and came down here. I knew I could beat the train easily.â

âBut why?â

Despard hesitated just a minute.

âI may have been presumptuousâbut I had the impression that you were, perhaps, what is called âalone in the world.ââ

âSheâs got me,â said Rhoda.

Despard shot a quick glance at her, rather liking the gallant boyish figure that leant against the mantelpiece and was following his words so intensely. They were an attractive pair, these two.

âIâm sure she couldnât have a more devoted friend than you, Miss Dawes,â he said courteously; âbut it occurred to me that, in the peculiar circumstances, the advice of someone with a good dash of world wisdom might not be amiss. Frankly, the situation is this: Miss Meredith is under suspicion of having committed murder. The same thing applies to me and to the two other people who were in the room last night. Such a situation is not agreeableâand it has its own peculiar difficulties and dangers which someone as young and inexperienced as you are, Miss Meredith, might not recognize. In my opinion, you ought to put yourself in the hands of a thoroughly good solicitor. Perhaps you have already done so?â

Anne Meredith shook her head.

âI never thought of it.â

âExactly as I suspected. Have you got a good manâa London man, for choice?â

Again Anne shook her head.

âIâve hardly ever needed a solicitor.â

âThereâs Mr. Bury,â said Rhoda. âBut heâs about a hundred-and-two, and quite gaga.â

âIf youâll allow me to advise you, Miss Meredith, I recommend your going to Mr. Myherne, my own solicitor. Jacobs, Peel & Jacobs is the actual name of the firm. Theyâre first-class people, and they know all the ropes.â

Anne had got paler. She sat down.

âIs it really necessary?â she asked in a low voice.

âI should say emphatically so. There are all sorts of legal pitfalls.â

âAre these people veryâexpensive?â

âThat doesnât matter a bit,â said Rhoda. âThat will be quite all right, Major Despard. I think everything you say is quite true. Anne ought to be protected.â

âTheir charges will, I think, be quite reasonable,â said Despard. He added seriously: âI really do think itâs a wise course, Miss Meredith.â

âVery well,â said Anne slowly. âIâll do it if you think so.â

âGood.â

Rhoda said warmly:

âI think itâs awfully nice of you, Major Despard. Really frightfully nice.â

Anne said, âThank you.â

She hesitated, and then said:

âDid you say Superintendent Battle was coming here?â

âYes. You mustnât be alarmed by that. Itâs inevitable.â

âOh, I know. As a matter of fact, Iâve been expecting him.â

Rhoda said impulsively:

âPoor darlingâitâs nearly killing her, this business. Itâs such a shameâso frightfully unfair.â

Despard said:

âI agreeâitâs a pretty beastly businessâdragging a young girl into an affair of this kind. If anyone wanted to stick a knife into Shaitana, they ought to have chosen some other place or time.â

Rhoda asked squarely:

âWho do you think did it? Dr. Roberts or that Mrs. Lorrimer?â

A very faint smile stirred Despardâs moustache.

âMay have done it myself, for all you know.â

âOh, no,â cried Rhoda. âAnne and I know you didnât do it.â

He looked at them both with kindly eyes.

A nice pair of kids. Touchingly full of faith and trust. A timid little creature, the Meredith girl. Never mind, Myherne would see her through. The other was a fighter. He doubted if she would have crumpled up in the same way if sheâd been in her friendâs place. Nice girls. Heâd like to know more about them.

These thoughts passed through his mind. Aloud he said: âNever take anything for granted, Miss Dawes. I donât set as much value on human life as most people do. All this hysterical fuss about road deaths, for instance. Man is always in dangerâfrom traffic, from germs, from a hundred-and-one things. As well be killed one way as another. The moment you begin being careful of yourselfâadopting as your motto âSafety Firstââyou might as well be dead, in my opinion.â

âOh, I do agree with you,â cried Rhoda. âI think one ought to live frightfully dangerouslyâif one gets the chance that is. But life, on the whole, is terribly tame.â

âIt has its moments.â

âYes, for you. You go to out-of-the-way places and get mauled by tigers and shoot things and jiggers bury themselves in your toes and insects sting you, and everythingâs terribly uncomfortable but frightfully thrilling.â

âWell, Miss Meredith has had her thrill, too. I donât suppose it often happens that youâve actually been in the room while a murder was committedââ

âOh, donât!â cried Anne.

He said quickly:

âIâm sorry.â

But Rhoda said with a sigh:

âOf course it was awfulâbut it was exciting, too! I donât think Anne appreciates that side of it. You know, I think that Mrs. Oliver is thrilled to the core to have been there that night.â

âMrs.â? Oh, your fat friend who writes the books about the unpronounceable Finn. Is she trying her hand at detection in real life?â

âShe wants to.â

âWell, letâs wish her luck. It would be amusing if she put one over on Battle and Co.â

âWhat is Superintendent Battle like?â asked Rhoda curiously.

Major Despard said gravely:

âHeâs an extraordinarily astute man. A man of remarkable ability.â

âOh!â said Rhoda. âAnne said he looked rather stupid.â

âThat, I should imagine, is part of Battleâs stock-in-trade. But we mustnât make any mistakes. Battleâs no fool.â

He rose.

âWell, I must be off. Thereâs just one other thing Iâd like to say.â

Anne had risen also.

âYes?â she said, as she held out her hand.

Despard paused a minute, picking his words carefully. He took her hand and retained it in his. He looked straight into the wide, beautiful grey eyes.

âDonât be offended with me,â he said. âI just want to say this: Itâs humanly possible that there may be some feature of your acquaintanceship with Shaitana that you donât want to come out. If soâdonât be angry, pleaseâ (he felt the instinctive pull of her hand)ââyou are perfectly within your rights in refusing to answer any questions Battle may ask unless your solicitor is present.â

Anne tore her hand away. Her eyes opened, their grey darkening with anger.

âThereâs nothingânothing â¦ I hardly knew the beastly man.â

âSorry,â said Major Despard. âThought I ought to mention it.â

âItâs quite true,â said Rhoda. âAnne barely knew him. She didnât like him much, but he gave frightfully good parties.â

âThat,â said Major Despard grimly, âseems to have been the only justification for the late Mr. Shaitanaâs existence.â

Anne said in a cold voice:

âSuperintendent Battle can ask me anything he likes. Iâve nothing to hideânothing.â

Despard said very gently, âPlease forgive me.â

She looked at him. Her anger dwindled. She smiledâit was a very sweet smile.

âItâs all right,â she said. âYou meant it kindly, I know.â

She held out her hand again. He took it and said:

âWeâre in the same boat, you know. We ought to be palsâ¦.â

It was Anne who went with him to the gate. When she came back Rhoda was staring out of the window and whistling. She turned as her friend entered the room.

âHeâs frightfully attractive, Anne.â

âHeâs nice, isnât he?â

âA great deal more than nice â¦ Iâve got an absolute passion for him. Why wasnât I at that damned dinner instead of you? Iâd have enjoyed the excitementâthe net closing round meâthe shadow of the scaffoldââ

âNo, you wouldnât. Youâre talking nonsense, Rhoda.â

Anneâs voice was sharp. Then it softened as she said:

âIt was nice of him to come all this wayâfor a strangerâa girl heâs only met once.â

âOh, he fell for you. Obviously. Men donât do purely disinterested kindnesses. He wouldnât have come toddling down if youâd been cross-eyed and covered with pimples.â

âDonât you think so?â

âI do not, my good idiot. Mrs. Oliverâs a much more disinterested party.â

âI donât like her,â said Anne abruptly. âI had a sort of feeling about her â¦ I wonder what she really came for?â

âThe usual suspicions of your own sex. I daresay Major Despard had an axe to grind if it comes to that.â

âIâm sure he hadnât,â cried Anne hotly.

Then she blushed as Rhoda Dawes laughed.

Fourteen

THIRD VISITOR

Superintendent Battle arrived at Wallingford about six oâclock. It was his intention to learn as much as he could from innocent local gossip before interviewing Miss Anne Meredith.

It was not difficult to glean such information as there was. Without committing himself definitely to any statement, the superintendent nevertheless gave several different impressions of his rank and calling in life.

At least two people would have said confidently that he was a London builder come down to see about a new wing to be added to the cottage, from another you would have learned that he was âone of these weekenders wanting to take a furnished cottage,â and two more would have said they knew positively, and for a fact, that he was a representative of a hardcourt tennis firm.

The information that the superintendent gathered was entirely favourable.

âWendon CottageâYes, thatâs rightâon the Marlbury Road. You canât miss it. Yes, two young ladies. Miss Dawes and Miss Meredith. Very nice young ladies, too. The quiet kind.

âHere for years? Oh, no, not that long. Just over two years. September quarter they come in. Mr. Pickersgill they bought it from. Never used it much, he didnât, after his wife died.â

Superintendent Battleâs informant had never heard they came from Northumberland. London, he thought they came from. Popular in the neighbourhood, though some people were old-fashioned and didnât think two young ladies ought to be living alone. But very quiet, they were. None of this cocktail-drinking weekend lot. Miss Rhoda, she was the dashing one. Miss Meredith was the quiet one. Yes, it was Miss Dawes what paid the bills. She was the one had got the money.

The superintendentâs researches at last led him inevitably to Mrs. Astwellâwho âdidâ for the ladies at Wendon Cottage.

Mrs. Astwell was a locquacious lady.

âWell, no, sir. I hardly think theyâd want to sell. Not so soon. They only got in two years ago. Iâve done for them from the beginning, yes, sir. Eight oâclock till twelveâthose are my hours. Very nice, lively young ladies, always ready for a joke or a bit of fun. Not stuck up at all.

âWell, of course, I couldnât say if itâs the same Miss Dawes you knew, sirâthe same family, I mean. Itâs my fancy her homeâs in Devonshire. She gets the cream sent her now and again, and says it reminds her of home; so I think it must be.

âAs you say, sir, itâs sad for so many young ladies having to earn their living nowadays. These young ladies arenât what youâd call rich, but they have a very pleasant life. Itâs Miss Dawes has got the money, of course. Miss Anneâs her companion, in a manner of speaking, I suppose you might say. The cottage belongs to Miss Dawes.

âI couldnât really say what part Miss Anne comes from. Iâve heard her mention the Isle of Wight, and I know she doesnât like the North of England; and she and Miss Rhoda were together in Devonshire, because Iâve heard them joke about the hills and talk about the pretty coves and beaches.â

The flow went on. Every now and then Superintendent Battle made a mental note. Later, a cryptic word or two was jotted down in his little book.

At half past eight that evening he walked up the path to the door of Wendon Cottage.

It was opened to him by a tall, dark girl wearing a frock of orange cretonne.

âMiss Meredith live here?â inquired Superintendent Battle.

He looked very wooden and soldierly.

âYes, she does.â

âIâd like to speak to her, please. Superintendent Battle.â

He was immediately favoured with a piercing stare.

âCome in,â said Rhoda Dawes, drawing back from the doorway.

Anne Meredith was sitting in a cosy chair by the fire, sipping coffee. She was wearing embroidered crÃªpe de chine pyjamas.

âItâs Superintendent Battle,â said Rhoda, ushering in the guest.

Anne rose and came forward with outstretched hand.

âA bit late for a call,â said Battle. âBut I wanted to find you in, and itâs been a fine day.â

Anne smiled.

âWill you have some coffee, Superintendent? Rhoda, fetch another cup.â

âWell, itâs very kind of you, Miss Meredith.â

âWe think we make rather good coffee,â said Anne.

She indicated a chair, and Superintendent Battle sat down. Rhoda brought a cup, and Anne poured out his coffee. The fire crackled and the flowers in the vases made an agreeable impression upon the superintendent.

It was a pleasant homey atmosphere. Anne seemed self-possessed and at her ease, and the other girl continued to stare at him with devouring interest.

âWeâve been expecting you,â said Anne.

Her tone was almost reproachful. âWhy have you neglected me?â it seemed to say.

âSorry, Miss Meredith. Iâve had a lot of routine work to do.â

âSatisfactory?â

âNot particularly. But it all has to be done. Iâve turned Dr. Roberts inside out, so to speak. And the same for Mrs. Lorrimer. And now Iâve come to do the same for you, Miss Meredith.â

Anne smiled.

âIâm ready.â

âWhat about Major Despard?â asked Rhoda.

âOh, he wonât be overlooked. I can promise you that,â said Battle.

He set down his coffee cup and looked towards Anne. She sat up a little straighter in her chair.

âIâm quite ready, superintendent. What do you want to know?â

âWell, roughly, all about yourself, Miss Meredith.â

âIâm quite a respectable person,â said Anne, smiling.

âSheâs led a blameless life, too,â said Rhoda. âI can answer for that.â

âWell, thatâs very nice,â said Superintendent Battle cheerfully. âYouâve known Miss Meredith a long time, then?â

âWe were at school together,â said Rhoda. âWhat ages ago, it seems, doesnât it, Anne?â

âSo long ago, you can hardly remember it, I suppose,â said Battle with a chuckle. âNow, then, Miss Meredith, Iâm afraid Iâm going to be rather like those forms you fill up for passports.â

âI was bornââ began Anne.

âOf poor but honest parents,â Rhoda put in.

Superintendent Battle held up a slightly reproving hand.

âNow, now, young lady,â he said.

âRhoda, darling,â said Anne gravely. âItâs serious, this.â

âSorry,â said Rhoda.

âNow, Miss Meredith, you were bornâwhere?â

âAt Quetta, in India.â

âAh, yes. Your people were Army folk?â

âYesâmy father was Major John Meredith. My mother died when I was eleven. Father retired when I was fifteen and went to live in Cheltenham. He died when I was eighteen and left practically no money.â

Battle nodded his head sympathetically.

âBit of a shock to you, I expect.â

âIt was, rather. I always knew that we werenât well off, but to find there was practically nothingâwell, thatâs different.â

âWhat did you do, Miss Meredith?â

âI had to take a job. I hadnât been particularly well educated and I wasnât clever. I didnât know typing or shorthand, or anything. A friend in Cheltenham found me a job with friends of hersâtwo small boys home in the holidays, and general help in the house.â

âName, please?â

âThat was Mrs. Eldon, The Larches, Ventnor. I stayed there for two years, and then the Eldons went abroad. Then I went to a Mrs. Deering.â

âMy aunt,â put in Rhoda.

âYes, Rhoda got me the job. I was very happy. Rhoda used to come and stay sometimes, and we had great fun.â

âWhat were you thereâcompanion?â

âYesâit amounted to that.â

âMore like undergardener,â said Rhoda.

She explained:

âMy Aunt Emily is just mad on gardening. Anne spent most of her time weeding or putting in bulbs.â

âAnd you left Mrs. Deering?â

âHer health got worse, and she had to have a regular nurse.â

âSheâs got cancer,â said Rhoda. âPoor darling, she has to have morphia and things like that.â

âShe had been very kind to me. I was very sorry to go,â went on Anne.

âI was looking about for a cottage,â said Rhoda, âand wanting someone to share it with me. Daddyâs married againânot my sort at all. I asked Anne to come here with me, and sheâs been here ever since.â

âWell, that certainly seems a most blameless life,â said Battle. âLetâs just get the dates clear. You were with Mrs. Eldon two years, you say. By the way, what is her address now?â

âSheâs in Palestine. Her husband has some Government appointment out thereâIâm not sure what.â

âAh, well, I can soon find out. And after that you went to Mrs. Deering?â

âI was with her three years,â said Anne quickly. âHer address is Marsh Dene, Little Hembury, Devon.â

âI see,â said Battle. âSo you are now twenty-five, Miss Meredith. Now, thereâs just one thing moreâthe name and address of a couple of people in Cheltenham who knew you and your father.â

Anne supplied him with these.

âNow, about this trip to Switzerlandâwhere you met Mr. Shaitana. Did you go alone thereâor was Miss Dawes here with you?â

âWe went out together. We joined some other people. There was a party of eight.â

âTell me about your meeting with Mr. Shaitana.â

Anne crinkled her brows.

âThereâs really nothing to tell. He was just there. We knew him in the way you know people in a hotel. He got first prize at the fancy dress ball. He went as Mephistopheles.â

Superintendent Battle sighed.

âYes, that always was his favourite effect.â

âHe really was marvellous,â said Rhoda. âHe hardly had to make up at all.â

The superintendent looked from one girl to the other.

âWhich of you two young ladies knew him best?â

Anne hesitated. It was Rhoda who answered.

âBoth the same to begin with. Awfully little, that is. You see, our crowd was the skiing lot, and we were off doing runs most days and dancing together in the evenings. But then Shaitana seemed to take rather a fancy to Anne. You know, went out of his way to pay her compliments, and all that. We ragged her about it, rather.â

âI just think he did it to annoy me,â said Anne. âBecause I didnât like him. I think it amused him to make me feel embarrassed.â

Rhoda said laughing:

âWe told Anne it would be a nice rich marriage for her. She got simply wild with us.â

âPerhaps,â said Battle, âyouâd give me the names of the other people in your party?â

âYou arenât what I call a trustful man,â said Rhoda. âDo you think that every word weâre telling you is downright lies?â

Superintendent Battle twinkled.

âIâm going to make sure it isnât, anyway,â he said.

âYou are suspicious,â said Rhoda.

She scribbled some names on a piece of paper and gave it to him.

Battle rose.

âWell, thank you very much, Miss Meredith,â he said. âAs Miss Dawes says, you seem to have led a particularly blameless life. I donât think you need worry much. Itâs odd the way Mr. Shaitanaâs manner changed to you. Youâll excuse my asking, but he didnât ask you to marry himâorâerâpester you with attentions of another kind?â

âHe didnât try to seduce her,â said Rhoda helpfully. âIf thatâs what you mean.â

Anne was blushing.

âNothing of the kind,â she said. âHe was always most polite andâandâformal. It was just his elaborate manners that made me uncomfortable.â

âAnd little things he said or hinted?â

âYesâat leastâno. He never hinted things.â

âSorry. These lady-killers do sometimes. Well, goodnight, Miss Meredith. Thank you very much. Excellent coffee. Goodnight, Miss Dawes.â

âThere,â said Rhoda as Anne came back into the room after shutting the door after Battle. âThatâs over, and not so very terrible. Heâs a nice fatherly man, and he evidently doesnât suspect you in the least. It was all ever so much better than I expected.â

Anne sank down with a sigh.

âIt was really quite easy,â she said. âIt was silly of me to work myself up so. I thought heâd try to browbeat meâlike K.C.s on the stage.â

âHe looks sensible,â said Rhoda. âHeâd know well enough youâre not a murdering kind of female.â

She hesitated and then said:

âI say, Anne, you didnât mention being at Croftways. Did you forget?â

Anne said slowly:

âI didnât think it counted. I was only there a few months. And thereâs no one to ask about me there. I can write and tell him if you think it matters; but Iâm sure it doesnât. Letâs leave it.â

âRight, if you say so.â

Rhoda rose and turned on the wireless.

A raucous voice said:

âYou have just heard the Black Nubians play âWhy do you tell me lies, Baby?ââ

Fifteen

MAJOR DESPARD

Major Despard came out of the Albany, turned sharply into Regent Street and jumped on a bus.

It was the quiet time of dayâthe top of the bus had very few seats occupied. Despard made his way forward and sat down on the front seat.

He had jumped on the bus while it was going. Now it came to a halt, took up passengers and made its way once more up Regent Street.

A second traveller climbed the steps, made his way forward and sat down in the front seat on the other side.

Despard did not notice the newcomer, but after a few minutes a tentative voice murmured:

âIt is a good view of London, is it not, that one gets from the top of a bus?â

Despard turned his head. He looked puzzled for a moment, then his face cleared.

âI beg your pardon, M. Poirot. I didnât see it was you. Yes as you say, one has a good birdâs eye view of the world from here. It was better, though, in the old days, when there wasnât all this caged-in glass business.â

Poirot sighed.

âTout de mÃªme, it was not always agreeable in the wet weather when the inside was full. And there is much wet weather in this country.â

âRain? Rain never did any harm to anyone.â

âYou are in error,â said Poirot. âIt leads often to a fluxion de poitrine.â

Despard smiled.

âI see you belong to the well-wrapped-up school, M. Poirot.â

Poirot was indeed well equipped against any treachery of an autumn day. He wore a greatcoat and a muffler.

âRather odd, running into you like this,â said Despard.

He did not see the smile that the muffler concealed. There was nothing odd in this encounter. Having ascertained a likely hour for Despard to leave his rooms, Poirot had been waiting for him. He had prudently not risked leaping on the bus, but he had trotted after it to its next stopping place and boarded it there.

âTrue. We have not seen each other since the evening at Mr. Shaitanaâs,â he replied.

âArenât you taking a hand in the business?â asked Despard.

Poirot scratched his ear delicately.

âI reflect,â he said. âI reflect a good deal. To run to and fro, to make the investigations, that, no. It does not suit my age, my temperament, or my figure.â

Despard said unexpectedly:

âReflect, eh? Well, you might do worse. Thereâs too much rushing about nowadays. If people sat tight and thought about a thing before they tackled it, thereâd be less mess-ups than there are.â

âIs that your procedure in life, Major Despard?â

âUsually,â said the other simply. âGet your bearings, figure out your route, weigh up the pros and cons, make your decisionâstick to it.â

His mouth set grimly.

âAnd, after that, nothing will turn you from your path, eh?â asked Poirot.

âOh, I donât say that. No use in being pigheaded over things. If youâve made a mistake, admit it.â

âBut I imagine that you do not often make a mistake, Major Despard.â

âWe all make mistakes, M. Poirot.â

âSome of us,â said Poirot with a certain coldness, possibly due to the pronoun the other had used, âmake less than others.â

Despard looked at him, smiled slightly and said:

âDonât you ever have a failure, M. Poirot?â

âThe last time was twenty-eight years ago,â said Poirot with dignity. âAnd even then, there were circumstancesâbut no matter.â

âThat seems a pretty good record,â said Despard.

He added: âWhat about Shaitanaâs death? That doesnât count, I suppose, since it isnât officially your business.â

âIt is not my businessâno. But, all the same, it offends my amour propre. I consider it an impertinence, you comprehend, for a murder to be committed under my very noseâby someone who mocks himself at my ability to solve it!â

âNot under your nose only,â said Despard drily. âUnder the nose of the Criminal Investigation Department also.â

âThat was probably a bad mistake,â said Poirot gravely. âThe good Superintendent Battle, he may look wooden, but he is not wooden in the headânot at all.â

âI agree,â said Despard. âThat stolidity is a pose. Heâs a very clever and able officer.â

âAnd I think he is very active in the case.â

âOh, heâs active enough. See a nice quiet soldierly-looking fellow on one of the back seats?â

Poirot looked over his shoulder.

âThere is no one here now but ourselves.â

âOh, well, heâs inside, then. He never loses me. Very efficient fellow. Varies his appearance, too, from time to time. Quite artistic about it.â

âAh, but that would not deceive you. You have the very quick and accurate eye.â

âI never forget a faceâeven a black oneâand thatâs a lot more than most people can say.â

âYou are just the person I need,â said Poirot. âWhat a chance, meeting you today! I need someone with a good eye and a good memory. Malheureusement the two seldom go together. I have asked the Dr. Roberts a question, without result, and the same with Madame Lorrimer. Now, I will try you and see if I get what I want. Cast your mind back to the room in which you played cards at Mr. Shaitanaâs, and tell me what you remember of it.â

Despard looked puzzled.

âI donât quite understand.â

âGive me a description of the roomâthe furnishingsâthe objects in it.â

âI donât know that Iâm much of a hand at that sort of thing,â said Despard slowly. âIt was a rotten sort of roomâto my mind. Not a manâs room at all. A lot of brocade and silk and stuff. Sort of room a fellow like Shaitana would have.â

âBut to particularizeââ

Despard shook his head.

âAfraid I didnât notice â¦ Heâd got some good rugs. Two Bokharas and three or four really good Persian ones, including a Hamadan and a Tabriz. Rather a good eland headâno, that was in the hall. From Rowland Wardâs, I expect.â

âYou do not think that the late Mr. Shaitana was one to go out and shoot wild beasts?â

âNot he. Never potted anything but sitting game, Iâll bet. What else was there? Iâm sorry to fail you, but I really canât help much. Any amount of knickknacks lying about. Tables were thick with them. Only thing I noticed was a rather jolly idol. Easter Island, I should say. Highly polished wood. You donât see many of them. There was some Malay stuff, too. No, Iâm afraid I canât help you.â

âNo matter,â said Poirot, looking slightly crestfallen.

He went on:

âDo you know, Mrs. Lorrimer, she has the most amazing card memory! She could tell me the bidding and play of nearly every hand. It was astonishing.â

Despard shrugged his shoulders.

âSome women are like that. Because they play pretty well all day long, I suppose.â

âYou could not do it, eh?â

The other shook his head.

âI just remember a couple of hands. One where I could have got game in diamondsâand Roberts bluffed me out of it. Went down himself, but we didnât double him, worse luck. I remember a no trumper, too. Tricky businessâevery card wrong. We went down a coupleâlucky not to have gone down more.â

âDo you play much bridge, Major Despard?â

âNo, Iâm not a regular player. Itâs a good game, though.â

âYou prefer it to poker?â

âI do personally. Pokerâs too much of a gamble.â

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âI do not think Mr. Shaitana played any gameâany card game, that is.â

âThereâs only one game that Shaitana played consistently,â said Despard grimly.

âAnd that?â

âA low-down game.â

Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

âIs it that you know that? Or do you just think it?â

Despard went brick red.

âMeaning one oughtnât to say things without giving chapter and verse? I suppose thatâs true. Well, itâs accurate enough. I happen to know. On the other hand, Iâm not prepared to give chapter and verse. Such information as Iâve got came to me privately.â

âMeaning a woman or women are concerned?â

âYes. Shaitana, like the dirty dog he was, preferred to deal with women.â

âYou think he was a blackmailer? That is interesting.â

Despard shook his head.

âNo, no, youâve misunderstood me. In a way, Shaitana was a blackmailer, but not the common or garden sort. He wasnât after money. He was a spiritual blackmailer, if there can be such a thing.â

âAnd he got out of itâwhat?â

âHe got a kick out of it. Thatâs the only way I can put it. He got a thrill out of seeing people quail and flinch. I suppose it made him feel less of a louse and more of a man. And itâs a very effective pose with women. Heâd only got to hint that he knew everythingâand theyâd start telling him a lot of things that perhaps he didnât know. That would tickle his sense of humour. Then heâd strut about in his Mephistophelian attitude of âI know everything! I am the great Shaitana!â The man was an ape!â

âSo you think that he frightened Miss Meredith that way,â said Poirot slowly.

âMiss Meredith?â Despard stared. âI wasnât thinking of her. She isnât the kind to be afraid of a man like Shaitana.â

âPardon. You meant Mrs. Lorrimer.â

âNo, no, no. You misunderstand me. I was speaking generally. It wouldnât be easy to frighten Mrs. Lorrimer. And sheâs not the kind of woman who you can imagine having a guilty secret. No, I was not thinking of anyone in particular.â

âIt was the general method to which you referred?â

âExactly.â

âThere is no doubt,â said Poirot slowly, âthat what you call a Dago often has a very clever understanding of women. He knows how to approach them. He worms secrets out of themââ

He paused.

Despard broke in impatiently:

âItâs absurd. The man was a mountebankânothing really dangerous about him. And yet women were afraid of him. Ridiculously so.â

He started up suddenly.

âHallo, Iâve overshot the mark. Got too interested in what we were discussing. Good-bye, M. Poirot. Look down and youâll see my faithful shadow leave the bus when I do.â

He hurried to the back and down the steps. The conductorâs bell jangled. But a double pull sounded before it had time to stop.

Looking down to the street below, Poirot noticed Despard striding back along the pavement. He did not trouble to pick out the following figure. Something else was interesting him.

âNo one in particular,â he murmured to himself. âNow, I wonder.â

Sixteen

THE EVIDENCE OF ELSIE BATT

Sergeant OâConnor was unkindly nicknamed by his colleagues at the Yard: âThe Maidservantâs Prayer.â

There was no doubt that he was an extremely handsome man. Tall, erect, broad-shouldered, it was less the regularity of his features than the roguish and daredevil spark in his eye which made him so irresistible to the fair sex. It was indubitable that Sergeant OâConnor got results, and got them quickly.

So rapid was he, that only four days after the murder of Mr. Shaitana, Sergeant OâConnor was sitting in the three-and-sixpenny seats at the Willy Nilly Revue side by side with Miss Elsie Batt, late parlourmaid to Mrs. Craddock of 117 North Audley Street.

Having laid his line of approach carefully, Sergeant OâConnor was just launching the great offensive.

ââReminds me,â he was saying, âof the way one of my old governors used to carry on. Name of Craddock. He was an old cuss, if you like.â

âCraddock,â said Elsie. âI was with some Craddocks once.â

âWell, thatâs funny. Wonder whether they were the same?â

âLived in North Audley Street, they did,â said Elsie.

âMy lot were going to London when I left them,â said OâConnor promptly. âYes, I believe it was North Audley Street. Mrs. Craddock was rather a one for the gents.â

Elsie tossed her head.

âIâd no patience with her. Always finding fault and grumbling. Nothing you did right.â

âHer husband got some of it, too, didnât he?â

âShe was always complaining he neglected herâthat he didnât understand her. And she was always saying how bad her health was and gasping and groaning. Not ill at all, if you ask me.â

OâConnor slapped his knee.

âGot it. Wasnât there something about her and some doctor? A bit too thick or something?â

âYou mean Dr. Roberts? He was a nice gentleman, he was.â

âYou girls, youâre all alike,â said Sergeant OâConnor. âThe moment a manâs a bad lot, all the girls stick up for him. I know his kind.â

âNo, you donât, and youâre all wrong about him. There wasnât anything of that kind about him. Wasnât his fault, was it, if Mrs. Craddock was always sending for him? Whatâs a doctor to do? If you ask me, he didnât think nothing of her at all, except as a patient. It was all her doing. Wouldnât leave him alone, she wouldnât.â

âThatâs all very well, Elsie. Donât mind me calling you Elsie, do you? Feel as though Iâd known you all my life.â

âWell, you havenât! Elsie, indeed.â

She tossed her head.

âOh, very well, Miss Batt.â He gave her a glance. âAs I was saying, thatâs all very well, but the husband, he cut up rough, all the same, didnât he?â

âHe was a bit ratty one day,â admitted Elsie. âBut, if you ask me, he was ill at the time. He died just after, you know.â

âI rememberâdied of something queer, didnât he?â

âSomething Japanese, it wasâall from a new shaving brush, heâd got. Seems awful, doesnât it, that theyâre not more careful? Iâve not fancied anything Japanese since.â

âBuy British, thatâs my motto,â said Sergeant OâConnor sententiously. âAnd you were saying he and the doctor had a row?â

Elsie nodded, enjoying herself as she relived past scandals.

âHammer and tongs, they went at it,â she said. âAt least, the master did. Dr. Roberts was ever so quiet. Just said, âNonsense.â And, âWhat have you got into your head?ââ

âThis was at the house, I suppose?â

âYes. Sheâd sent for him. And then she and the master had words, and in the middle of it Dr. Roberts arrived, and the master went for him.â

âWhat did he say exactly?â

âWell, of course, I wasnât supposed to hear. It was all in the Missusâs bedroom. I thought something was up, so I got the dustpan and did the stairs. I wasnât going to miss anything.â

Sergeant OâConnor heartily concurred in this sentiment, reflecting how fortunate it was that Elsie was being approached unofficially. On interrogation by Sergeant OâConnor of the Police, she would have virtuously protested that she had not overheard anything at all.

âAs I say,â went on Elsie, âDr. Roberts, he was very quietâthe master was doing all the shouting.â

âWhat was he saying?â asked OâConnor, for the second time approaching the vital point.

âAbusing of him proper,â said Elsie with relish.

âHow do you mean?â

Would the girl never come to actual words and phrases?

âWell, I donât understand a lot of it,â admitted Elsie. âThere were a lot of long words, âunprofessional conduct,â and âtaking advantage,â and things like thatâand I heard him say heâd get Dr. Roberts struck off theâMedical Register, would it be? Something like that.â

âThatâs right,â said OâConnor. âComplain to the Medical Council.â

âYes, he said something like that. And the Missus was going on in sort of hysterics, saying âYou never cared for me. You neglected me. You left me alone.â And I heard her say that Dr. Roberts had been an angel of goodness to her.

âAnd then the doctor, he came through into the dressing room with the master and shut the door of the bedroomâand he said quite plain:

ââMy good man, donât you realize your wifeâs hysterical? She doesnât know what sheâs saying. To tell you the truth, itâs been a very difficult and trying case, and Iâd have thrown it up long ago if Iâd thought it was conâconâsome long word; oh, yes, consistentâthat was itâconsistent with my duty.â Thatâs what he said. He said something about not overstepping a boundary, tooâsomething between doctor and patient. He got the master quietened a bit, and then he said:

ââYouâll be late at the office, you know. Youâd better be off. Just think things over quietly. I think youâll realize that the whole business is a mareâs nest. Iâll just wash my hands here before I go onto my next case. Now, you think it over, my dear fellow. I can assure you that the whole thing arises out of your wifeâs disordered imagination.â

âAnd the master, he said, âI donât know what to think.â

âAnd he come outâand, of course, I was brushing hardâbut he never even noticed me. I thought afterwards he looked ill. The doctor, he was whistling quite cheerily and washing his hands in the dressing room, where there was hot and cold laid on. And presently he came out, with his bag, and he spoke to me very nicely and cheerily, as he always did, and he went down the stairs, quite cheerful and gay and his usual self. So you see, Iâm quite sure as he hadnât done anything wrong. It was all her.â

âAnd then Craddock got this anthrax?â

âYes, I think heâd got it already. The mistress, she nursed him very devoted, but he died. Lovely wreaths there was at the funeral.â

âAnd afterwards? Did Dr. Roberts come to the house again?â

âNo, he didnât, Nosey! Youâve got some grudge against him. I tell you there was nothing in it. If there were heâd have married her when the master was dead, wouldnât he? And he never did. No such fool. Heâd taken her measure all right. She used to ring him up, though, but somehow he was never in. And then she sold the house, and we all got our notices, and she went abroad to Egypt.â

âAnd you didnât see Dr. Roberts in all that time?â

âNo. She did, because she went to him to have thisâwhat do you call it?âânoculation against the typhoid fever. She came back with her arm ever so sore with it. If you ask me, he made it clear to her then that there was nothing doing. She didnât ring him up no more, and she went off very cheerful with a lovely lot of new clothesâall light colours, although it was the middle of winter, but she said it would be all sunshine and hot out there.â

âThatâs right,â said Sergeant OâConnor. âItâs too hot sometimes, Iâve heard. She died out there. You know that, I suppose?â

âNo, indeed I didnât. Well, fancy that! She may have been worse than I thought, poor soul.â

She added with a sigh:

âI wonder what they did with all that lovely lot of clothes. Theyâre blacks out there, so they couldnât wear them.â

âYouâd have looked a treat in them, I expect,â said Sergeant OâConnor.

âImpudence,â said Elsie.

âWell, you wonât have my impudence much longer,â said Sergeant OâConnor. âIâve got to go away on business for my firm.â

âYou going for long?â

âMay be going abroad,â said the Sergeant.

Elsieâs face fell.

Though unacquainted with Lord Byronâs famous poem, âI never loved a dear gazelle,â etc., its sentiments were at that moment hers. She thought to herself:

âFunny how all the really attractive ones never come to anything. Oh, well, thereâs always Fred.â

Which is gratifying, since it shows that the sudden incursion of Sergeant OâConnor into Elsieâs life did not affect it permanently. âFredâ may even have been the gainer!

Seventeen

THE EVIDENCE OF RHODA DAWES

Rhoda Dawes came out of Debenhamâs and stood meditatively upon the pavement. Indecision was written all over her face. It was an expressive face; each fleeting emotion showed itself in a quickly varying expression.

Quite plainly at this moment Rhodaâs face said: âShall I or shanât I? Iâd like to â¦ But perhaps Iâd better notâ¦.â

The commissionaire said, âTaxi, Miss?â to her hopefully.

Rhoda shook her head.

A stout woman carrying parcels with an eager âshopping early for Christmasâ expression on her face, cannoned into her severely, but still Rhoda stood stock-still, trying to make up her mind.

Chaotic odds and ends of thoughts flashed through her mind.

âAfter all, why shouldnât I? She asked me toâbut perhaps itâs just a thing she says to everyone â¦ She doesnât mean it to be taken seriously â¦ Well, after all, Anne didnât want me. She made it quite clear sheâd rather go with Major Despard to the solicitor man alone â¦ And why shouldnât she? I mean, three is a crowd â¦ And it isnât really any business of mine â¦ It isnât as though I particularly wanted to see Major Despard â¦ He is nice, though â¦ I think he must have fallen for Anne. Men donât take a lot of trouble unless they have â¦ I mean, itâs never just kindnessâ¦.â

A messenger boy bumped into Rhoda and said, âBeg pardon, Miss,â in a reproachful tone.

âOh, dear,â thought Rhoda. âI canât go on standing here all day. Just because Iâm such an idiot that I canât make up my mind â¦ I think that coat and skirtâs going to be awfully nice. I wonder if brown would have been more useful than green? No, I donât think so. Well, come on, shall I go or shanât I? Half past three, itâs quite a good timeâI mean, it doesnât look as though Iâm cadging a meal or anything. I might just go and look, anyway.â

She plunged across the road, turned to the right, and then to the left, up Harley Street, finally pausing by the block of flats always airily described by Mrs. Oliver as âall among the nursing homes.â

âWell, she canât eat me,â thought Rhoda, and plunged boldly into the building.

Mrs. Oliverâs flat was on the top floor. A uniformed attendant whisked her up in a lift and decanted her on a smart new mat outside a bright green door.

âThis is awful,â thought Rhoda. âWorse than dentists. I must go through with it now, though.â

Pink with embarrassment, she pushed the bell.

The door was opened by an elderly maid.

âIsâcould Iâis Mrs. Oliver at home?â asked Rhoda.

The maid drew back, Rhoda entered, she was shown into a very untidy drawing room. The maid said:

âWhat name shall I say, please?â

âOhâehâMiss DawesâMiss Rhoda Dawes.â

The maid withdrew. After what seemed to Rhoda about a hundred years, but was really exactly a minute and forty-five seconds, the maid returned.

âWill you step this way, Miss?â

Pinker than ever, Rhoda followed her. Along a passage, round a corner, a door was opened. Nervously she entered into what seemed at first to her startled eyes to be an African forest!

Birdsâmasses of birds, parrots, macaws, birds unknown to ornithology, twined themselves in and out of what seemed to be a primeval forest. In the middle of this riot of bird and vegetable life, Rhoda perceived a battered kitchen table with a typewriter on it, masses of typescript littered all over the floor and Mrs. Oliver, her hair in wild confusion, rising from a somewhat rickety-looking chair.

âMy dear, how nice to see you,â said Mrs. Oliver, holding out a carbon-stained hand and trying with her other hand to smooth her hair, a quite impossible proceeding.

A paper bag, touched by her elbow, fell from the desk, and apples rolled energetically all over the floor.

âNever mind, my dear, donât bother, someone will pick them up sometime.â

Rather breathless, Rhoda rose from a stooping position with five apples in her grasp.

âOh, thank youâno, I shouldnât put them back in the bag. I think itâs got a hole in it. Put them on the mantelpiece. Thatâs right. Now, then, sit down and letâs talk.â

Rhoda accepted a second battered chair and focussed her eyes on her hostess.

âI say, Iâm terribly sorry. Am I interrupting, or anything?â she asked breathlessly.

âWell, you are and you arenât,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI am working, as you see. But that dreadful Finn of mine has got himself terribly tangled up. He did some awfully clever deduction with a dish of French beans, and now heâs just detected deadly poison in the sage and onion stuffing of the Michaelmas goose, and Iâve just remembered that French beans are over by Michaelmas.â

Thrilled by this peep into the inner world of creative detective fiction, Rhoda said breathlessly, âThey might be tinned.â

âThey might, of course,â said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. âBut it would rather spoil the point. Iâm always getting tangled up in horticulture and things like that. People write to me and say Iâve got the wrong flowers all out together. As though it matteredâand anyway, they are all out together in a London shop.â

âOf course it doesnât matter,â said Rhoda loyally. âOh, Mrs. Oliver, it must be marvellous to write.â

Mrs. Oliver rubbed her forehead with a carbonny finger and said:

âWhy?â

âOh,â said Rhoda, a little taken aback. âBecause it must. It must be wonderful just to sit down and write off a whole book.â

âIt doesnât happen exactly like that,â said Mrs. Oliver. âOne actually has to think, you know. And thinking is always a bore. And you have to plan things. And then one gets stuck every now and then, and you feel youâll never get out of the messâbut you do! Writingâs not particularly enjoyable. Itâs hard work like everything else.â

âIt doesnât seem like work,â said Rhoda.

âNot to you,â said Mrs. Oliver, âbecause you donât have to do it! It feels very like work to me. Some days I can only keep going by repeating over and over to myself the amount of money I might get for my next serial rights. That spurs you on, you know. So does your bankbook when you see how much overdrawn you are.â

âI never imagined you actually typed your books yourself,â said Rhoda. âI thought youâd have a secretary.â

âI did have a secretary, and I used to try and dictate to her, but she was so competent that it used to depress me. I felt she knew so much more about English and grammar and full stops and semicolons than I did, that it gave me a kind of inferiority complex. Then I tried having a thoroughly incompetent secretary, but, of course, that didnât answer very well, either.â

âIt must be so wonderful to be able to think of things,â said Rhoda.

âI can always think of things,â said Mrs. Oliver happily. âWhat is so tiring is writing them down. I always think Iâve finished, and then when I count up I find Iâve only written thirty thousand words instead of sixty thousand, and so then I have to throw in another murder and get the heroine kidnapped again. Itâs all very boring.â

Rhoda did not answer. She was staring at Mrs. Oliver with the reverence felt by youth for celebrityâslightly tinged by disappointment.

âDo you like the wallpaper?â asked Mrs. Oliver waving an airy hand. âIâm frightfully fond of birds. The foliage is supposed to be tropical. It makes me feel itâs a hot day, even when itâs freezing. I canât do anything unless I feel very, very warm. But Sven Hjerson breaks the ice on his bath every morning!â

âI think itâs all marvellous,â said Rhoda. âAnd itâs awfully nice of you to say Iâm not interrupting you.â

âWeâll have some coffee and toast,â said Mrs. Oliver. âVery black coffee and very hot toast. I can always eat that anytime.â

She went to the door, opened it and shouted. Then she returned and said:

âWhat brings you to townâshopping?â

âYes, Iâve been doing some shopping.â

âIs Miss Meredith up, too?â

âYes, sheâs gone with Major Despard to a solicitor.â

âSolicitor, eh?â

Mrs. Oliverâs eyebrows rose inquiringly.

âYes. You see, Major Despard told her she ought to have one. Heâs been awfully kindâhe really has.â

âI was kind, too,â said Mrs. Oliver, âbut it didnât seem to go down very well, did it? In fact, I think your friend rather resented my coming.â

âOh, she didnâtâreally she didnât.â Rhoda wriggled on her chair in a paroxysm of embarrassment. âThatâs really one reason why I wanted to come todayâto explain. You see, I saw you had got it all wrong. She did seem very ungracious, but it wasnât that, really. I mean, it wasnât your coming. It was something you said.â

âSomething I said?â

âYes. You couldnât tell, of course. It was just unfortunate.â

âWhat did I say?â

âI donât expect you remember, even. It was just the way you put it. You said something about an accident and poison.â

âDid I?â

âI knew youâd probably not remember. Yes. You see, Anne had a ghastly experience once. She was in a house where a woman took some poisonâhat paint, I think it wasâby mistake for something else. And she died. And, of course, it was an awful shock to Anne. She canât bear thinking of it or speaking of it. And your saying that reminded her, of course, and she dried up and got all stiff and queer like she does. And I saw you noticed it. And I couldnât say anything in front of her. But I did want you to know that it wasnât what you thought. She wasnât ungrateful.â

Mrs. Oliver looked at Rhodaâs flushed eager face. She said slowly:

âI see.â

âAnneâs awfully sensitive,â said Rhoda. âAnd sheâs bad aboutâwell, facing things. If anythingâs upset her, sheâd just rather not talk about it, although that isnât any good, reallyâat least, I donât think so. Things are there just the sameâwhether you talk about them or not. Itâs only running away from them to pretend they donât exist. Iâd rather have it all out, however painful it would be.â

âAh,â said Mrs. Oliver quietly. âBut you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne isnât.â

Rhoda flushed.

âAnneâs a darling.â

Mrs. Oliver smiled.

She said, âI didnât say she wasnât. I only said she hadnât got your particular brand of courage.â

She sighed, then said rather unexpectedly to the girl:

âDo you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or donât you?â

âOf course I believe in the truth,â said Rhoda staring.

âYes, you say thatâbut perhaps you havenât thought about it. The truth hurts sometimesâand destroys oneâs illusions.â

âIâd rather have it, all the same,â said Rhoda.

âSo would I. But I donât know that weâre wise.â

Rhoda said earnestly:

âDonât tell Anne, will you, what Iâve told you? She wouldnât like it.â

âI certainly shouldnât dream of doing any such thing. Was this long ago?

âAbout four years ago. Itâs odd, isnât it, how the same things happen again and again to people. I had an aunt who was always in shipwrecks. And hereâs Anne mixed up in two sudden deathsâonly, of course, this one is much worse. Murderâs rather awful, isnât it?â

âYes, it is.â

The black coffee and the hot buttered toast appeared at this minute.

Rhoda ate and drank with childish gusto. It was very exciting to her thus to be sharing an intimate meal with a celebrity.

When they had finished she rose and said:

âI do hope I havenât interrupted you too terribly. Would you mindâI mean, would it bother you awfullyâif I sent one of your books to you, would you sign it for me?â

Mrs. Oliver laughed.

âOh, I can do better than that for you.â She opened a cupboard at the far end of the room. âWhich would you like? I rather fancy The Affair of the Second Goldfish myself. Itâs not quite such frightful tripe as the rest.â

A little shocked at hearing an authoress thus describe the children of her pen, Rhoda accepted eagerly. Mrs. Oliver took the book, opened it, inscribed her name with a superlative flourish and handed it to Rhoda.

âThere you are.â

âThank you very much. I have enjoyed myself. Sure you didnât mind my coming?â

âI wanted you to,â said Mrs. Oliver.

She added after a momentâs pause:

âYouâre a nice child. Good-bye. Take care of yourself, my dear.â

âNow, why did I say that?â she murmured to herself as the door closed behind her guest.

She shook her head, ruffled her hair, and returned to the masterly dealings of Sven Hjerson with the sage and onion stuffing.

Eighteen

TEA INTERLUDE

Mrs. Lorrimer came out of a certain door in Harley Street.

She stood for a minute at the top of the steps, and then she descended them slowly.

There was a curious expression on her faceâa mingling of grim determination and of strange indecision. She bent her brows a little, as though to concentrate on some all-absorbing problem.

It was just then that she caught sight of Anne Meredith on the opposite pavement.

Anne was standing staring up at a big block of flats just on the corner.

Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a moment, then she crossed the road.

âHow do you do, Miss Meredith?â

Anne started and turned.

âOh, how do you do?â

âStill in London?â said Mrs. Lorrimer.

âNo. Iâve only come up for the day. To do some legal business.â

Her eyes were still straying to the big block of flats.

Mrs. Lorrimer said:

âIs anything the matter?â

Anne started guiltily.

âThe matter? Oh, no, what should be the matter?â

âYou were looking as though you had something on your mind.â

âI havenâtâwell, at least I have, but itâs nothing important, something quite silly.â She laughed a little.

She went on:

âItâs only that I thought I saw my friendâthe girl I live withâgo in there, and I wondered if sheâd gone to see Mrs. Oliver.â

âIs that where Mrs. Oliver lives? I didnât know.â

âYes. She came to see us the other day and she gave us her address and asked us to come and see her. I wondered if it was Rhoda I saw or not.â

âDo you want to go up and see?â

âNo, Iâd rather not do that.â

âCome and have tea with me,â said Mrs. Lorrimer. âThere is a shop quite near here that I know.â

âItâs very kind of you,â said Anne, hesitating.

Side by side they walked down the street and turned into a side street. In a small pastry cookâs they were served with tea and muffins.

They did not talk much. Each of them seemed to find the otherâs silence restful.

Anne asked suddenly:

âHas Mrs. Oliver been to see you?â

Mrs. Lorrimer shook her head.

âNo one has been to see me except M. Poirot.â

âI didnât meanââ began Anne.

âDidnât you? I think you did,â said Mrs. Lorrimer.

The girl looked upâa quick, frightened glance. Something she saw in Mrs. Lorrimerâs face seemed to reassure her.

âHe hasnât been to see me,â she said slowly.

There was a pause.

âHasnât Superintendent Battle been to see you?â asked Anne.

âOh, yes, of course,â said Mrs. Lorrimer.

Anne said hesitatingly:

âWhat sort of things did he ask you?â

Mrs. Lorrimer sighed wearily.

âThe usual things, I suppose. Routine inquiries. He was very pleasant over it all.â

âI suppose he interviewed everyone?â

âI should think so.â

There was another pause.

Anne said:

âMrs. Lorrimer, do you thinkâthey will ever find out who did it?â

Her eyes were bent on her plate. She did not see the curious expression in the older womanâs eyes as she watched the downcast head.

Mrs. Lorrimer said quietly:

âI donât knowâ¦.â

Anne murmured:

âItâs notâvery nice, is it?â

There was that same curious appraising and yet sympathetic look on Mrs. Lorrimerâs face, as she asked:

âHow old are you, Anne Meredith?â

âIâI?â the girl stammered. âIâm twenty-five.â

âAnd Iâm sixty-three,â said Mrs. Lorrimer.

She went on slowly:

âMost of your life is in front of youâ¦.â

Anne shivered.

âI might be run over by a bus on the way home,â she said.

âYes, thatâs true. And Iâmight not.â

She said it in an odd way. Anne looked at her in astonishment.

âLife is a difficult business,â said Mrs. Lorrimer. âYouâll know that when you come to my age. It needs infinite courage and a lot of endurance. And in the end one wonders: âWas it worthwhile?ââ

âOh, donât,â said Anne.

Mrs. Lorrimer laughed, her old competent self again.

âItâs rather cheap to say gloomy things about life,â she said.

She called the waitress and settled the bill.

As they got to the shop door a taxi crawled past, and Mrs. Lorrimer hailed it.

âCan I give you a lift?â she asked. âI am going south of the park.â

Anneâs face had lighted up.

âNo, thank you. I see my friend turning the corner. Thank you so much, Mrs. Lorrimer. Good-bye.â

âGood-bye. Good luck,â said the older woman.

She drove away and Anne hurried forward.

Rhodaâs face lit up when she saw her friend, then changed to a slightly guilty expression.

âRhoda, have you been to see Mrs. Oliver?â demanded Anne.

âWell, as a matter of fact, I have.â

âAnd I just caught you.â

âI donât know what you mean by caught. Letâs go down here and take a bus. Youâd gone off on your own ploys with the boyfriend. I thought at least heâd give you tea.â

Anne was silent for a minuteâa voice ringing in her ears.

âCanât we pick up your friend somewhere and all have tea together?â

And her own answerâhurried, without taking time to think:

âThanks awfully, but weâve got to go out to tea together with some people.â

A lieâand such a silly lie. The stupid way one said the first thing that came into oneâs head instead of just taking a minute or two to think. Perfectly easy to have said âThanks, but my friend has got to go out to tea.â That is, if you didnât, as she hadnât, wanted to have Rhoda too.

Rather odd, that, the way she hadnât wanted Rhoda. She had wanted, definitely, to keep Despard to herself. She had felt jealous. Jealous of Rhoda. Rhoda was so bright, so ready to talk, so full of enthusiasm and life. The other evening Major Despard had looked as though he thought Rhoda nice. But it was her, Anne Meredith, he had come down to see. Rhoda was like that. She didnât mean it, but she reduced you to the background. No, definitely she hadnât wanted Rhoda there.

But she had managed it very stupidly, getting flurried like that. If sheâd managed better, she might be sitting now having tea with Major Despard at his club or somewhere.

She felt definitely annoyed with Rhoda. Rhoda was a nuisance. And what had she been doing going to see Mrs. Oliver?

Out loud she said:

âWhy did you go and see Mrs. Oliver?â

âWell, she asked us to.â

âYes, but I didnât suppose she really meant it. I expect she always has to say that.â

âShe did mean it. She was awfully niceâcouldnât have been nicer. She gave me one of her books. Look.â

Rhoda flourished her prize.

Anne said suspiciously:

âWhat did you talk about? Not me?â

âListen to the conceit of the girl!â

âNo, but did you? Did you talk about theâthe murder?â

âWe talked about her murders. Sheâs writing one where thereâs poison in the sage and onions. She was frightfully humanâand said writing was awfully hard work and how she got into tangles with plots, and we had black coffee and hot buttered toast,â finished Rhoda in a triumphant burst.

Then she added:

âOh, Anne, you want your tea.â

âNo, I donât. Iâve had it. With Mrs. Lorrimer.â

âMrs. Lorrimer? Isnât that the oneâthe one who was there?â

Anne nodded.

âWhere did you come across her? Did you go and see her?â

âNo. I ran across her in Harley Street.â

âWhat was she like?â

Anne said slowly:

âI donât know. She wasârather queer. Not at all like the other night.â

âDo you still think she did it?â asked Rhoda.

Anne was silent for a minute or two. Then she said:

âI donât know. Donât letâs talk of it, Rhoda! You know how I hate talking of things.â

âAll right, darling. What was the solicitor like? Very dry and legal?â

âRather alert and Jewish.â

âSounds all right.â She waited a little and then said:

âHow was Major Despard?â

âVery kind.â

âHeâs fallen for you, Anne. Iâm sure he has.â

âRhoda, donât talk nonsense.â

âWell, youâll see.â

Rhoda began humming to herself. She thought:

âOf course heâs fallen for her. Anneâs awfully pretty. But a bit wishy-washy â¦ Sheâll never go on treks with him. Why, sheâd scream if she saw a snake â¦ Men always do take fancies to unsuitable women.â

Then she said aloud.

âThat bus will take us to Paddington. Weâll just catch the 4:48.â

Nineteen

CONSULTATION

The telephone rang in Poirotâs room and a respectful voice spoke.

âSergeant OâConnor. Superintendent Battleâs compliments and would it be convenient for Mr. Hercule Poirot to come to Scotland Yard at 11:30?â

Poirot replied in the affirmative and Sergeant OâConnor rang off.

It was 11:30 to the minute when Poirot descended from his taxi at the door of New Scotland Yardâto be at once seized upon by Mrs. Oliver.

âM. Poirot. How splendid! Will you come to my rescue?â

âEnchantÃ©, madame. What can I do?â

âPay my taxi for me. I donât know how it happened but I brought out the bag I keep my going-abroad money in and the man simply wonât take francs or liras or marks!â

Poirot gallantly produced some loose change, and he and Mrs. Oliver went inside the building together.

They were taken to Superintendent Battleâs own room. The superintendent was sitting behind a table and looking more wooden than ever. âJust like a little piece of modern sculpture,â whispered Mrs. Oliver to Poirot.

Battle rose and shook hands with them both and they sat down.

âI thought it was about time for a little meeting,â said Battle. âYouâd like to hear how Iâve got on, and Iâd like to hear how youâve got on. Weâre just waiting for Colonel Race and thenââ

But at that moment the door opened and the colonel appeared.

âSorry Iâm late, Battle. How do you do, Mrs. Oliver. Hallo, M. Poirot. Very sorry if Iâve kept you waiting. But Iâm off tomorrow and had a lot of things to see to.â

âWhere are you going to?â asked Mrs. Oliver.

âA little shooting tripâBaluchistan way.â

Poirot said, smiling ironically:

âA little trouble, is there not, in that part of the world? You will have to be careful.â

âI mean to be,â said Race gravelyâbut his eyes twinkled.

âGot anything for us, sir?â asked Battle.

âIâve got you your information re Despard. Here it isââ

He pushed over a sheaf of papers.

âThereâs a mass of dates and places there. Most of it quite irrelevant, I should imagine. Nothing against him. Heâs a stout fellow. Record quite unblemished. Strict disciplinarian. Liked and trusted by the natives everywhere. One of their cumbrous names for him in Africa, where they go in for such things, is âThe man who keeps his mouth shut and judges fairly.â General opinion of the white races that Despard is a Pukka Sahib. Fine shot. Cool head. Generally long-sighted and dependable.â

Unmoved by this eulogy, Battle asked:

âAny sudden deaths connected with him?â

âI laid special stress on that point. Thereâs one fine rescue to his credit. Pal of his was being mauled by a lion.â

Battle sighed.

âItâs not rescues I want.â

âYouâre a persistent fellow, Battle. Thereâs only one incident Iâve been able to rake up that might suit your book. Trip into the interior in South America. Despard accompanied Professor Luxmore, the celebrated botanist, and his wife. The professor died of fever and was buried somewhere up the Amazon.â

âFeverâeh?â

âFever. But Iâll play fair with you. One of the native bearers (who was sacked for stealing, incidentally) had a story that the professor didnât die of fever, but was shot. The rumour was never taken seriously.â

âAbout time it was, perhaps.â

Race shook his head.

âIâve given you the facts. You asked for them and youâre entitled to them, but Iâd lay long odds against its being Despard who did the dirty work the other evening. Heâs a white man, Battle.â

âIncapable of murder, you mean?â

Colonel Race hesitated.

âIncapable of what Iâd call murderâyes,â he said.

âBut not incapable of killing a man for what would seem to him good and sufficient reasons, is that it?â

âIf so, they would be good and sufficient reasons!â

Battle shook his head.

âYou canât have human beings judging other human beings and taking the law into their own hands.â

âIt happens, Battleâit happens.â

âIt shouldnât happenâthatâs my point. What do you say, M. Poirot?â

âI agree with you, Battle. I have always disapproved of murder.â

âWhat a delightfully droll way of putting it,â said Mrs. Oliver. âRather as though it were foxhunting or killing ospreys for hats. Donât you think there are people who ought to be murdered?â

âThat, very possibly.â

âWell then!â

âYou do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is the effect on the character of the slayer.â

âWhat about war?â

âIn war you do not exercise the right of private judgement. That is what is so dangerous. Once a man is imbued with the idea that he knows who ought to be allowed to live and who ought notâthen he is halfway to becoming the most dangerous killer there isâthe arrogant criminal who kills not for profitâbut for an idea. He has usurped the functions of le bon Dieu.â

Colonel Race rose:

âIâm sorry I canât stop with you. Too much to do. Iâd like to see the end of this business. Shouldnât be surprised if there never was an end. Even if you find out who did it, itâs going to be next to impossible to prove. Iâve given you the facts you wanted, but in my opinion Despardâs not the man. I donât believe heâs ever committed murder. Shaitana may have heard some garbled rumour of Professor Luxmoreâs death, but I donât believe thereâs more to it than that. Despardâs a white man, and I donât believe heâs ever been a murderer. Thatâs my opinion. And I know something of men.â

âWhatâs Mrs. Luxmore like?â asked Battle.

âShe lives in London, so you can see for yourself. Youâll find the address among those papers. Somewhere in South Kensington. But I repeat, Despard isnât the man.â

Colonel Race left the room, stepping with the springy noiseless tread of a hunter.

Battle nodded his head thoughtfully as the door closed behind him.

âHeâs probably right,â he said. âHe knows men, Colonel Race does. But all the same, one canât take anything for granted.â

He looked through the mass of documents Race had deposited on the table, occasionally making a pencil note on the pad beside him.

âWell, Superintendent Battle,â said Mrs. Oliver. âArenât you going to tell us what you have been doing?â

He looked up and smiled, a slow smile that creased his wooden face from side to side.

âThis is all very irregular, Mrs. Oliver. I hope you realize that.â

âNonsense,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI donât suppose for a moment youâll tell us anything you donât want to.â

Battle shook his head.

âNo,â he said decidedly. âCards on the table. Thatâs the motto for this business. I mean to play fair.â

Mrs. Oliver hitched her chair nearer.

âTell us,â she begged.

Superintendent Battle said slowly:

âFirst of all, Iâll say this. As far as the actual murder of Mr. Shaitana goes, Iâm not a penny the wiser. Thereâs no hint or clue of any kind to be found in his papers. As for the four others, Iâve had them shadowed, naturally, but without any tangible result. No, as M. Poirot said, thereâs only one hopeâthe past. Find out what crime exactly (if any, that is to sayâafter all, Shaitana may have been talking through his hat to make an impression on M. Poirot) these people have committedâand it may tell you who committed this crime.â

âWell, have you found out anything?â

âIâve got a line on one of them.â

âWhich?â

âDr. Roberts.â

Mrs. Oliver looked at him with thrilled expectation. âAs M. Poirot here knows, I tried out all kinds of theories. I established the fact pretty clearly that none of his immediate family had met with a sudden death. Iâve explored every alley as well as I could, and the whole thing boils down to one possibilityâand rather an outside possibility at that. A few years ago Roberts must have been guilty of indiscretion, at least, with one of his lady patients. There may have been nothing in itâprobably wasnât. But the woman was the hysterical, emotional kind who likes to make a scene, and either the husband got wind of what was going on, or his wife âconfessed.â Anyway, the fat was in the fire as far as the doctor was concerned. Enraged husband threatening to report him to the General Medical Councilâwhich would probably have meant the ruin of his professional career.â

âWhat happened?â demanded Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.

âApparently Roberts managed to calm down the irate gentleman temporarilyâand he died of anthrax almost immediately afterwards.â

âAnthrax? But thatâs a cattle disease?â

The superintendent grinned.

âQuite right, Mrs. Oliver. It isnât the untraceable arrow poison of the South American Indians! You may remember that there was rather a scare about infected shaving brushes of cheap make about that time. Craddockâs shaving brush was proved to have been the cause of infection.â

âDid Dr. Roberts attend him?â

âOh, no. Too canny for that. Daresay Craddock wouldnât have wanted him in any case. The only evidence Iâve gotâand thatâs precious littleâis that among the doctorâs patients there was a case of anthrax at the time.â

âYou mean the doctor infected the shaving brush?â

âThatâs the big idea. And mind you, itâs only an idea. Nothing whatever to go on. Pure conjecture. But it could be.â

âHe didnât marry Mrs. Craddock afterwards?â

âOh, dear me, no, I imagine the affection was always on the ladyâs side. She tended to cut up rough, I hear, but suddenly went off to Egypt quite happily for the winter. She died there. A case of some obscure blood poisoning. Itâs got a long name, but I donât expect it would convey much to you. Most uncommon in this country, fairly common among the natives in Egypt.â

âSo the doctor couldnât have poisoned her?â

âI donât know,â said Battle slowly. âIâve been chatting to a bacteriologist friend of mineâawfully difficult to get straight answers out of these people. They never can say yes or no. Itâs always âthat might be possible under certain conditionsâââit would depend on the pathological condition of the recipientâââsuch cases have been knownâââa lot depends on individual idiosyncrasyââall that sort of stuff. But as far as I could pin my friend down I got at thisâthe germ, or germs, I suppose, might have been introduced into the blood before leaving England. The symptoms would not make their appearance for sometime to come.â

Poirot asked:

âWas Mrs. Craddock inoculated for typhoid before going to Egypt? Most people are, I fancy.â

âGood for you, M. Poirot.â

âAnd Dr. Roberts did the inoculation?â

âThatâs right. There you are againâwe canât prove anything. She had the usual two inoculationsâand they may have been typhoid inoculations for all we know. Or one of them may have been typhoid inoculation and the otherâsomething else. We donât know. We never shall know. The whole thing is pure hypothesis. All we can say is: it might be.â

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

âIt agrees very well with some remarks made to me by Mr. Shaitana. He was exalting the successful murdererâthe man against whom his crime could never be brought home.â

âHow did Mr. Shaitana know about it, then?â asked Mrs. Oliver.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âThat we shall never learn. He himself was in Egypt at one time. We know that, because he met Mrs. Lorrimer there. He may have heard some local doctor comment on curious features of Mrs. Craddockâs caseâa wonder as to how the infection arose. At some other time he may have heard gossip about Roberts and Mrs. Craddock. He might have amused himself by making some cryptic remark to the doctor and noted the startled awareness in his eyeâall that one can never know. Some people have an uncanny gift of divining secrets. Mr. Shaitana was one of those people. All that does not concern us. We have only to sayâhe guessed. Did he guess right?â

âWell, I think he did,â said Battle. âIâve a feeling that our cheerful, genial doctor wouldnât be too scrupulous. Iâve known one or two like himâwonderful how certain types resemble each other. In my opinion heâs a killer all right. He killed Craddock. He may have killed Mrs. Craddock if she was beginning to be a nuisance and cause a scandal. But did he kill Shaitana? Thatâs the real question. And comparing the crimes, I rather doubt it. In the case of the Craddocks he used medical methods each time. The deaths appeared to be due to natural causes. In my opinion if he had killed Shaitana, he would have done so in a medical way. Heâd have used the germ and not the knife.â

âI never thought it was him,â said Mrs. Oliver. âNot for a minute. Heâs too obvious, somehow.â

âExit Roberts,â murmured Poirot. âAnd the others?â

Battle made a gesture of impatience.

âIâve pretty well drawn blank. Mrs. Lorrimerâs been a widow for twenty years now. Sheâs lived in London most of the time, occasionally going abroad in the winter. Civilized placesâthe Riviera, Egypt, that sort of thing. Canât find any mysterious death associated with her. She seems to have led a perfectly normal, respectable lifeâthe life of a woman of the world. Everyone seems to respect her and to have the highest opinion of her character. The worst that they can say about her is that she doesnât suffer fools gladly! I donât mind admitting Iâve been beaten all along the line there. And yet there must be something! Shaitana thought there was.â

He sighed in a dispirited manner.

âThen thereâs Miss Meredith. Iâve got her history taped out quite clearly. Usual sort of story. Army officerâs daughter. Left with very little money. Had to earn her living. Not properly trained for anything. Iâve checked up on her early days at Cheltenham. All quite straightforward. Everyone very sorry for the poor little thing. She went first to some people in the Isle of Wightâkind of nursery-governess and motherâs help. The woman she was with is out in Palestine but Iâve talked with her sister and she says Mrs. Eldon liked the girl very much. Certainly no mysterious deaths nor anything of that kind.

âWhen Mrs. Eldon went abroad, Miss Meredith went to Devonshire and took a post as companion to an aunt of a school friend. The school friend is the girl she is living with nowâMiss Rhoda Dawes. She was there over two years until Miss Dawes got too ill and she had to have a regular trained nurse. Cancer, I gather. Sheâs alive still, but very vague. Kept under morphia a good deal, I imagine. I had an interview with her. She remembered âAnne,â said she was a nice child. I also talked to a neighbour of hers who would be better able to remember the happenings of the last few years. No deaths in the parish except one or two of the older villagers, with whom, as far as I can make out, Anne Meredith never came into contact.

âSince then thereâs been Switzerland. Thought I might get on the track of some fatal accident there, but nothing doing. And thereâs nothing in Wallingford either.â

âSo Anne Meredith is acquitted?â asked Poirot.

Battle hesitated.

âI wouldnât say that. Thereâs something â¦ Thereâs a scared look about her that canât quite be accounted for by panic over Shaitana. Sheâs too watchful. Too much on the alert. Iâd swear there was something. But there it isâsheâs led a perfectly blameless life.â

Mrs. Oliver took a deep breathâa breath of pure enjoyment.

âAnd yet,â she said, âAnne Meredith was in the house when a woman took poison by mistake and died.â

She had nothing to complain of in the effect her words produced.

Superintendent Battle spun round in his chair and stared at her in amazement.

âIs this true, Mrs. Oliver? How do you know?â

âIâve been sleuthing,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI get on with girls. I went down to see those two and told them a cock-and-bull story about suspecting Dr. Roberts. The Rhoda girl was friendlyâoh, and rather impressed by thinking I was a celebrity. The little Meredith hated my coming and showed it quite plainly. She was suspicious. Why should she be if she hadnât got anything to hide? I asked either of them to come and see me in London. The Rhoda girl did. And she blurted the whole thing out. How Anne had been rude to me the other day because something Iâd said had reminded her of a painful incident, and then she went on to describe the incident.â

âDid she say when and where it happened?â

âThree years ago in Devonshire.â

The superintendent muttered something under his breath and scribbled on his pad. His wooden calm was shaken.

Mrs. Oliver sat enjoying her triumph. It was a moment of great sweetness to her.

âI take off my hat to you, Mrs. Oliver,â he said. âYouâve put one over on us this time. That is very valuable information. And it just shows how easily you can miss a thing.â

He frowned a little.

âShe canât have been thereâwherever it wasâlong. A couple of months at most. It must have been between the Isle of Wight and going to Miss Dawes. Yes, that could be it right enough. Naturally Mrs. Eldonâs sister only remembers she went off to a place in Devonshireâshe doesnât remember exactly who or where.â

âTell me,â said Poirot, âwas this Mrs. Eldon an untidy woman?â

Battle bent a curious gaze upon him.

âItâs odd your saying that, M. Poirot. I donât see how you could have known. The sister was rather a precise party. In talking I remember her saying âMy sister is so dreadfully untidy and slapdash.â But how did you know?â

âBecause she needed a motherâs help,â said Mrs. Oliver.

Poirot shook his head.

âNo, no, it was not that. It is of no moment. I was only curious. Continue, Superintendent Battle.â

âIn the same way,â went on Battle, âI took it for granted that she went to Miss Dawes straight from the Isle of Wight. Sheâs sly, that girl. She deceived me all right. Lying the whole time.â

âLying is not always a sign of guilt,â said Poirot.

âI know that, M. Poirot. Thereâs the natural liar. I should say she was one, as a matter of fact. Always says the thing that sounds best. But all the same itâs a pretty grave risk to take, suppressing facts like that.â

âShe wouldnât know you had any idea of past crimes,â said Mrs. Oliver.

âThatâs all the more reason for not suppressing that little piece of information. It must have been accepted as a bona fide case of accidental death, so sheâd nothing to fearâunless she were guilty.â

âUnless she were guilty of the Devonshire death, yes,â said Poirot.

Battle turned to him.

âOh, I know. Even if that accidental death turns out to be not so accidental, it doesnât follow that she killed Shaitana. But these other murders are murders too. I want to be able to bring home a crime to the person responsible for it.â

âAccording to Mr. Shaitana, that is impossible,â remarked Poirot.

âIt is in Robertsâ case. It remains to be seen if it is in Miss Meredithâs. I shall go down to Devon tomorrow.â

âWill you know where to go?â asked Mrs. Oliver. âI didnât like to ask Rhoda for more details.â

âNo, that was wise of you. I shanât have much difficulty. There must have been an inquest. I shall find it in the coronerâs records. Thatâs routine police work. Theyâll have it all taped out for me by tomorrow morning.â

âWhat about Major Despard?â asked Mrs. Oliver. âHave you found out anything about him?â

âIâve been waiting for Colonel Raceâs report. Iâve had him shadowed, of course. One rather interesting thing, he went down to see Miss Meredith at Wallingford. You remember he said heâd never met her until the other night.â

âBut she is a very pretty girl,â murmured Poirot.

Battle laughed.

âYes, I expect thatâs all there is to it. By the way, Despardâs taking no chances. Heâs already consulted a solicitor. That looks as though heâs expecting trouble.â

âHe is a man who looks ahead,â said Poirot. âHe is a man who prepares for every contingency.â

âAnd therefore not the kind of man to stick a knife into a man in a hurry,â said Battle with a sigh.

âNot unless it was the only way,â said Poirot. âHe can act quickly, remember.â

Battle looked across the table at him.

âNow, M. Poirot, what about your cards? Havenât seen your hand down on the table yet.â

Poirot smiled.

âThere is so little in it. You think I conceal facts from you? It is not so. I have not learned many facts. I have talked with Dr. Roberts, with Mrs. Lorrimer, with Major Despard (I have still to talk to Miss Meredith) and what have I learnt? This! That Dr. Roberts is a keen observer, that Mrs. Lorrimer on the other hand has a most remarkable power of concentration but is, in consequence, almost blind to her surroundings. But she is fond of flowers. Despard notices only those things which appeal to himârugs, trophies of sport. He has neither what I call the outward vision (seeing details all around youâwhat is called an observant person) nor the inner visionâconcentration, the focusing of the mind on one object. He has a purposefully limited vision. He sees only what blends and harmonizes with the bent of his mind.â

âSo those are what you call factsâeh?â said Battle curiously.

âThey are factsâvery small fryâperhaps.â

âWhat about Miss Meredith?â

âI have left her to the end. But I shall question her too as to what she remembers in that room.â

âItâs an odd method of approach,â said Battle thoughtfully. âPurely psychological. Suppose theyâre leading you up the garden path?â

Poirot shook his head with a smile.

âNo, that would be impossible. Whether they try to hinder or to help, they necessarily reveal their type of mind.â

âThereâs something in it, no doubt,â said Battle thoughtfully. âI couldnât work that way myself, though.â

Poirot said, still smiling:

âI feel I have done very little in comparison with you and with Mrs. Oliverâand with Colonel Race. My cards, that I place on the table, are very low ones.â

Battle twinkled at him.

âAs to that, M. Poirot, the two of trumps is a low card but it can take any one of three aces. All the same, Iâm going to ask you to do a practical job of work.â

âAnd that is?â

âI want you to interview Professor Luxmoreâs widow.â

âWhy do you not do that yourself?â

âBecause, as I said just now, Iâm off to Devonshire.â

âWhy do you not do that yourself?â repeated Poirot.

âWonât be put off, will you? Well, Iâll speak the truth. I think youâll get more out of her than I shall.â

âMy methods being less straightforward?â

âYou can put it that way if you like,â said Battle grinning. âIâve heard Inspector Japp say that youâve got a tortuous mind.â

âLike the late Mr. Shaitana?â

âYou think he would have been able to get things out of her?â

Poirot said slowly:

âI rather think he did get things out of her!â

âWhat makes you think so?â asked Battle sharply.

âA chance remark of Major Despardâs.â

âGave himself away, did he? That sounds unlike him.â

âOh, my dear friend, it is impossible not to give oneself awayâunless one never opens oneâs mouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers.â

âEven if people tell lies?â asked Mrs. Oliver.

âYes, madame, because it can be seen at once that you tell a certain kind of lie.â

âYou make me feel quite uncomfortable,â said Mrs. Oliver, getting up.

Superintendent Battle accompanied her to the door and shook her by the hand.

âYouâve been the goods, Mrs. Oliver,â he said. âYouâre a much better detective than that long lanky Laplander of yours.â

âFinn,â corrected Mrs. Oliver. âOf course heâs idiotic. But people like him. Good-bye.â

âI, too, must depart,â said Poirot.

Battle scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it into Poirotâs hand.

âThere you are. Go and tackle her.â

Poirot smiled.

âAnd what do you want me to find out?â

âThe truth about Professor Luxmoreâs death.â

âMon cher Battle! Does anybody know the truth about anything?â

âIâm going to about this business in Devonshire,â said the superintendent with decision.

Poirot murmured:

âI wonder.â

Twenty

THE EVIDENCE OF MRS. LUXMORE

The maid who opened the door at Mrs. Luxmoreâs South Kensington address looked at Hercule Poirot with deep disapproval. She showed no disposition to admit him into the house.

Unperturbed, Poirot gave her a card.

âGive that to your mistress. I think she will see me.â

It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words âPrivate Detectiveâ were printed in one corner. He had had them specially engraved for the purpose of obtaining interviews with the so-called fair sex. Nearly every woman, whether conscious of innocence or not, was anxious to have a look at a private detective and find out what he wanted.

Left ignominiously on the mat, Poirot studied the doorknocker with intense disgust at its unpolished condition.

âAh! for some Brasso and a rag,â he murmured to himself.

Breathing excitedly the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.

He was shown into a room on the first floorâa rather dark room smelling of stale flowers and unemptied ashtrays. There were large quantities of silk cushions of exotic colours all in need of cleaning. The walls were emerald green and the ceiling was of pseudo copper.

A tall, rather handsome woman was standing by the mantelpiece. She came forward and spoke in a deep husky voice.

âM. Hercule Poirot?â

Poirot bowed. His manner was not quite his own. He was not only foreign but ornately foreign. His gestures were positively baroque. Faintly, very faintly, it was the manner of the late Mr. Shaitana.

âWhat did you want to see me about?â

Again Poirot bowed.

âIf I might be seated? It will take a little timeââ

She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a sofa.

âYes? Well?â

âIt is, madame, that I make the inquiriesâthe private inquiries, you understand?â

The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.

âYesâyes?â

âI make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore.â

She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.

âBut why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?â

Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.

âThere is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent husband. The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact. As to your husbandâs death, for instanceââ

She broke in at once:

âMy husband died of feverâon the Amazon.â

Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to and froâa maddening, monotonous motion.

âMadameâmadameââ he protested.

âBut I know! I was there at the time.â

âAh, yes, certainly. You were there. Yes, my information says so.â

She cried out:

âWhat information?â

Eyeing her closely Poirot said:

âInformation supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana.â

She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.

âShaitana?â she muttered.

âA man,â said Poirot, âpossessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable man. That man knew many secrets.â

âI suppose he did,â she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.

Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.

âHe knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever.â

She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate.

He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.

She pulled herself together with an effort.

âI donâtâI donât know what you mean.â

It was very unconvincingly said.

âMadame,â said Poirot, âI will come out into the open. I will,â he smiled, âplace my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of fever. He died of a bullet!â

âOh!â she cried.

She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in terrible distress. But somewhere, in some remote fibre of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions. Poirot was quite sure of that.

âAnd therefore,â said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, âyou might just as well tell me the whole story.â

She uncovered her face and said:

âIt wasnât in the least way you think.â

Again Poirot leaned forwardâagain he tapped her knee.

âYou misunderstand meâyou misunderstand me utterly,â he said. âI know very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were the cause.â

âI donât know. I donât know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a sort of fatality that pursues me.â

âAh, how true that is,â cried Poirot. âHow often have I not seen it? There are some women like that. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not their fault. These things happen in spite of themselves.â

Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.

âYou understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally.â

âYou travelled together into the interior, did you not?â

âYes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard was introduced to us as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition. My husband liked him very much. We started.â

There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and then murmured as though to himself.

âYes, one can picture it. The winding riverâthe tropical nightâthe hum of the insectsâthe strong soldierly manâthe beautiful womanâ¦.â

Mrs. Luxmore sighed.

âMy husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child before I knew what I was doingâ¦.â

Poirot shook his head sadly.

âI know. I know. How often does that not occur?â

âNeither of us would admit what was happening,â went on Mrs. Luxmore. âJohn Despard never said anything. He was the soul of honour.â

âBut a woman always knows,â prompted Poirot.

âHow right you are â¦ Yes, a woman knows â¦ But I never showed him that I knew. We were Major Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end â¦ We were both determined to play the game.â

She was silent, lost in admiration of that noble attitude.

âTrue,â murmured Poirot. âOne must play the cricket. As one of your poets so finely says, âI could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.ââ

âHonour,â corrected Mrs. Luxmore with a slight frown.

âOf courseâof courseâhonour. âLoved I not honour more.ââ

âThose words might have been written for us,â murmured Mrs. Luxmore. âNo matter what it cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And thenââ

âAnd thenââ prompted Poirot.

âThat ghastly night.â Mrs. Luxmore shuddered.

âYes?â

âI suppose they must have quarrelledâJohn and Timothy, I mean. I came out of my tent â¦ I came out of my tentâ¦.â

âYesâyes?â

Mrs. Luxmoreâs eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though it were being repeated in front of her.

âI came out of my tent,â she repeated. âJohn and Timothy wereâOh!â she shuddered. âI canât remember it all clearly. I came between them â¦ I said âNoâno, it isnât true!â Timothy wouldnât listen. He was threatening John. John had to fireâin self-defence. Ah!â she gave a cry and covered her face with her hands. âHe was deadâstone deadâshot through the heart.â

âA terrible moment for you, madame.â

âI shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused to hear of it. We argued all night. âFor my sake,â I kept saying. He saw that in the end. Naturally he couldnât let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Passions.

âI put it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy had been having a bout of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him there beside the Amazon.â

A deep, tortured sigh shook her form.

âAnd thenâback to civilizationâand to part forever.â

âWas it necessary, madame?â

âYes, yes. Timothy dead stood between us just as Timothy alive had doneâmore so. We said good-bye to each otherâforever. I meet John Despard sometimesâout in the world. We smile, we speak politelyâno one would ever guess that there was anything between us. But I see in his eyesâand he in mineâthat we will never forgetâ¦.â

There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.

Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her noseâthe spell was broken.

âWhat a tragedy,â said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.

âYou can see, M. Poirot,â said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, âthat the truth must never be told.â

âIt would be painfulââ

âIt would be impossible. This friend, this writerâsurely he would not wish to blight the life of a perfectly innocent woman?â

âOr even to hang a perfectly innocent man?â murmured Poirot.

âYou see it like that? I am glad. He was innocent. A crime passionnel is not really a crime. And in any case it was self-defence. He had to shoot. So you do understand, M. Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?â

Poirot murmured.

âWriters are sometimes curiously callous.â

âYour friend is a woman-hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that. I shall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say I shot Timothy.

She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.

Poirot also rose.

âMadame,â he said as he took her hand, âsuch splendid self-sacrifice is unnecessary. I will do my best so that the true facts shall never be known.â

A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmoreâs face. She raised her hand slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it.

âAn unhappy woman thanks you, M. Poirot,â she said.

It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favoured courtierâclearly an exit line. Poirot duly made his exit.

Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.

Twenty-one

MAJOR DESPARD

âQuelle femme,â murmured Hercule Poirot. âCe pauvre Despard! Ce quâil a dÃ» souffrir! Quel voyage Ã©pouvantable!â

Suddenly he began to laugh.

He was now walking along the Brompton Road. He paused, took out his watch, and made a calculation.

âBut yes, I have the time. In any case to wait will do him no harm. I can now attend to the other little matter. What was it that my friend in the English police force used to singâhow many yearsâforty years ago? âA little piece of sugar for the bird.ââ

Humming a long-forgotten tune, Hercule Poirot entered a sumptuous-looking shop mainly devoted to the clothing and general embellishment of women and made his way to the stocking counter.

Selecting a sympathetic-looking and not too haughty damsel he made known his requirements.

âSilk stockings? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure silk.â

Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent once more.

âFrench silk stockings? With the duty, you know, they are very expensive.â

A fresh lot of boxes was produced.

âVery nice, mademoiselle, but I had something of a finer texture in mind.â

âThese are a hundred gauge. Of course, we have some extra fine, but Iâm afraid they come out at about thirty-five shillings a pair. And no durability, of course. Just like cobwebs.â

âCâest Ã§a. Câest Ã§a, exactement.â

A prolonged absence of the young lady this time.

She returned at last.

âIâm afraid they are actually thirty-seven and sixpence a pair. But beautiful, arenât they?â

She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelopeâthe finest, gauziest wisps of stockings.

âEnfinâthat is it exactly!â

âLovely, arenât they? How many pairs, sir?â

âI wantâlet me see, nineteen pairs.â

The young lady very nearly fell down behind the counter, but long training in scornfulness just kept her erect.

âThere would be a reduction on two dozen,â she said faintly.

âNo, I want nineteen pairs. Of slightly different colours, please.â

The girl sorted them out obediently, packed them up and made out the bill.

As Poirot departed with his purchase, the next girl at the counter said:

âWonder who the lucky girl is? Must be a nasty old man. Oh, well, she seems to be stringing him along good and proper. Stockings at thirty-seven and sixpence indeed!â

Unaware of the low estimate formed by the young ladies of Messrs Harvey Robinsonâs upon his character, Poirot was trotting homewards.

He had been in for about half an hour when he heard the doorbell ring. A few minutes later Major Despard entered the room.

He was obviously keeping his temper with difficulty.

âWhat the devil did you want to go and see Mrs. Luxmore for?â he asked.

Poirot smiled.

âI wished, you see, for the true story of Professor Luxmoreâs death.â

âTrue story? Do you think that womanâs capable of telling the truth about anything?â demanded Despard wrathfully.

âEh bien, I did wonder now and then,â admitted Poirot.

âI should think you did. That womanâs crazy.â

Poirot demurred.

âNot at all. She is a romantic woman, that is all.â

âRomantic be damned. Sheâs an out-and-out liar. I sometimes think she even believes her own lies.â

âIt is quite possible.â

âSheâs an appalling woman. I had the hell of a time with her out there.â

âThat also I can well believe.â

Despard sat down abruptly.

âLook here, M. Poirot, Iâm going to tell you the truth.â

âYou mean you are going to give me your version of the story?â

âMy version will be the true version.â

Poirot did not reply.

Despard went on drily:

âI quite realize that I canât claim any merit in coming out with this now. Iâm telling the truth because itâs the only thing to be done at this stage. Whether you believe me or not is up to you. Iâve no kind of proof that my story is the correct one.â

He paused for a minute and then began.

âI arranged the trip for the Luxmores. He was a nice old boy quite batty about mosses and plants and things. She was aâwell, she was what youâve no doubt observed her to be! That trip was a nightmare. I didnât care a damn for the womanârather disliked her, as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind that always makes me feel prickly with embarrassment. Everything went all right for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. Old Luxmore was pretty bad. One nightânow youâve got to listen to this carefullyâI was sitting outside my tent. Suddenly I saw Luxmore in the distance staggering off into the bush by the river. He was absolutely delirious and quite unconscious of what he was doing. In another minute he would be in the riverâand at that particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance of a rescue. There wasnât time to rush after himâonly one thing to be done. My rifle was beside me as usual. I snatched it up. Iâm a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring the old boy downâget him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic fool of a woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, âDonât shoot. For Godâs sake, donât shoot.â She caught my arm and jerked it ever so slightly just as the rifle went offâwith the result that the bullet got him in the back and killed him dead!

âI can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that damned fool of a woman still didnât understand what sheâd done. Instead of realizing that sheâd been responsible for her husbandâs death, she firmly believed that Iâd been trying to shoot the old boy in cold bloodâfor the love of her, if you please! We had the devil of a sceneâshe insisting that we should say he died of fever. I was sorry for herâespecially as I saw she didnât realize what sheâd done. But sheâd have to realize it if the truth came out! And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in love with her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she went about giving that out. In the end I agreed to do what she wantedâpartly for the sake of peace, Iâll admit. After all, it didnât seem to matter much. Fever or accident. And I didnât want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantnessâeven if she was a damned fool. I gave it out next day that the professor was dead of fever and we buried him. The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all devoted to me and I knew that what I said theyâd swear to if need be. We buried poor old Luxmore and got back to civilization. Since then Iâve spent a good deal of time dodging the woman.â

He paused, then said quietly:

âThatâs my story, M. Poirot.â

Poirot said slowly:

âIt was to that incident that Mr. Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at dinner that night?â

Despard nodded.

âHe must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out of her. That sort of thing would have amused him.â

âIt might have been a dangerous storyâto youâin the hands of a man like Shaitana.â

Despard shrugged his shoulders.

âI wasnât afraid of Shaitana.â

Poirot didnât answer.

Despard said quietly:

âThat again you have to take my word for. Itâs true enough, I suppose, that I had a kind of motive for Shaitanaâs death. Well, the truthâs out nowâtake it or leave it.â

Poirot held out a hand.

âI will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South America happened exactly as you have described.â

Despardâs face lit up.

âThanks,â he said laconically.

And he clasped Poirotâs hand warmly.

Twenty-two

EVIDENCE FROM COMBEACRE

Superintendent Battle was in the police station of Combeacre.

Inspector Harper, rather red in the face, talked in a slow, pleasing Devonshire voice.

âThatâs how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The doctor was satisfied. Everyone was satisfied. Why not?â

âJust give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite clear.â

âSyrup of Figsâthatâs what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then there was this hat paint sheâd been usingâor rather the young lady, her companion, had been using for her. Brightening up a garden hat. There was a good deal left over, and the bottle broke, and Mrs. Benson herself said, âPut it in that old bottleâthe Syrup of Figs bottle.â Thatâs all right. The servants heard her. The young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlourmaidâthey all agree on that. The paint was put into the old Syrup of Figs bottle and it was put up on the top shelf in the bathroom with other odds and ends.â

âNot relabelled?â

âNo. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that.â

âGo on.â

âOn this particular night the deceased went into the bathroom, took down a Syrup of Figs bottle, poured herself out a good dose and drank it. Realized what sheâd done and they sent off at once for the doctor. He was out on a case, and it was some time before they could get at him. They did all they could, but she died.â

âShe herself believed it to be an accident?â

âOh, yesâeveryone thought so. It seems clear the bottles must have got mixed-up somehow. It was suggested the housemaid did it when she dusted, but she swears she didnât.â

Superintendent Battle was silentâthinking. Such an easy business. A bottle taken down from an upper shelf, put in place of the other. So difficult to trace a mistake like that to its source. Handled with gloves, possibly, and anyway, the last prints would be those of Mrs. Benson herself. Yes, so easyâso simple. But, all the same, murder! The perfect crime.

But why? That still puzzled himâwhy?

âThis young lady-companion, this Miss Meredith, she didnât come into money at Mrs. Bensonâs death?â he asked.

Inspector Harper shook his head.

âNo. Sheâd only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine. Young ladies didnât stay long as a rule.â

Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didnât stay long. A difficult woman, evidently. But if Anne Meredith had been unhappy, she could have left as her predecessors had done. No need to killâunless it were sheer unreasoning vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true.

âWho did get Mrs. Bensonâs money?â

âI couldnât say, sir, nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldnât be very muchânot when it was divided up, and I heard as how most of her income was one of these annuities.â

Nothing there then. But Mrs. Benson had died. And Anne Meredith had not told him that she had been at Combeacre.

It was all profoundly unsatisfactory.

He made diligent and painstaking inquiries. The doctor was quite clear and emphatic. No reason to believe it was anything but an accident. Missâcouldnât remember her nameânice girl but rather helplessâhad been very upset and distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs. Bensonâs last companionâa nice modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson had beenânot difficultâbut a trifle severe towards young people. She was the rigid type of Christian.

Battle tried one or two other people but learned nothing of value. Anne Meredith was hardly remembered. She had lived among them a few monthsâthat was allâand her personality was not sufficiently vivid to make a lasting impression. A nice little thing seemed to be the accepted description.

Mrs. Benson loomed out a little more clearly. A self-righteous grenadier of a woman, working her companions hard and changing her servants often. A disagreeable womanâbut that was all.

Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression that, for some reason unknown, Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered her employer.

Twenty-three

THE EVIDENCE OF A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS

As Superintendent Battleâs train rushed eastwards through England, Anne Meredith and Rhoda Dawes were in Hercule Poirotâs sitting room.

Anne had been unwilling to accept the invitation that had reached her by the morningâs post, but Rhodaâs counsel had prevailed.

âAnneâyouâre a cowardâyes, a coward. Itâs no good going on being an ostrich, burying your head in the sand. Thereâs been a murder and youâre one of the suspectsâthe least likely one perhapsââ

âThat would be the worst,â said Anne with a touch of humour. âItâs always the least likely person who did it.â

âBut you are one,â continued Rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. âAnd itâs no use putting your nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and nothing to do with you.â

âIt is nothing to do with me,â Anne persisted. âI mean, Iâm quite willing to answer any questions the police want to ask me, but this man, this Hercule Poirot, heâs an outsider.â

âAnd what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? Heâll think youâre bursting with guilt.â

âIâm certainly not bursting with guilt,â said Anne coldly.

âDarling, I know that. You couldnât murder anybody if you tried. But horrible suspicious foreigners donât know that. I think we ought to go nicely to his house. Otherwise heâll come down here and try to worm things out of the servants.â

âWe havenât got any servants.â

âWeâve got Mother Astwell. She can wag a tongue with anybody! Come on, Anne, letâs go. It will be rather fun really.â

âI donât see why he wants to see me.â Anne was obstinate.

âTo put one over on the official police, of course,â said Rhoda impatiently. âThey always doâthe amateurs, I mean. They make out that Scotland Yard are all boots and brainlessness.â

âDo you think this man Poirot is clever?â

âHe doesnât look a Sherlock,â said Rhoda. âI expect he has been quite good in his day. Heâs gaga now, of course. He must be at least sixty. Oh, come on, Anne, letâs go and see the old boy. He may tell us dreadful things about the others.â

âAll right,â said Anne, and added, âYou do enjoy all this so, Rhoda.â

âI suppose because it isnât my funeral,â said Rhoda. âYou were a noddle, Anne, not just to have looked up at the right minute. If only you had, you could live like a duchess for the rest of your life on blackmail.â

So it came about that at three oâclock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes and Anne Meredith sat primly on their chairs in Poirotâs neat room and sipped blackberry sirop (which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse) from old-fashioned glasses.

âIt was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle,â Poirot was saying.

âIâm sure I shall be glad to help in any way I can,â murmured Anne vaguely.

âIt is a little matter of memory.â

âMemory?â

âYes, I have already put these questions to Mrs. Lorrimer, to Dr. Roberts and to Major Despard. None of them, alas, have given me the response that I hoped for.â

Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

âI want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the drawing room of Mr. Shaitana.â

A weary shadow passed over Anneâs face. Was she never to be free of that nightmare?â

Poirot noticed the expression.

âCâest pÃ©nible, nâest ce pas? That is very natural. You, so young as you are, to be brought in contact with horror for the first time. Probably you have never known or seen a violent death.â

Rhodaâs feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor.

âWell?â said Anne.

âCast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that room?â

Anne stared at him suspiciously.

âI donât understand?â

âBut yes. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments, the wallpaper, the curtains, the fire irons. You saw them all. Can you not then describe them?â

âOh, I see.â Anne hesitated, frowning. âItâs difficult. I donât really think I remember. I couldnât say what the wallpaper was like. I think the walls were paintedâsome inconspicuous colour. There were rugs on the floor. There was a piano.â She shook her head. âI really couldnât tell you any more.â

âBut you are not trying, mademoiselle. You must remember some object, some ornament, some piece of bric-Ã -brac?â

âThere was a case of Egyptian jewellery, I remember,â said Anne slowly. âOver by the window.â

âOh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay the little dagger.â

Anne looked at him.

âI never heard which table that was on.â

âPas si bÃªte,â commented Poirot to himself. âBut then, no more is Hercule Poirot! If she knew me better she would realize I would never lay a piÃ¨ge as gross as that!â

Aloud he said:

âA case of Egyptian jewellery, you say?â

Anne answered with some enthusiasm.

âYesâsome of it was lovely. Blues and red. Enamel. One or two lovely rings. And scarabsâbut I donât like them so much.â

âHe was a great collector, Mr. Shaitana,â murmured Poirot.

âYes, he must have been,â Anne agreed. âThe room was full of stuff. One couldnât begin to look at it all.â

âSo that you cannot mention anything else that particularly struck your notice?â

Anne smiled a little as she said:

âOnly a vase of chrysanthemums that badly wanted their water changed.â

âAh, yes, servants are not always too particular about that.â

Poirot was silent for a moment or two.

Anne asked timidly:

âIâm afraid I didnât noticeâwhatever it is you wanted me to notice.â

Poirot smiled kindly.

âIt does not matter, mon enfant. It was, indeed, an outside chance. Tell me, have you seen the good Major Despard lately?â

He saw the delicate pink colour come up in the girlâs face. She replied:

âHe said he would come and see us again quite soon.â

Rhoda said impetuously:

âHe didnât do it, anyway! Anne and I are quite sure of that.â

Poirot twinkled at them.

âHow fortunateâto have convinced two such charming young ladies of oneâs innocence.â

âOh, dear,â thought Rhoda. âHeâs going to be French, and it does embarrass me so.â

She got up and began examining some etchings on the wall.

âThese are awfully good,â she said.

âThey are not bad,â said Poirot.

He hesitated, looking at Anne.

âMademoiselle,â he said at last. âI wonder if I might ask you to do me a great favourâoh, nothing to do with the murder. This is an entirely private and personal matter.â

Anne looked a little surprised. Poirot went on speaking in a slightly embarrassed manner.

âIt is, you understand, that Christmas is coming on. I have to buy presents for many nieces and grandnieces. And it is a little difficult to choose what young ladies like in this present time. My tastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned.â

âYes?â said Anne kindly.

âSilk stockings, nowâare silk stockings a welcome present to receive?â

âYes, indeed. Itâs always nice to be given stockings.â

âYou relieve my mind. I will ask my favour. I have obtained some different colours. There are, I think, about fifteen or sixteen pairs. Would you be so amiable as to look through them and set aside half a dozen pairs that seem to you the most desirable?â

âCertainly I will,â said Anne, rising, with a laugh.

Poirot directed her towards a table in an alcoveâa table whose contents were strangely at variance, had she but known it, with the well-known order and neatness of Hercule Poirot. There were stockings piled up in untidy heapsâsome fur-lined glovesâcalendars and boxes of bonbons.

âI send off my parcels very much Ã  lâavance,â Poirot explained. âSee, mademoiselle, here are the stockings. Select me, I pray of you, six pairs.â

He turned, intercepting Rhoda, who was following him.

âAs for mademoiselle here, I have a little treat for herâa treat that would be no treat to you, I fancy, Mademoiselle Meredith.â

âWhat is it?â cried Rhoda.

He lowered his voice.

âA knife, mademoiselle, with which twelve people once stabbed a man. It was given to me as a souvenir by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits.â

âHorrible,â cried Anne.

âOoh! Let me see,â said Rhoda.

Poirot led her through into the other room, talking as he went.

âIt was given me by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits becauseââ

They passed out of the room.

They returned three minutes later. Anne came towards them.

âI think these six are the nicest, M. Poirot. Both these are very good evening shades, and this lighter colour would be nice when summer comes and itâs daylight in the evening.â

âMille remercÃ®ments, mademoiselle.â

He offered them more sirop, which they refused, and finally accompanied them to the door, still talking genially.

When they had finally departed he returned to the room and went straight to the littered table. The pile of stockings still lay in a confused heap. Poirot counted the six selected pairs and then went on to count the others.

He had bought nineteen pairs. There were now only seventeen.

He nodded his head slowly.

Twenty-four

ELIMINATION OF THREE MURDERERS?

On arrival in London, Superintendent Battle came straight to Poirot. Anne and Rhoda had then been gone an hour or more.

Without more ado, the superintendent recounted the result of his researches in Devonshire.

âWeâre onto itânot a doubt of it,â he finished. âThatâs what Shaitana was aiming atâwith his âdomestic accidentâ business. But what gets me is the motive. Why did she want to kill the woman?â

âI think I can help you there, my friend.â

âGo ahead, M. Poirot.â

âThis afternoon I conducted a little experiment. I induced mademoiselle and her friend to come here. I put to them my usual questions as to what there was in the room that night.â

Battle looked at him curiously.

âYouâre very keen on that question.â

âYes, itâs useful. It tells me a good deal. Mademoiselle Meredith was suspiciousâvery suspicious. She takes nothing for granted, that young lady. So that good dog, Hercule Poirot, he does one of his best tricks. He lays a clumsy amateurish trap. Mademoiselle mentions a case of jewellery. I say was not that at the opposite end of the room from the table with the dagger. Mademoiselle does not fall into the trap. She avoids it cleverly. And after that she is pleased with herself, and her vigilance relaxes. So that is the object of this visitâto get her to admit that she knew where the dagger was, and that she noticed it! Her spirits rise when she has, as she thinks, defeated me. She talked quite freely about the jewellery. She has noticed many details of it. There is nothing else in the room that she remembersâexcept that a vase of chrysanthemums needed its water changing.â

âWell?â said Battle.

âWell, it is significant, that. Suppose we knew nothing about this girl. Her word would give us a clue to her character. She notices flowers. She is, then, fond of flowers? No, since she does not mention a very big bowl of early tulips which would at once have attracted the attention of a flower lover. No, it is the paid companion who speaksâthe girl whose duty it has been to put fresh water in the vasesâand, allied to that, there is a girl who loves and notices jewellery. Is not that, at least, suggestive?â

âAh,â said Battle. âIâm beginning to see what youâre driving at.â

âPrecisely. As I told you the other day, I place my cards on the table. When you recounted her history the other day, and Mrs. Oliver made her startling announcement, my mind went at once to an important point. The murder could not have been committed for gain, since Miss Meredith had still to earn her living after it happened. Why, then? I considered Miss Meredithâs temperament as it appeared superficially. A rather timid young girl, poor, but well-dressed, fond of pretty things â¦ The temperament, is it not, of a thief, rather than a murderer. And I asked immediately if Mrs. Eldon had been a tidy woman. You replied that no, she had not been tidy. I formed a hypothesis. Supposing that Anne Meredith was a girl with a weak streak in her characterâthe kind of girl who takes little things from the big shops. Supposing that, poor, and yet loving pretty things, she helped herself once or twice to things from her employer. A brooch, perhaps, an odd half crown or two, a string of beads. Mrs. Eldon, careless, untidy, would put down these disappearances to her own carelessness. She would not suspect her gentle little motherâs help. But, now, suppose a different type of employerâan employer who did noticeâaccused Anne Meredith of theft. That would be a possible motive for murder. As I said the other evening, Miss Meredith would only commit a murder through fear. She knows that her employer will be able to prove the theft. There is only one thing that can save her: her employer must die. And so she changes the bottles, and Mrs. Benson diesâironically enough convinced that the mistake is her own, and not suspecting for a minute that the cowed, frightened girl has had a hand in it.â

âItâs possible,â said Superintendent Battle. âItâs only a hypothesis, but itâs possible.â

âIt is a little more than possible, my friendâit is also probable. For this afternoon I laid a little trap nicely baitedâthe real trapâafter the sham one had been circumvented. If what I suspect is true, Anne Meredith will never, never be able to resist a really expensive pair of stockings! I ask her to aid me. I let her know carefully that I am not sure exactly how many stockings there are, I go out of the room, leaving her aloneâand the result, my friend, is that I have now seventeen pairs of stockings, instead of nineteen, and that two pairs have gone away in Anne Meredithâs handbag.â

âWhew!â Superintendent Battle whistled. âWhat a risk to take, though.â

âPas du tout. What does she think I suspect her of? Murder. What is the risk, then, in stealing a pair, or two pairs, of silk stockings? I am not looking for a thief. And, besides, the thief, or the kleptomaniac, is always the sameâconvinced that she can get away with it.â

Battle nodded his head.

âThatâs true enough. Incredibly stupid. The pitcher goes to the well time after time. Well, I think between us weâve arrived fairly clearly at the truth. Anne Meredith was caught stealing. Anne Meredith changed a bottle from one shelf to another. We know that was murderâbut Iâm damned if we could ever prove it. Successful crime No. 2. Roberts gets away with it. Anne Meredith gets away with it. But what about Shaitana? Did Anne Meredith kill Shaitana?â

He remained silent for a moment or two, then he shook his head.

âIt doesnât work out right,â he said reluctantly. âSheâs not one to take a risk. Change a couple of bottles, yes. She knew no one could fasten that on her. It was absolutely safeâbecause anyone might have done it! Of course, it mightnât have worked. Mrs. Benson might have noticed before she drank the stuff, or she mightnât have died from it. It was what I call a hopeful kind of murder. It might work or it mightnât. Actually, it did. But Shaitana was a very different pair of shoes. That was deliberate, audacious, purposeful murder.â

Poirot nodded his head.

âI agree with you. The two types of crime are not the same.â

Battle rubbed his nose.

âSo that seems to wipe her out as far as heâs concerned. Roberts and the girl, both crossed off our list. What about Despard? Any luck with the Luxmore woman?â

Poirot narrated his adventures of the preceding afternoon.

Battle grinned.

âI know that type. You canât disentangle what they remember from what they invent.â

Poirot went on. He described Despardâs visit, and the story the latter had told.

âBelieve him?â Battle asked abruptly.

âYes, I do.â

Battle sighed.

âSo do I. Not the type to shoot a man because he wanted the manâs wife. Anyway, whatâs wrong with the divorce court? Everyone flocks there. And heâs not a professional man; it wouldnât ruin him, or anything like that. No, Iâm of the opinion that our late lamented Mr. Shaitana struck a snag there. Murderer No. 3. wasnât a murderer, after all.â

He looked at Poirot.

âThat leavesââ

âMrs. Lorrimer,â said Poirot.

The telephone rang. Poirot got up and answered it. He spoke a few words, waited, spoke again. Then he hung up the receiver and returned to Battle.

His face was very grave.

âThat was Mrs. Lorrimer speaking,â he said. âShe wants me to come round and see herânow.â

He and Battle looked at each other. The latter shook his head slowly.

âAm I wrong?â he said. âOr were you expecting something of the kind?â

âI wondered,â said Hercule Poirot. âThat was all. I wondered.â

âYouâd better get along,â said Battle. âPerhaps youâll manage to get at the truth at last.â

Twenty-five

MRS. LORRIMER SPEAKS

The day was not a bright one, and Mrs. Lorrimerâs room seemed rather dark and cheerless. She herself had a grey look, and seemed much older than she had done on the occasion of Poirotâs last visit.

She greeted him with her usual smiling assurance.

âIt is very nice of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot. You are a busy man, I know.â

âAt your service, madame,â said Poirot with a little bow.

Mrs. Lorrimer pressed the bell by the fireplace.

âWe will have tea brought in. I donât know what you feel about it, but I always think itâs a mistake to rush straight into confidences without any decent paving of the way.â

âThere are to be confidences, then, madame?â

Mrs. Lorrimer did not answer, for at that moment her maid answered the bell. When she had received the order and gone again, Mrs. Lorrimer said dryly:

âYou said, if you remember, when you were last here, that you would come if I sent for you. You had an idea, I think, of the reason that should prompt me to send.â

There was no more just then. Tea was brought. Mrs. Lorrimer dispensed it, talking intelligently on various topics of the day.

Taking advantage of a pause, Poirot remarked:

âI hear you and little Mademoiselle Meredith had tea together the other day.â

âWe did. Have you seen her lately?â

âThis very afternoon.â

âShe is in London, then, or have you been down to Wallingford?â

âNo. She and her friend were so amiable as to pay me a visit.â

âAh, the friend. I have not met her.â

Poirot said, smiling a little:

âThis murderâit has made for me a rapprochement. You and Mademoiselle Meredith have tea together. Major Despard, he, too, cultivates Miss Meredithâs acquaintance. The Dr. Roberts, he is perhaps the only one out of it.â

âI saw him out at bridge the other day,â said Mrs. Lorrimer. âHe seemed quite his usual cheerful self.â

âAs fond of bridge as ever?â

âYesâstill making the most outrageous bidsâand very often getting away with it.â

She was silent for a moment or two, then said:

âHave you seen Superintendent Battle lately?â

âAlso this afternoon. He was with me when you telephoned.â

Shading her face from the fire with one hand, Mrs. Lorrimer asked:

âHow is he getting on?â

Poirot said gravely:

âHe is not very rapid, the good Battle. He gets there slowly, but he does get there in the end, madame.â

âI wonder.â Her lips curved in a faintly ironical smile.

She went on:

âHe has paid me quite a lot of attention. He has delved, I think, into my past history right back to my girlhood. He has interviewed my friends, and chatted to my servantsâthe ones I have now and the ones who have been with me in former years. What he hoped to find I do not know, but he certainly did not find it. He might as well have accepted what I told him. It was the truth. I knew Mr. Shaitana very slightly. I met him at Luxor, as I said, and our acquaintanceship was never more than an acquaintanceship. Superintendent Battle will not be able to get away from these facts.â

âPerhaps not,â said Poirot.

âAnd you, M. Poirot? Have not you made any inquiries?â

âAbout you, madame?â

âThat is what I meant.â

Slowly the little man shook his head.

âIt would have been to no avail.â

âJust exactly what do you mean by that, M. Poirot?â

âI will be quite frank, madame. I have realized from the beginning that, of the four persons in Mr. Shaitanaâs room that night, the one with the best brains, with the coolest, most logical head, was you, madame. If I had to lay money on the chance of one of those four planning a murder and getting away with it successfully, it is on you that I should place my money.â

Mrs. Lorrimerâs brows rose.

âAm I expected to feel flattered?â she asked drily.

Poirot went on, without paying any attention to her interruption:

âFor a crime to be successful, it is usually necessary to think every detail of it out beforehand. All possible contingencies must be taken into account. The timing must be accurate. The placing must be scrupulously correct. Dr. Roberts might bungle a crime through haste and overconfidence; Major Despard would probably be too prudent to commit one; Miss Meredith might lose her head and give herself away. You, madame, would do none of these things. You would be clearheaded and cool, you are sufficiently resolute of character, and could be sufficiently obsessed with an idea to the extent of overruling prudence, you are not the kind of woman to lose her head.â

Mrs. Lorrimer sat silent for a minute or two, a curious smile playing round her lips. At last she said:

âSo that is what you think of me, M. Poirot. That I am the kind of woman to commit an ideal murder.â

âAt least you have the amiability not to resent the idea.â

âI find it very interesting. So it is your idea that I am the only person who could successfully have murdered Shaitana?â

Poirot said slowly:

âThere is a difficulty there, madame.â

âReally? Do tell me.â

âYou may have noticed that I said just now a phrase something like this: âFor a crime to be successful it is usually necessary to plan every detail of it carefully beforehand.â âUsuallyâ is the word to which I want to draw your attention. For there is another type of successful crime. Have you ever said suddenly to anyone, âThrow a stone and see if you can hit that tree,â and the person obeys quickly, without thinkingâand surprisingly often he does hit the tree? But when he comes to repeat the throw it is not so easyâfor he has begun to think. âSo hardâno harderâa little more to the rightâto the left.â The first was an almost unconscious action, the body obeying the mind as the body of an animal does. Eh bien, madame, there is a type of crime like that, a crime committed on the spur of the momentâan inspirationâa flash of geniusâwithout time to pause or think. And that, madame, was the kind of crime that killed Mr. Shaitana. A sudden dire necessity, a flash of inspiration, rapid execution.â

He shook his head.

âAnd that, madame, is not your type of crime at all. If you killed Mr. Shaitana, it should have been a premeditated crime.â

âI see.â Her hand waved softly to and fro, keeping the heat of the fire from her face. âAnd, of course, it wasnât a premeditated crime, so I couldnât have killed himâeh, M. Poirot?â

Poirot bowed.

âThat is right, madame.â

âAnd yetââ She leaned forward, her waving hand stopped. âI did kill Shaitana, M. Poirotâ¦.â

Twenty-six

THE TRUTH

There was a pauseâa very long pause.

The room was growing dark. The firelight leaped and flickered.

Mrs. Lorrimer and Hercule Poirot looked not at each other, but at the fire. It was as though time was momentarily in abeyance.

Then Hercule Poirot sighed and stirred.

âSo it was thatâall the time â¦ Why did you kill him, madame?â

âI think you know why, M. Poirot.â

âBecause he knew something about youâsomething that had happened long ago?â

âYes.â

âAnd that something wasâanother death, madame?â

She bowed her head.

Poirot said gently:

âWhy did you tell me? What made you send for me today?â

âYou told me once that I should do so someday.â

âYesâthat is, I hoped â¦ I knew, madame, that there was only one way of learning the truth as far as you were concernedâand that was by your own free will. If you did not choose to speak, you would not do so, and you would never give yourself away. But there was a chanceâthat you yourself might wish to speak.â

Mrs. Lorrimer nodded.

âIt was clever of you to foresee thatâthe wearinessâthe lonelinessââ

Her voice died away.

Poirot looked at her curiously.

âSo it has been like that? Yes, I can understand it might beâ¦.â

âAloneâquite alone,â said Mrs. Lorrimer. âNo one knows what that means unless they have lived, as I have lived, with the knowledge of what one has done.â

Poirot said gently:

âIs it an impertinence, madame, or may I be permitted to offer my sympathy?â

She bent her head a little.

âThank you, M. Poirot.â

There was another pause, then Poirot said, speaking in a slightly brisker tone:

âAm I to understand, madame, that you took the words Mr. Shaitana spoke at dinner as a direct menace aimed at you?â

She nodded.

âI realized at once that he was speaking so that one person should understand him. That person was myself. The reference to a womanâs weapon being poison was meant for me. He knew. I had suspected it once before. He had brought the conversation round to a certain famous trial, and I saw his eyes watching me. There was a kind of uncanny knowledge in them. But, of course, that night I was quite sure.â

âAnd you were sure, too, of his future intentions?â

Mrs. Lorrimer said drily:

âIt was hardly likely that the presence of Superintendent Battle and yourself was an accident. I took it that Shaitana was going to advertise his own cleverness by pointing out to you both that he had discovered something that no one else had suspected.â

âHow soon did you make up your mind to act, madame?â

Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a little.

âIt is difficult to remember exactly when the idea came into my mind,â she said. âI had noticed the dagger before going into dinner. When we returned to the drawing room I picked it up and slipped it into my sleeve. No one saw me do it. I made sure of that.â

âIt would be dexterously done, I have no doubt, madame.â

âI made up my mind then exactly what I was going to do. I had only to carry it out. It was risky, perhaps, but I considered that it was worth trying.â

âThat is your coolness, your successful weighing of chances, coming into play. Yes, I see that.â

âWe started to play bridge,â continued Mrs. Lorrimer. Her voice cool and unemotional. âAt last an opportunity arose. I was dummy. I strolled across the room to the fireplace. Shaitana had dozed off to sleep. I looked over at the others. They were all intent on the game. I leant over andâand did itââ

Her voice shook just a little, but instantly it regained its cool aloofness.

âI spoke to him. It came into my head that that would make a kind of alibi for me. I made some remark about the fire, and then pretended he had answered me and went on again, saying something like: âI agree with you. I do not like radiators, either.ââ

âHe did not cry out at all?â

âNo. I think he made a little gruntâthat was all. It might have been taken for words from a distance.â

âAnd then?â

âAnd then I went back to the bridge table. The last trick was just being played.â

âAnd you sat down and resumed play?â

âYes.â

âWith sufficient interest in the game to be able to tell me nearly all the calling and the hands two days later?â

âYes,â said Mrs. Lorrimer simply.

âEpatant!â said Hercule Poirot.

He leaned back in his chair. He nodded his head several times. Then, by way of a change, he shook it.

âBut there is still something, madame, that I do not understand.â

âYes?â

âIt seems to me that there is some factor that I have missed. You are a woman who considers and weighs everything carefully. You decide that, for a certain reason, you will run an enormous risk. You do run itâsuccessfully. And then, not two weeks later, you change your mind. Frankly, madame, that does not seem to me to ring true.â

A queer little smile twisted her lips.

âYou are quite right, M. Poirot, there is one factor that you do not know. Did Miss Meredith tell you where she met me the other day?â

âIt was, I think she said, near Mrs. Oliverâs flat.â

âI believe that is so. But I meant the actual name of the street. Anne Meredith met me in Harley Street.â

âAh!â He looked at her attentively. âI begin to see.â

âYes, I thought you would. I had been to see a specialist there. He told me what I already half suspected.â

Her smile widened. It was no longer twisted and bitter. It was suddenly sweet.

âI shall not play very much more bridge, M. Poirot. Oh, he didnât say so in so many words. He wrapped up the truth a little. With great care, etc., etc., I might live several years. But I shall not take any great care. I am not that kind of a woman.â

âYes, yes, I begin to understand,â said Poirot.

âIt made a difference, you see. A monthâtwo months, perhapsânot more. And then, just as I left the specialist, I met Miss Meredith. I asked her to have tea with me.â

She paused, then went on:

âI am not, after all, a wholly wicked woman. All the time we were having tea I was thinking. By my action the other evening I had not only deprived the man Shaitana of life (that was done, and could not be undone), I had also, to a varying degree, affected unfavourably the lives of three other people. Because of what I had done, Dr. Roberts, Major Despard and Anne Meredith, none of whom had injured me in any way, were passing through a very grave ordeal, and might even be in danger. That, at least, I could undo. I donât know that I felt particularly moved by the plight of either Dr. Roberts or Major Despardâalthough both of them had presumably a much longer span of life in front of them than I had. They were men, and could, to a certain extent, look after themselves. But when I looked at Anne Meredithââ

She hesitated, then continued slowly:

âAnne Meredith was only a girl. She had the whole of her life in front of her. This miserable business might ruin that lifeâ¦.

âI didnât like the thought of thatâ¦.

âAnd then, M. Poirot, with these ideas growing in my mind, I realized that what you had hinted had come true. I was not going to be able to keep silence. This afternoon I rang you upâ¦.â

Minutes passed.

Hercule Poirot leaned forward. He stared, deliberately stared through the gathering gloom, at Mrs. Lorrimer. She returned that intent gaze quietly and without any nervousness.

He said at last:

âMrs. Lorrimer, are you sureâare you positive (you will tell me the truth, will you not?)âthat the murder of Mr. Shaitana was not premeditated? Is it not a fact that you planned the crime beforehandâthat you went to that dinner with the murder already mapped out in your mind?â

Mrs. Lorrimer stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head sharply.

âNo,â she said.

âYou did not plan the murder beforehand?â

âCertainly not.â

âThenâthen â¦ Oh, you are lying to meâyou must be lying! â¦ â

Mrs. Lorrimerâs voice cut into the air like ice.

âReally, M. Poirot, you forget yourself.â

The little man sprang to his feet. He paced up and down the room, muttering to himself, uttering ejaculations.

Suddenly he said:

âPermit me.â

And, going to the switch, he turned on the electric lights.

He came back, sat down in his chair, placed both hands on his knees and stared straight at his hostess.

âThe question is,â he said, âcan Hercule Poirot possibly be wrong?â

âNo one can always be right,â said Mrs. Lorrimer coldly.

âI am,â said Poirot. âAlways I am right. It is so invariable that it startles me. But now it looks, it very much looks, as though I am wrong. And that upsets me. Presumably, you know what you are saying. It is your murder! Fantastic, then, that Hercule Poirot should know better than you do how you committed it.â

âFantastic and very absurd,â said Mrs. Lorrimer still more coldly.

âI am, then, mad. Decidedly I am mad: NoâsacrÃ© nom dâun petit bonhommeâI am not mad! I am right. I must be right. I am willing to believe that you killed Mr. Shaitanaâbut you cannot have killed him in the way you say you did. No one can do a thing that is not dans son charactÃ¨re!â

He paused. Mrs. Lorrimer drew in an angry breath and bit her lips. She was about to speak, but Poirot forestalled her.

âEither the killing of Shaitana was planned beforehandâor you did not kill him at all!â

Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:

âI really believe you are mad, M. Poirot. If I am willing to admit I committed the crime, I should not be likely to lie about the way I did it. What would be the point of such a thing?â

Poirot got up again and took one turn round the room. When he came back to his seat his manner had changed. He was gentle and kindly.

âYou did not kill Shaitana,â he said softly. âI see that now. I see everything. Harley Street. And little Anne Meredith standing forlorn on the pavement. I see, too, another girlâa very long time ago, a girl who has gone through life always aloneâterribly alone. Yes, I see all that. But one thing I do not seeâwhy are you so certain that Anne Meredith did it?â

âReally, M. Poirotââ

âAbsolutely useless to protestâto lie further to me, madame. I tell you, I know the truth. I know the very emotions that swept over you that day in Harley Street. You would not have done it for Dr. Robertsâoh, no! You would not have done it for Major Despard, non plus. But Anne Meredith is different. You have compassion for her, because she has done what you once did. You do not know evenâor so I imagineâwhat reason she had for the crime. But you are quite sure she did it. You were sure that first eveningâthe evening it happenedâwhen Superintendent Battle invited you to give your views on the case. Yes, I know it all, you see. It is quite useless to lie further to me. You see that, do you not?â

He paused for an answer, but none came. He nodded his head in satisfaction.

âYes, you are sensible. That is good. It is a very noble action that you perform there, madame, to take the blame on yourself and to let this child escape.â

âYou forget,â said Mrs. Lorrimer in a dry voice, âI am not an innocent woman. Years ago, M. Poirot, I killed my husbandâ¦.â

There was a momentâs silence.

âI see,â said Poirot. âIt is justice. After all, only justice. You have the logical mind. You are willing to suffer for the act you committed. Murder is murderâit does not matter who the victim is. Madame, you have courage, and you have clearsightedness. But I ask of you once more: How can you be so sure? How do you know that it was Anne Meredith who killed Mr. Shaitana?â

A deep sigh broke from Mrs. Lorrimer. Her last resistance had gone down before Poirotâs insistence. She answered his question quite simply like a child.

âBecause,â she said, âI saw her.â

Twenty-seven

THE EYEWITNESS

Suddenly Poirot laughed. He could not help it. His head went back, and his high Gallic laugh filled the room.

âPardon, madame,â he said, wiping his eyes. âI could not help it. Here we argue and we reason! We ask questions! We invoke the psychologyâand all the time there was an eyewitness of the crime. Tell me, I pray of you.â

âIt was fairly late in the evening. Anne Meredith was dummy. She got up and looked over her partnerâs hand, and then she moved about the room. The hand wasnât very interestingâthe conclusion was inevitable. I didnât need to concentrate on the cards. Just as we got to the last three tricks I looked over towards the fireplace. Anne Meredith was bent over Mr. Shaitana. As I watched, she straightened herselfâher hand had been actually on his breastâa gesture which awakened my surprise. She straightened herself, and I saw her face and her quick look over towards us. Guilt and fearâthat is what I saw on her face. Of course, I didnât know what had happened then. I only wondered what on earth the girl could have been doing. LaterâI knew.â

Poirot nodded.

âBut she did not know that you knew. She did not know that you had seen her?â

âPoor child,â said Mrs. Lorrimer. âYoung, frightenedâher way to make in the world. Do you wonder that Iâwell, held my tongue?â

âNo, no, I do not wonder.â

âEspecially knowing that Iâthat I myselfââ She finished the sentence with a shrug. âIt was certainly not my place to stand accuser. It was up to the police.â

âQuite soâbut today you have gone further than that.â

Mrs. Lorrimer said grimly:

âIâve never been a very softhearted or compassionate woman, but I suppose these qualities grow upon one in oneâs old age. I assure you, Iâm not often actuated by pity.â

âIt is not always a very safe guide, madame. Mademoiselle Anne is young, she is fragile, she looks timid and frightenedâoh, yes, she seems a very worthy subject for compassion. But I, I do not agree. Shall I tell you, madame, why Miss Anne Meredith killed Mr. Shaitana. It was because he knew that she had previously killed an elderly lady to whom she was companionâbecause that lady had found her out in a petty theft.â

Mrs. Lorrimer looked a little startled.

âIs that true, M. Poirot?â

âI have no doubt of it, whatsoever. She is so softâso gentleâone would say. Pah! She is dangerous, madame, that little Mademoiselle Anne! Where her own safety, her own comfort, is concerned, she will strike wildlyâtreacherously. With Mademoiselle Anne those two crimes will not be the end. She will gain confidence from themâ¦.â

Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:

âWhat you say is horrible, M. Poirot. Horrible!â

Poirot rose.

âMadame, I will now take my leave. Reflect on what I have said.â

Mrs. Lorrimer was looking a little uncertain of herself. She said with an attempt at her old manner:

âIf it suits me, M. Poirot, I shall deny this whole conversation. You have no witnesses, remember. What I have just told you that I saw on that fatal evening isâwell, private between ourselves.â

Poirot said gravely:

âNothing shall be done without your consent, madame. And be at peace; I have my own methods. Now that I know what I am driving atââ

He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

âPermit me to tell you, madame, that you are a most remarkable woman. All my homage and respect. Yes, indeed, a woman in a thousand. Why, you have not even done what nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand could not have resisted doing.â

âWhat is that?â

âTold me just why you killed your husbandâand how entirely justified such a proceeding really was.â

Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up.

âReally, M. Poirot,â she said stiffly. âMy reasons were entirely my own business.â

âMagnifique!â said Poirot, and, once more raising her hand to his lips, he left the room.

It was cold outside the house, and he looked up and down for a taxi, but there was none in sight.

He began to walk in the direction of Kingâs Road.

As he walked he was thinking hard. Occasionally he nodded his head; once he shook it.

He looked back over his shoulder. Someone was going up the steps of Mrs. Lorrimerâs house. In figure it looked very like Anne Meredith. He hesitated for a minute, wondering whether to turn back or not, but in the end he went on.

On arrival at home, he found that Battle had gone without leaving any message.

He proceeded to ring the superintendent up.

âHallo.â Battleâs voice came through. âGot anything?â

âJe crois bien. Mon ami, we must get after the Meredith girlâand quickly.â

âIâm getting after herâbut why quickly?â

âBecause, my friend, she may be dangerous.â

Battle was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

âI know what you mean. But thereâs no one â¦ Oh, well, we mustnât take chances. As a matter of fact, Iâve written her. Official note, saying Iâm calling to see her tomorrow. I thought it might be a good thing to get her rattled.â

âIt is a possibility, at least. I may accompany you?â

âNaturally. Honoured to have your company, M. Poirot.â

Poirot hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.

His mind was not quite at rest. He sat for a long time in front of his fire, frowning to himself. At last, putting his fears and doubts aside, he went to bed.

âWe will see in the morning,â he murmured.

But of what the morning would bring he had no idea.

Twenty-eight

SUICIDE

The summons came by telephone at the moment when Poirot was sitting down to his morning coffee and rolls.

He lifted the telephone receiver, and Battleâs voice spoke:

âThat M. Poirot?â

âYes, it is. Quâest ce quâil y a?â

The mere inflection of the superintendentâs voice had told him that something had happened. His own vague misgivings came back to him.

âBut quickly, my friend, tell me.â

âItâs Mrs. Lorrimer.â

âLorrimerâyes?â

âWhat the devil did you say to herâor did she say to youâyesterday? You never told me anything; in fact, you let me think that the Meredith girl was the one we were after.â

Poirot said quietly:

âWhat has happened?â

âSuicide.â

âMrs. Lorrimer has committed suicide?â

âThatâs right. It seems she has been very depressed and unlike herself lately. Her doctor had ordered her some sleeping stuff. Last night she took an overdose.â

Poirot drew a deep breath.

âThere is no question ofâaccident?â

âNot the least. Itâs all cut and dried. She wrote to the three of them.â

âWhich three?â

âThe other three. Roberts, Despard and Miss Meredith. All fair and squareâno beating about the bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she was taking a shortcut out of all the messâthat it was she who had killed Shaitanaâand that she apologizedâapologizedâto all three of them for the inconvenience and annoyance they had suffered. Perfectly calm, businesslike letter. Absolutely typical of the woman. She was a cool customer all right.â

For a minute or two Poirot did not answer.

So this was Mrs. Lorrimerâs final word. She had determined, after all, to shield Anne Meredith. A quick painless death instead of a protracted painful one, and her last action an altruistic oneâthe saving of the girl with whom she felt a secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned and carried out with quite ruthless efficiencyâa suicide carefully announced to the three interested parties. What a woman! His admiration quickened. It was like herâlike her clearcut determination, her insistence on what she had decided being carried out.

He had thought to have convinced herâbut evidently she had preferred her own judgement. A woman of very strong will.

Battleâs voice cut into his meditations.

âWhat the devil did you say to her yesterday? You must have put the wind up her, and this is the result. But you implied that the result of your interview was definite suspicion of the Meredith girl.â

Poirot was silent a minute or two. He felt that, dead, Mrs. Lorrimer constrained him to her will, as she could not have done if she were living.

He said at last slowly:

âI was in errorâ¦.â

They were unaccustomed words on his tongue, and he did not like them.

âYou made a mistake, eh?â said Battle. âAll the same, she must have thought you were onto her. Itâs a bad businessâletting her slip through our fingers like this.â

âYou could not have proved anything against her,â said Poirot.

âNoâI suppose thatâs true â¦ Perhaps itâs all for the best. Youâerâdidnât mean this to happen, M. Poirot?â

Poirotâs disclaimer was indignant. Then he said:

âTell me exactly what has occurred.â

âRoberts opened his letter just before eight oâclock. He lost no time, dashed off at once in his car, leaving his parlourmaid to communicate with us, which she did. He got to the house to find that Mrs. Lorrimer hadnât been called yet, rushed up to her bedroomâbut it was too late. He tried artificial respiration, but there was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after and confirmed his treatment.â

âWhat was the sleeping stuff?â

âVeronal, I think. One of the barbituric group, at any rate. There was a bottle of tablets by her bed.â

âWhat about the other two? Did they not try to communicate with you?â

âDespard is out of town. He hasnât had this morningâs post.â

âAndâMiss Meredith?â

âIâve just rung her up.â

âEh bien?â

âShe had just opened the letter a few moments before my call came through. Post is later there.â

âWhat was her reaction?â

âA perfectly proper attitude. Intense relief decently veiled. Shocked and grievedâthat sort of thing.â

Poirot paused a moment, then he said:

âWhere are you now, my friend?â

âAt Cheyne Lane.â

âBien. I will come round immediately.â

In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Dr. Roberts on the point of departure. The doctorâs usual florid manner was rather in abeyance this morning. He looked pale and shaken.

âNasty business this, M. Poirot. I canât say Iâm not relievedâfrom my own point of viewâbut, to tell you the truth, itâs a bit of a shock. I never really thought for a minute that it was Mrs. Lorrimer who stabbed Shaitana. Itâs been the greatest surprise to me.â

âI, too, am surprised.â

âQuiet, well-bred, self-contained woman. Canât imagine her doing a violent thing like that. What was the motive, I wonder? Oh, well, we shall never know now. I confess Iâm curious, though.â

âIt must take a load off your mindâthis occurrence.â

âOh, it does, undoubtedly. It would be hypocrisy not to admit it. Itâs not very pleasant to have a suspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman herselfâwell, it was undoubtedly the best way out.â

âSo she thought herself.â

Roberts nodded.

âConscience, I suppose,â he said as he let himself out of the house.

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. The doctor had misread the situation. It was not remorse that had made Mrs. Lorrimer take her life.

On his way upstairs he paused to say a few words of comfort to the elderly parlourmaid, who was weeping quietly.

âItâs so dreadful, sir. So very dreadful. We were all so fond of her. And you having tea with her yesterday so nice and quiet. And now today sheâs gone. I shall never forget this morningânever as long as I live. The gentleman pealing at the bell. Rang three times, he did, before I could get to it. And, âWhereâs your mistress?â he shot out at me. I was so flustered, I couldnât hardly answer. You see, we never went in to the mistress till she rangâthat was her orders. And I just couldnât get out anything. And the doctor he says, âWhereâs her room?â and ran up the stairs, and me behind him, and I showed him the door, and he rushes in, not so much as knocking, and takes one look at her lying there, and, âToo late,â he says. She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy and hot water, and he tried desperate to bring her back, but it couldnât be done. And then the police coming and allâit isnâtâit isnâtâdecent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldnât have liked it. And why the police? Itâs none of their business, surely, even if an accident has occurred and the poor mistress did take an overdose by mistake.â

Poirot did not reply to her question.

He said:

âLast night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried at all?â

âNo, I donât think so, sir. She was tiredâand I think she was in pain. She hasnât been well lately, sir.â

âNo, I know.â

The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on.

âShe was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been worried about her for some time. She couldnât do as much as she used to do, and things tired her. I think, perhaps, the young lady coming after you left was a bit too much for her.â

With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back.

âThe young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?â

âYes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith, her name was.â

âDid she stay long?â

âAbout an hour, sir.â

Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

âAnd afterwards?â

âThe mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired.â

Again Poirot was silent; then he said:

âDo you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?â

âDo you mean after she went to bed? I donât think so, sir.â

âBut you are not sure?â

âThere were some letters on the hall table ready to be posted, sir. We always took them last thing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since earlier in the day.â

âHow many were there?â

âTwo or threeâIâm not quite sure, sir. Three, I think.â

âYouâor cookâwhoever posted themâdid not happen to notice to whom they were addressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost importance.â

âI went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top oneâit was to Fortnum and Masonâs. I couldnât say as to the others.â

The womanâs tone was earnest and sincere.

âAre you sure there were not more than three letters?â

âYes, sir, Iâm quite certain of that.â

Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then he said:

âYou knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?â

âOh, yes, sir, it was the doctorâs orders. Dr. Lang.â

âWhere was this sleeping medicine kept?â

âIn the little cupboard in the mistressâs room.â

Poirot did not ask any further questions. He went upstairs. His face was very grave.

On the upper landing Battle greeted him. The superintendent looked worried and harassed.

âIâm glad youâve come, M. Poirot. Let me introduce you to Dr. Davidson.â

The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall, melancholy man.

âThe luck was against us,â he said. âAn hour or two earlier, and we might have saved her.â

âHâm,â said Battle. âI mustnât say so officially, but Iâm not sorry. She was aâwell, she was a lady. I donât know what her reasons were for killing Shaitana, but she may just conceivably have been justified.â

âIn any case,â said Poirot, âit is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her trial. She was a very ill woman.â

The surgeon nodded in agreement.

âI should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best.â

He started down the stairs.

Battle moved after him.

âOne minute, doctor.â

Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, âI may enterâyes?â

Battle nodded over his shoulder. âQuite all right. Weâre through.â Poirot passed into the room, closing the door behind himâ¦.

He went over to the bed and stood looking down at the quiet, dead face.

He was very disturbed.

Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a young girl from death and disgraceâor was there a different, a more sinister explanation?

There were certain factsâ¦.

Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark, discoloured bruise on the dead womanâs arm.

He straightened himself up again. There was a strange, catlike gleam in his eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognized.

He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said:

âHe hasnât come back, sir.â

Battle said:

âDespard. Iâve been trying to get him. Thereâs a letter for him with the Chelsea postmark all right.â

Poirot asked an irrelevant question.

âHad Dr. Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?â

Battle stared.

âNo,â he said, âI remember he mentioned that heâd come out without it.â

âThen he will be at his house now. We can get him.â

âBut whyâ?â

But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke:

âDr. Roberts? It is Dr. Roberts speaking? Mais oui, it is Poirot here. Just one question. Are you well acquainted with the handwriting of Mrs. Lorrimer?â

âMrs. Lorrimerâs handwriting? Iâno, I donât know that Iâd ever seen it before.â

âJe vous remercie.â

Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.

Battle was staring at him.

âWhatâs the big idea, M. Poirot?â he asked quietly.

Poirot took him by the arm.

âListen, my friend. A few minutes after I left this house yesterday Anne Meredith arrived. I actually saw her going up the steps, though I was not quite sure of her identity at the time. Immediately after Anne Meredith left Mrs. Lorrimer went to bed. As far as the maid knows, she did not write any letters then. And, for reasons which you will understand when I recount to you our interview, I do not believe that she wrote those three letters before my visit. When did she write them, then?â

âAfter the servants had gone to bed?â suggested Battle. âShe got up and posted them herself.â

âThat is possible, yes, but there is another possibilityâthat she did not write them at all.â

Battle whistled.

âMy God, you meanââ

The telephone trilled. The sergeant picked up the receiver. He listened a minute, then turned to Battle.

âSergeant OâConnor speaking from Despardâs flat, sir. Thereâs reason to believe that Despardâs down at Wallingford-on-Thames.â

Poirot caught Battle by the arm.

âQuickly, my friend. We, too, must go to Wallingford. I tell you, I am not easy in my mind. This may not be the end. I tell you again, my friend, this young lady, she is dangerous.â

Twenty-nine

ACCIDENT

âAnne,â said Rhoda.

âMmm?â

âNo, really, Anne, donât answer with half your mind on a crossword puzzle. I want you to attend to me.â

âI am attending.â

Anne sat bolt upright and put down the paper.

âThatâs better. Look here, Anne.â Rhoda hesitated. âAbout this man coming.â

âSuperintendent Battle?â

âYes, Anne, I wish youâd tell himâabout being at the Bensons.ââ

Anneâs voice grew rather cold.

âNonsense. Why should I?â

âBecauseâwell, it might lookâas though youâd been keeping something back. Iâm sure it would be better to mention it.â

âI canât very well now,â said Anne coldly.

âI wish you had in the first place.â

âWell, itâs too late to bother about that now.â

âYes.â Rhoda did not sound convinced.

Anne said rather irritably:

âIn any case, I canât see why. Itâs got nothing to do with all this.â

âNo, of course not.â

âI was only there about two months. He only wants these things asâwellâreferences. Two months doesnât count.â

âNo, I know. I expect Iâm being rather foolish, but it does worry me rather. I feel you ought to mention it. You see, if it came out some other way, it might look rather badâyour keeping dark about it, I mean.â

âI donât see how it can come out. Nobody knows but you.â

âN-no?â

Anne pounced on the slight hesitation in Rhodaâs voice.

âWhy, who does know?â

âWell, everyone at Combeacre,â said Rhoda after a momentâs silence.

âOh, that!â Anne dismissed it with a shrug. âThe superintendent isnât likely to come up against anyone from there. It would be an extraordinary coincidence if he did.â

âCoincidences happen.â

âRhoda, youâre being extraordinary about this. Fuss, fuss, fuss.â

âIâm terribly sorry, darling. Only you know what the police might be like if they thought you wereâwellâhiding things.â

âThey wonât know. Whoâs to tell them? Nobody knows but you.â

It was the second time she had said those words. At this second repetition her voice changed a littleâsomething queer and speculative came into it.

âOh, dear, I wish you would,â sighed Rhoda unhappily.

She looked guiltily at Anne, but Anne was not looking at her. She was sitting with a frown on her face, as though working out some calculation.

âRather fun, Major Despard turning up,â said Rhoda.

âWhat? Oh, yes.â

âAnne, he is attractive. If you donât want him, do, do, do hand him over to me!â

âDonât be absurd, Rhoda. He doesnât care tuppence for me.â

âThen why does he keep on turning up? Of course heâs keen on you. Youâre just the sort of distressed damsel that heâd enjoy rescuing. You look so beautifully helpless, Anne.â

âHeâs equally pleasant to both of us.â

âThatâs only his niceness. But if you donât want him, I could do the sympathetic friend actâconsole his broken heart, etc., etc., and in the end I might get him. Who knows?â Rhoda concluded inelegantly.

âIâm sure youâre quite welcome to him, my dear,â said Anne, laughing.

âHeâs got such a lovely back to his neck,â sighed Rhoda. âVery brick red and muscular.â

âDarling, must you be so mawkish?â

âDo you like him, Anne?â

âYes, very much.â

âArenât we prim and sedate? I think he likes me a littleânot as much as you, but a little.â

âOh, but he does like you,â said Anne.

Again there was an unusual note in her voice, but Rhoda did not hear it.

âWhat time is our sleuth coming?â she asked.

âTwelve,â said Anne. She was silent for a minute or two, then she said, âItâs only half past ten now. Letâs go out on the river.â

âBut isnâtâdidnâtâdidnât Despard say heâd come round about eleven?â

âWhy should we wait in for him? We can leave a message with Mrs. Astwell which way weâve gone, and he can follow us along the towpath.â

âIn fact, donât make yourself cheap, dear, as mother always said!â laughed Rhoda. âCome on, then.â

She went out of the room and through the garden door. Anne followed her.

Â 

Major Despard called at Wendon Cottage about ten minutes later. He was before his time, he knew, so he was a little surprised to find both girls had already gone out.

He went through the garden and across the fields, and turned to the right along the towpath.

Mrs. Astwell remained a minute or two looking after him, instead of getting on with her morning chores.

âSweet on one or other of âem, he is,â she observed to herself. âI think itâs Miss Anne, but Iâm not certain. He donât give much away by his face. Treats âem both alike. Iâm not sure they ainât both sweet on him, too. If so, they wonât be such dear friends so much longer. Nothing like a gentleman for coming between two young ladies.â

Pleasurably excited by the prospect of assisting at a budding romance, Mrs. Astwell turned indoors to her task of washing up the breakfast things, when once again the doorbell rang.

âDrat that door,â said Mrs. Astwell. âDo it on purpose, they do. Parcel, I suppose. Or might be a telegram.â

She moved slowly to the front door.

Two gentlemen stood there, a small foreign gentleman and an exceedingly English, big, burly gentleman. The latter she had seen before, she remembered.

âMiss Meredith at home?â asked the big man.

Mrs. Astwell shook her head.

âJust gone out.â

âReally? Which way? We didnât meet her.â

Mrs. Astwell, secretly studying the amazing moustache of the other gentleman, and deciding that they looked an unlikely pair to be friends, volunteered further information.

âGone out on the river,â she explained.

The other gentleman broke in:

âAnd the other lady? Miss Dawes?â

âTheyâve both gone.â

âAh, thank you,â said Battle. âLet me see, which way does one get to the river?â

âFirst turning to the left, down the lane,â Mrs. Astwell replied promptly. âWhen you get to the towpath, go right. I heard them say thatâs the way they were going,â she added helpfully. âNot above a quarter of an hour ago. Youâll soon catch âem up.â

âAnd I wonder,â she added to herself as she unwillingly closed the front door, having stared inquisitively at their retreating backs, âwho you two might be. Canât place you, somehow.â

Mrs. Astwell returned to the kitchen sink, and Battle and Poirot duly took the first turning to the leftâa straggling lane which soon ended abruptly at the towpath.

Poirot was hurrying along, and Battle eyed him curiously.

âAnything the matter, M. Poirot? You seem in a mighty hurry.â

âIt is true. I am uneasy, my friend.â

âAnything particular?â

Poirot shook his head.

âNo. But there are possibilities. You never knowâ¦.â

âYouâve got something in your head,â said Battle. âYou were urgent that we should come down here this morning without losing a momentâand, my word, you made Constable Turner step on the gas! What are you afraid of? The girlâs shot her bolt.â

Poirot was silent.

âWhat are you afraid of?â Battle repeated.

âWhat is one always afraid of in these cases?â

Battle nodded.

âYouâre quite right. I wonderââ

âYou wonder what, my friend?â

Battle said slowly:

âIâm wondering if Miss Meredith knows that her friend told Mrs. Oliver a certain fact.â

Poirot nodded his head in vigorous appreciation.

âHurry, my friend,â he said.

They hastened along the riverbank. There was no craft visible on the waterâs surface, but presently they rounded a bend, and Poirot suddenly stopped dead. Battleâs quick eyes saw also.

âMajor Despard,â he said.

Despard was about two hundred yards ahead of them, striding along the riverbank.

A little farther on the two girls were in view in a punt on the water, Rhoda puntingâAnne lying and laughing up at her. Neither of them were looking towards the bank.

And thenâit happened. Anneâs hand outstretched, Rhodaâs stagger, her plunge overboardâher desperate grasp at Anneâs sleeveâthe rocking boatâthen an overturned punt and two girls struggling in the water.

âSee it?â cried Battle as he started to run. âLittle Meredith caught her round the ankle and tipped her in. My God, thatâs her fourth murder!â

They were both running hard. But someone was ahead of them. It was clear that neither girl could swim, but Despard had run quickly along the path to the nearest point, and now he plunged in and swam towards them.

âMon Dieu, this is interesting,â cried Poirot. He caught Battleâs arm. âWhich of them will he go for first?â

The two girls were not together. About twelve yards separated them.

Despard swam powerfully towards themâthere was no check in his stroke. He was making straight for Rhoda.

Battle, in his turn, reached the nearest bank and went in. Despard had just brought Rhoda successfully to shore. He hauled her up, flung her down and plunged in again, swimming towards the spot where Anne had just gone under.

âBe careful,â called Battle. âWeeds.â

He and Battle got to the spot at the same time, but Anne had gone under before they reached her.

They got her at last and between them towed her to the shore.

Rhoda was being ministered to by Poirot. She was sitting up now, her breath coming unevenly.

Despard and Battle laid Anne Meredith down.

âArtificial respiration,â said Battle. âOnly thing to do. But Iâm afraid sheâs gone.â

He set to work methodically. Poirot stood by, ready to relieve him.

Despard dropped down by Rhoda.

âAre you all right?â he asked hoarsely.

She said slowly:

âYou saved me. You saved me â¦ â She held out her hands to him, and as he took them she burst suddenly into tears.

He said, âRhodaâ¦.â

Their hands clung togetherâ¦.

He had a sudden visionâof African scrub, and Rhoda, laughing and adventurous, by his sideâ¦.

Thirty

MURDER

âDo you mean to say,â said Rhoda incredulously, âthat Anne meant to push me in? I know it felt like it. And she knew I canât swim. Butâbut was it deliberate?â

âIt was quite deliberate,â said Poirot.

They were driving through the outskirts of London.

âButâbutâwhy?â

Poirot did not reply for a minute or two. He thought he knew one of the motives that had led Anne to act as she had done, and that motive was sitting next to Rhoda at the minute.

Superintendent Battle coughed.

âYouâll have to prepare yourself, Miss Dawes, for a bit of a shock. This Mrs. Benson your friend lived with, her death wasnât quite the accident that it appearedâat least, so weâve reason to suppose.â

âWhat do you mean?â

âWe believe,â said Poirot, âthat Anne Meredith changed two bottles.â

âOh, noâno, how horrible! Itâs impossible. Anne? Why should she?â

âShe had her reasons,â said Superintendent Battle. âBut the point is, Miss Dawes, that, as far as Miss Meredith knew, you were the only person who could give us a clue to that incident. You didnât tell her, I suppose, that youâd mentioned it to Mrs. Oliver?â

Rhoda said slowly:

âNo. I thought sheâd be annoyed with me.â

âShe would. Very annoyed,â said Battle grimly. âBut she thought that the only danger could come from you, and thatâs why she decided toâerâeliminate you.â

âEliminate? Me? Oh, how beastly! It canât be all true.â

âWell, sheâs dead now,â said Superintendent Battle, âso we might as well leave it at that; but she wasnât a nice friend for you to have, Miss Dawesâand thatâs a fact.â

The car drew up in front of a door.

âWeâll go in to M. Poirotâs,â said Superintendent Battle, âand have a bit of a talk about it all.â

In Poirotâs sitting room they were welcomed by Mrs. Oliver, who was entertaining Dr. Roberts. They were drinking sherry. Mrs. Oliver was wearing one of her new horsy hats and a velvet dress with a bow on the chest on which reposed a large piece of apple core.

âCome in. Come in,â said Mrs. Oliver hospitably and quite as though it were her house and not Poirotâs.

âAs soon as I got your telephone call I rang up Dr. Roberts, and we came round here. And all his patients are dying, but he doesnât care. Theyâre probably getting better, really. We want to hear all about everything.â

âYes, indeed, Iâm thoroughly fogged,â said Roberts.

âEh bien,â said Poirot. âThe case is ended. The murderer of Mr. Shaitana is found at last.â

âSo Mrs. Oliver told me. That pretty little thing, Anne Meredith. I can hardly believe it. A most unbelievable murderess.â

âShe was a murderess all right,â said Battle. âThree murders to her creditâand not her fault that she didnât get away with a fourth one.â

âIncredible!â murmured Roberts.

âNot at all,â said Mrs. Oliver. âLeast likely person. It seems to work out in real life just the same as in books.â

âItâs been an amazing day,â said Roberts. âFirst Mrs. Lorrimerâs letter. I suppose that was a forgery, eh?â

âPrecisely. A forgery written in triplicate.â

âShe wrote one to herself, too?â

âNaturally. The forgery was quite skilfulâit would not deceive an expert, of courseâbut, then, it was highly unlikely that an expert would have been called in. All the evidence pointed to Mrs. Lorrimerâs having committed suicide.â

âYou will excuse my curiosity, M. Poirot, but what made you suspect that she had not committed suicide?â

âA little conversation that I had with a maidservant at Cheyne Lane.â

âShe told you of Anne Meredithâs visit the former evening?â

âThat among other things. And then, you see, I had already come to a conclusion in my own mind as to the identity of the guilty personâthat is, the person who killed Mr. Shaitana. That person was not Mrs. Lorrimer.â

âWhat made you suspect Miss Meredith?â

Poirot raised his hand.

âA little minute. Let me approach this matter in my own way. Let me, that is to say, eliminate. The murderer of Mr. Shaitana was not Mrs. Lorrimer, nor was it Major Despard, and, curiously enough, it was not Anne Meredithâ¦.â

He leaned forward. His voice purred, soft and catlike.

âYou see, Dr. Roberts, you were the person who killed Mr. Shaitana; and you also killed Mrs. Lorrimerâ¦.â

II

There was at least three minutesâ silence. Then Roberts laughed a rather menacing laugh.

âAre you quite mad, M. Poirot? I certainly did not murder Mr. Shaitana, and I could not possibly have murdered Mrs. Lorrimer. My dear Battleââhe turned to the Scotland Yard manââare you standing for this?â

âI think youâd better listen to what M. Poirot has to say,â said Battle quietly.

Poirot said:

âIt is true that though I have known for some time that youâand only youâcould have killed Shaitana, it would not be an easy matter to prove it. But Mrs. Lorrimerâs case is quite different.â He leaned forward. âIt is not a case of my knowing. It is much simpler than thatâfor we have an eyewitness who saw you do it.â

Roberts grew very quiet. His eyes glittered. He said sharply:

âYou are talking rubbish!â

âOh, no, I am not. It was early in the morning. You bluffed your way into Mrs. Lorrimerâs room, where she was still heavily asleep under the influence of the drug she had taken the night before. You bluff againâpretend to see at a glance that she is dead! You pack the parlourmaid off for brandyâhot waterâall the rest of it. You are left alone in the room. The maid has only had the barest peep. And then what happens?

âYou may not be aware of the fact, Dr. Roberts, but certain firms of window cleaners specialize in early morning work. A window cleaner with his ladder arrived at the same time as you did. He placed his ladder against the side of the house and began his work. The first window he tackled was that of Mrs. Lorrimerâs room. When, however, he saw what was going on, he quickly retired to another window, but he had seen something first. He shall tell us his own story.â

Poirot stepped lightly across the floor, turned a door handle, called:

âCome in, Stephens,â and returned.

A big awkward-looking man with red hair entered. In his hand he held a uniformed hat bearing the legend âChelsea Window Cleanersâ Associationâ which he twirled awkwardly.

Poirot said:

âIs there anybody you recognize in this room?â

The man looked round, then gave a bashful nod of the head towards Dr. Roberts.

âHim,â he said.

âTell us when you saw him last and what he was doing.â

âThis morning it was. Eight oâclock job at a ladyâs house in Cheyne Lane. I started on the windows there. Lady was in bed. Looked ill she did. She was just turning her head round on the pillow. This gent I took to be a doctor. He shoved her sleeve up and jabbed something into her arm about hereââ He gestured. âShe just dropped back on the pillow again. I thought Iâd better hop it to another window, so I did. Hope I didnât do wrong in any way?â

âYou did admirably, my friend,â said Poirot.

He said quietly:

âEh bien, Dr. Roberts?â

âAâa simple restorativeââ stammered Roberts. âA last hope of bringing her round. Itâs monstrousââ

Poirot interrupted him.

âA simple restorative?âN-methylâcycloâhexenylâmethylâmalonyl urea,â said Poirot. He rolled out the syllables unctuously. âKnown more simply as Evipan. Used as an anaesthetic for short operations. Injected intravenously in large doses it produces instant unconsciousness. It is dangerous to use it after veronal or any barbiturates have been given. I noticed the bruised place on her arm where something had obviously been injected into a vein. A hint to the police surgeon and the drug was easily discovered by no less a person than Sir Charles Imphery, the Home Office Analyst.â

âThat about cooks your goose, I think,â said Superinten dent Battle. âNo need to prove the Shaitana business, though, of course, if necessary we can bring a further charge as to the murder of Mr. Charles Craddockâand possibly his wife also.â

The mention of those two names finished Roberts.

He leaned back in his chair.

âI throw in my hand,â he said. âYouâve got me! I suppose that sly devil Shaitana put you wise before you came that evening. And I thought Iâd settled his hash so nicely.â

âIt isnât Shaitana youâve got to thank,â said Battle. âThe honours lie with M. Poirot here.â

He went to the door and two men entered.

Superintendent Battleâs voice became official as he made the formal arrest.

As the door closed behind the accused man Mrs. Oliver said happily, if not quite truthfully:

âI always said he did it!â

Thirty-one

CARDS ON THE TABLE

It was Poirotâs moment, every face was turned to his in eager anticipation.

âYou are very kind,â he said, smiling. âYou know, I think, that I enjoy my little lecture. I am a prosy old fellow.

âThis case, to my mind, has been one of the most interesting cases I have ever come across. There was nothing, you see, to go upon. There were four people, one of whom must have committed the crime but which of the four? Was there anything to tell one? In the material senseâno. There were no tangible cluesâno fingerprintsâno incriminating papers or documents. There were onlyâthe people themselves.

âAnd one tangible clueâthe bridge scores.

âYou may remember that from the beginning I showed a particular interest in those scores. They told me something about the various people who had kept them and they did more. They gave me one valuable hint. I noticed at once, in the third rubber, the figure of 1500 above the line. That figure could only represent one thingâa call of grand slam. Now if a person were to make up their minds to commit a crime under these somewhat unusual circumstances (that is, during a rubber game of bridge) that person was clearly running two serious risks. The first was that the victim might cry out and the second was that even if the victim did not cry out someone of the other three might chance to look up at the psychological moment and actually witness the deed.

âNow as to the first risk, nothing could be done about it. It was a matter of gamblerâs luck. But something could be done about the second. It stands to reason that during an interesting or an exciting hand the attention of the three players would be wholly on the game, whereas during a dull hand they were more likely to be looking about them. Now a bid of grand slam is always exciting. It is very often (as in this case it was) doubled. Every one of the three players is playing with close attentionâthe declarer to get his contract, the adversaries to discard correctly and to get him down. It was, then, a distinct possibility that the murder was committed during this particular hand and I determined to find out, if I could, exactly how the bidding had gone. I soon discovered that dummy during this particular hand had been Dr. Roberts. I bore that in mind and approached the matter from my second angleâpsychological probability. Of the four suspects Mrs. Lorrimer struck me as by far the most likely to plan and carry out a successful murderâbut I could not see her as committing any crime that had to be improvised on the spur of the moment. On the other hand her manner that first evening puzzled me. It suggested either that she had committed the murder herself or that she knew who had committed it. Miss Meredith, Major Despard and Dr. Roberts were all psychological possibilities, though, as I have already mentioned, each of them would have committed the crime from an entirely different angle.

âI next made a second test. I got everyone in turn to tell me just what they remembered of the room. From that I got some very valuable information. First of all, by far the most likely person to have noticed the dagger was Dr. Roberts. He was a natural observer of trifles of all kindsâwhat is called an observant man. Of the bridge hands, however, he remembered practically nothing at all. I did not expect him to remember much, but his complete forgetfulness looked as though he had had something else on his mind all the evening. Again, you see, Dr. Roberts was indicated.

âMrs. Lorrimer I found to have a marvellous card memory, and I could well imagine that with anyone of her powers of concentration a murder could easily be committed close at hand and she would never notice anything. She gave me a valuable piece of information. The grand slam was bid by Dr. Roberts (quite unjustifiably)âand he bid it in her suit, not his own, so that she necessarily played the hand.

âThe third test, the test on which Superintendent Battle and I built a good deal, was the discovery of the earlier murders so as to establish a similarity of method. Well, the credit for those discoveries belongs to Superintendent Battle, to Mrs. Oliver and to Colonel Race. Discussing the matter with my friend Battle, he confessed himself disappointed because there were no points of similarity between any of the three earlier crimes and that of the murder of Mr. Shaitana. But actually that was not true. The two murders attributed to Dr. Roberts, when examined closely, and from the psychological point of view and not the material one, proved to be almost exactly the same. They, too, had been what I might describe as public murders. A shaving brush boldly infected in the victimâs own dressing room while the doctor officially washes his hands after a visit. The murder of Mrs. Craddock under cover of a typhoid inoculation. Again done quite openlyâin the sight of the world, as you might say. And the reaction of the man is the same. Pushed into a corner, he seizes a chance and acts at onceâsheer bold audacious bluffâexactly like his play at bridge. As at bridge, so in the murder of Shaitana, he took a long chance and played his cards well. The blow was perfectly struck and at exactly the right moment.

âNow just at the moment that I had decided quite definitely that Dr. Roberts was the man, Mrs. Lorrimer asked me to come and see herâand quite convincingly accused herself of the crime! I nearly believed her! For a minute or two I did believe herâand then my little grey cells reasserted their mastery. It could not beâso it was not!

âBut what she told me was more difficult still.

âShe assured me that she had actually seen Anne Meredith commit the crime.

âIt was not till the following morningâwhen I stood by a dead womanâs bedâthat I saw how I could still be right and Mrs. Lorrimer still have spoken the truth.

âAnne Meredith went over to the fireplaceâand saw that Mr. Shaitana was dead! She stooped over himâperhaps stretched out her hand to the gleaming head of the jewelled pin.

âHer lips part to call out, but she does not call out. She remembers Shaitanaâs talk at dinner. Perhaps he had left some record. She, Anne Meredith, has a motive for desiring his death. Everyone will say that she has killed him. She dare not call out. Trembling with fear and apprehension she goes back to her seat.

âSo Mrs. Lorrimer is right, since she, as she thought, saw the crime committedâbut I am right too, for actually she did not see it.

âIf Roberts had held his hand at this point, I doubt if we could have ever brought his crimes home to him. We might have done soâby a mixture of bluff and various ingenious devices. I would at any rate have tried.

âBut he lost his nerve and once again overbid his hand. And this time the cards lay wrong for him and he came down heavily.

âNo doubt he was uneasy. He knew that Battle was nosing about. He foresaw the present situation going on indefinitely, the police still searchingâand perhaps, by some miracleâcoming on traces of his former crimes. He hit upon the brilliant idea of making Mrs. Lorrimer the scapegoat for the party. His practised eye guessed, no doubt, that she was ill, and that her life could not be very much prolonged. How natural in those circumstances for her to choose a quick way out, and before taking it, confess to the crime! So he manages to get a sample of her handwritingâforges three identical letters and arrives at the house hotfoot in the morning with his story of the letter he has just received. His parlourmaid quite correctly is instructed to ring up the police. All he needs is a start. And he gets it. By the time the police surgeon arrives it is all over. Dr. Roberts is ready with his story of artificial respiration that has failed. It is all perfectly plausibleâperfectly straightforward.

âIn all this he has no idea of throwing suspicion on Anne Meredith. He does not even know of her visit the night before. It is suicide and security only that he is aiming at.

âIt is in fact an awkward moment for him when I ask if he is acquainted with Mrs. Lorrimerâs handwriting. If the forgery has been detected he must save himself by saying that he has never seen her handwriting. His mind works quickly, but not quickly enough.

âFrom Wallingford I telephone to Mrs. Oliver. She plays her part by lulling his suspicions and bringing him here. And then when he is congratulating himself that all is well, though not exactly the way he has planned, the blow falls. Hercule Poirot springs! And soâthe gambler will gather in no more tricks. He has thrown his cards upon the table. Câest fini.â

There was silence. Rhoda broke it with a sigh.

âWhat amazing luck that window cleaner happened to be there,â she said.

âLuck? Luck? That was not luck, mademoiselle. That was the grey cells of Hercule Poirot. And that reminds meââ

He went to the door.

âCome inâcome in, my dear fellow. You acted your part Ã  merveille.â

He returned accompanied by the window cleaner, who now held his red hair in his hand and who looked somehow a very different person.

âMy friend Mr. Gerald Hemmingway, a very promising young actor.â

âThen there was no window cleaner?â cried Rhoda. âNobody saw him?â

âI saw,â said Poirot. âWith the eyes of the mind one can see more than with the eyes of the body. One leans back and closes the eyesââ

Despard said cheerfully:

âLetâs stab him, Rhoda, and see if his ghost can come back and find out who did it.â

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from
St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving
couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s
stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® POIROTÂ® CARDS ON THE TABLEâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1936 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

CARDS ON THE TABLE Â© 1937. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207373-0

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174003-9

11 12 13 14 15

About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

25 Ryde Road (P.O. Box 321)

Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks

Canada

HarperCollins Canada

2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada

http://www.harpercollins.ca

New Zealand

HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

P.O. Box 1

Auckland, New Zealand

http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

77-85 Fulham Palace Road

London, W6 8JB, UK

http://www.harpercollins.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

10 East 53rd Street

New York, NY 10022

http://www.harpercollins.com