Cards on the Table (12 page)

M
rs. 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 face—a 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.

“How do you do, Miss Meredith?”

Anne started and turned.

“Oh, how do you do?”

“Still in London?” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

“No. I've only come up for the day. To do some legal business.”

Her eyes were still straying to the big block of flats.

Mrs. Lorrimer said:

“Is anything the matter?”

Anne started guiltily.

“The matter? Oh, no, what should be the matter?”

“You were looking as though you had something on your mind.”

“I haven't—well, at least I have, but it's nothing important, something quite silly.” She laughed a little.

She went on:

“It's only that I thought I saw my friend—the girl I live with—go in there, and I wondered if she'd gone to see Mrs. Oliver.”

“Is that where Mrs. Oliver lives? I didn't know.”

“Yes. 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.”

“Do you want to go up and see?”

“No, I'd rather not do that.”

“Come and have tea with me,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “There is a shop quite near here that I know.”

“It's very kind of you,” said Anne, hesitating.

Side by side they walked down the street and turned into a side street. In a small pastry cook's they were served with tea and muffins.

They did not talk much. Each of them seemed to find the other's silence restful.

Anne asked suddenly:

“Has Mrs. Oliver been to see you?”

Mrs. Lorrimer shook her head.

“No one has been to see me except M. Poirot.”

“I didn't mean—” began Anne.

“Didn't you? I think you did,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

The girl looked up—a quick, frightened glance. Something she saw in Mrs. Lorrimer's face seemed to reassure her.

“He hasn't been to see me,” she said slowly.

There was a pause.

“Hasn't Superintendent Battle been to see you?” asked Anne.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

Anne said hesitatingly:

“What sort of things did he ask you?”

Mrs. Lorrimer sighed wearily.

“The usual things, I suppose. Routine inquiries. He was very pleasant over it all.”

“I suppose he interviewed everyone?”

“I should think so.”

There was another pause.

Anne said:

“Mrs. Lorrimer, do you think—they will ever find out who did it?”

Her eyes were bent on her plate. She did not see the curious expression in the older woman's eyes as she watched the downcast head.

Mrs. Lorrimer said quietly:

“I don't know….”

Anne murmured:

“It's not—very nice, is it?”

There was that same curious appraising and yet sympathetic look on Mrs. Lorrimer's face, as she asked:

“How old are you, Anne Meredith?”

“I—I?” the girl stammered. “I'm twenty-five.”

“And I'm sixty-three,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

She went on slowly:

“Most of your life is in front of you….”

Anne shivered.

“I might be run over by a bus on the way home,” she said.

“Yes, that's true. And I—might not.”

She said it in an odd way. Anne looked at her in astonishment.

“Life is a difficult business,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “You'll know that when you come to my age. It needs infinite courage and a lot of endurance. And in the end one wonders: ‘Was it worthwhile?'”

“Oh,
don't,
” said Anne.

Mrs. Lorrimer laughed, her old competent self again.

“It's rather cheap to say gloomy things about life,” 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.

“Can I give you a lift?” she asked. “I am going south of the park.”

Anne's face had lighted up.

“No, thank you. I see my friend turning the corner. Thank you so much, Mrs. Lorrimer. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye. Good luck,” said the older woman.

She drove away and Anne hurried forward.

Rhoda's face lit up when she saw her friend, then changed to a slightly guilty expression.

“Rhoda, have you been to see Mrs. Oliver?” demanded Anne.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I have.”

“And I just caught you.”

“I don't know what you mean by caught. Let's go down here and take a bus. You'd gone off on your own ploys with the boyfriend. I thought at least he'd give you tea.”

Anne was silent for a minute—a voice ringing in her ears.

“Can't we pick up your friend somewhere and all have tea together?”

And her own answer—hurried, without taking time to think:

“Thanks awfully, but we've got to go out to tea together with some people.”

A lie—and such a silly lie. The stupid way one said the first thing that came into one's head instead of just taking a minute or two to think. Perfectly easy to have said “Thanks, but my friend has got to go out to tea.” That is, if you didn't, as she hadn't, wanted to have Rhoda too.

Rather odd, that, the way she hadn't 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 didn't mean it, but she reduced you to the background. No, definitely she hadn't wanted Rhoda there.

But she had managed it very stupidly, getting flurried like that. If she'd 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:

“Why did you go and see Mrs. Oliver?”

“Well, she asked us to.”

“Yes, but I didn't suppose she really meant it. I expect she always has to say that.”

“She did mean it. She was awfully nice—couldn't have been nicer. She gave me one of her books. Look.”

Rhoda flourished her prize.

Anne said suspiciously:

“What did you talk about? Not me?”

“Listen to the conceit of the girl!”

“No, but did you? Did you talk about the—the murder?”

“We talked about her murders. She's writing one where there's poison in the sage and onions. She was frightfully human—and said writing was awfully hard work and how she got into tangles with plots, and we had black coffee and hot buttered toast,” finished Rhoda in a triumphant burst.

Then she added:

“Oh, Anne, you want your tea.”

“No, I don't. I've had it. With Mrs. Lorrimer.”

“Mrs. Lorrimer? Isn't that the one—the one who was there?”

Anne nodded.

“Where did you come across her? Did you go and see her?”

“No. I ran across her in Harley Street.”

“What was she like?”

Anne said slowly:

“I don't know. She was—rather queer. Not at all like the other night.”

“Do you still think she did it?” asked Rhoda.

Anne was silent for a minute or two. Then she said:

“I don't know. Don't let's talk of it, Rhoda! You know how I hate talking of things.”

“All right, darling. What was the solicitor like? Very dry and legal?”

“Rather alert and Jewish.”

“Sounds all right.” She waited a little and then said:

“How was Major Despard?”

“Very kind.”

“He's fallen for you, Anne. I'm sure he has.”

“Rhoda, don't talk nonsense.”

“Well, you'll see.”

Rhoda began humming to herself. She thought:

“Of course he's fallen for her. Anne's awfully pretty. But a bit wishy-washy … She'll never go on treks with him. Why, she'd scream if she saw a snake … Men always do take fancies to unsuitable women.”

Then she said aloud.

“That bus will take us to Paddington. We'll just catch the 4:48.”

T
he telephone rang in Poirot's room and a respectful voice spoke.

“Sergeant O'Connor. Superintendent Battle's compliments and would it be convenient for Mr. Hercule Poirot to come to Scotland Yard at 11:30?”

Poirot replied in the affirmative and Sergeant O'Connor rang off.

It was 11:30 to the minute when Poirot descended from his taxi at the door of New Scotland Yard—to be at once seized upon by Mrs. Oliver.

“M. Poirot. How splendid! Will you come to my rescue?”

“
Enchanté,
madame. What can I do?”

“Pay my taxi for me. I don't know how it happened but I brought out the bag I keep my going-abroad money in and the man simply won't take francs or liras or marks!”

Poirot gallantly produced some loose change, and he and Mrs. Oliver went inside the building together.

They were taken to Superintendent Battle's own room. The
superintendent was sitting behind a table and looking more wooden than ever. “Just like a little piece of modern sculpture,” whispered Mrs. Oliver to Poirot.

Battle rose and shook hands with them both and they sat down.

“I thought it was about time for a little meeting,” said Battle. “You'd like to hear how I've got on, and I'd like to hear how you've got on. We're just waiting for Colonel Race and then—”

But at that moment the door opened and the colonel appeared.

“Sorry I'm late, Battle. How do you do, Mrs. Oliver. Hallo, M. Poirot. Very sorry if I've kept you waiting. But I'm off tomorrow and had a lot of things to see to.”

“Where are you going to?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“A little shooting trip—Baluchistan way.”

Poirot said, smiling ironically:

“A little trouble, is there not, in that part of the world? You will have to be careful.”

“I mean to be,” said Race gravely—but his eyes twinkled.

“Got anything for us, sir?” asked Battle.

“I've got you your information re Despard. Here it is—”

He pushed over a sheaf of papers.

“There's a mass of dates and places there. Most of it quite irrelevant, I should imagine. Nothing against him. He's 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 ‘The man who keeps his mouth shut and judges fairly.' General opinion of the white races that Despard is a Pukka Sahib. Fine shot. Cool head. Generally long-sighted and dependable.”

Unmoved by this eulogy, Battle asked:

“Any sudden deaths connected with him?”

“I laid special stress on that point. There's one fine rescue to his credit. Pal of his was being mauled by a lion.”

Battle sighed.

“It's not rescues I want.”

“You're a persistent fellow, Battle. There's only one incident I've 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.”

“Fever—eh?”

“Fever. But I'll play fair with you. One of the native bearers (who was sacked for stealing, incidentally) had a story that the professor didn't die of fever, but was shot. The rumour was never taken seriously.”

“About time it was, perhaps.”

Race shook his head.

“I've given you the facts. You asked for them and you're entitled to them, but I'd lay long odds against its being Despard who did the dirty work the other evening. He's a white man, Battle.”

“Incapable of murder, you mean?”

Colonel Race hesitated.

“Incapable of what I'd call murder—yes,” he said.

“But not incapable of killing a man for what would seem to him good and sufficient reasons, is that it?”

“If so, they
would
be good and sufficient reasons!”

Battle shook his head.

“You can't have human beings judging other human beings and taking the law into their own hands.”

“It happens, Battle—it happens.”

“It shouldn't happen—that's my point. What do you say, M. Poirot?”

“I agree with you, Battle. I have always disapproved of murder.”

“What a delightfully droll way of putting it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Rather as though it were foxhunting or killing ospreys for hats. Don't you think there are people who ought to be murdered?”

“That, very possibly.”

“Well then!”

“You do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is the effect on the character of the slayer.”

“What about war?”

“In 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 not—then he is halfway to becoming the most dangerous killer there is—the arrogant criminal who kills not for profit—but for an idea. He has usurped the functions of
le bon Dieu
.”

Colonel Race rose:

“I'm sorry I can't stop with you. Too much to do. I'd like to see the end of this business. Shouldn't be surprised if there never was an end. Even if you find out who did it, it's going to be next to impossible to prove. I've given you the facts you wanted, but in my opinion Despard's not the man. I don't believe he's ever committed murder. Shaitana may have heard some garbled rumour of Professor Luxmore's death, but I don't believe there's more to it than that. Despard's a white man, and I don't believe he's ever been a murderer. That's my opinion. And I know something of men.”

“What's Mrs. Luxmore like?” asked Battle.

“She lives in London, so you can see for yourself. You'll find the address among those papers. Somewhere in South Kensington. But I repeat, Despard isn't the man.”

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.

“He's probably right,” he said. “He knows men, Colonel Race does. But all the same, one can't take anything for granted.”

He looked through the mass of documents Race had deposited on the table, occasionally making a pencil note on the pad beside him.

“Well, Superintendent Battle,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Aren't you going to tell us what you have been doing?”

He looked up and smiled, a slow smile that creased his wooden face from side to side.

“This is all very irregular, Mrs. Oliver. I hope you realize that.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don't suppose for a moment you'll tell us anything you don't want to.”

Battle shook his head.

“No,” he said decidedly. “Cards on the table. That's the motto for this business. I mean to play fair.”

Mrs. Oliver hitched her chair nearer.

“Tell us,” she begged.

Superintendent Battle said slowly:

“First of all, I'll say this. As far as the actual murder of Mr. Shaitana goes, I'm not a penny the wiser. There's no hint or clue of any kind to be found in his papers. As for the four others, I've had them shadowed, naturally, but without any tangible result. No, as
M. Poirot said, there's only one hope—the past. Find out what crime exactly (if any, that is to say—after all, Shaitana may have been talking through his hat to make an impression on M. Poirot) these people have committed—and it may tell you who committed this crime.”

“Well, have you found out anything?”

“I've got a line on one of them.”

“Which?”

“Dr. Roberts.”

Mrs. Oliver looked at him with thrilled expectation. “As 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. I've explored every alley as well as I could, and the whole thing boils down to one possibility—and 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 it—probably wasn't. 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 ‘confessed.' Anyway, the fat was in the fire as far as the doctor was concerned. Enraged husband threatening to report him to the General Medical Council—which would probably have meant the ruin of his professional career.”

“What happened?” demanded Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.

“Apparently Roberts managed to calm down the irate gentleman temporarily—and he died of anthrax almost immediately afterwards.”

“Anthrax? But that's a cattle disease?”

The superintendent grinned.

“Quite right, Mrs. Oliver. It isn't 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. Craddock's shaving brush was proved to have been the cause of infection.”

“Did Dr. Roberts attend him?”

“Oh, no. Too canny for that. Daresay Craddock wouldn't have wanted him in any case. The only evidence I've got—and that's precious little—is that among the doctor's patients there
was
a case of anthrax at the time.”

“You mean the doctor infected the shaving brush?”

“That's the big idea. And mind you, it's only an idea. Nothing whatever to go on. Pure conjecture. But it could be.”

“He didn't marry Mrs. Craddock afterwards?”

“Oh, dear me, no, I imagine the affection was always on the lady's 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. It's got a long name, but I don't expect it would convey much to you. Most uncommon in this country, fairly common among the natives in Egypt.”

“So the doctor couldn't have poisoned her?”

“I don't know,” said Battle slowly. “I've been chatting to a bacteriologist friend of mine—awfully difficult to get straight answers out of these people. They never can say yes or no. It's always ‘that might be possible under certain conditions'—‘it would depend on the pathological condition of the recipient'—‘such cases have been known'—‘a lot depends on individual idiosyncrasy'—all that sort of stuff. But as far as I could pin my friend down I got at this—the 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.”

Poirot asked:

“Was Mrs. Craddock inoculated for typhoid before going to Egypt? Most people are, I fancy.”

“Good for you, M. Poirot.”

“And Dr. Roberts did the inoculation?”

“That's right. There you are again—we can't prove anything. She had the usual two inoculations—and they may have been typhoid inoculations for all we know. Or one of them may have been typhoid inoculation and the other—something else. We don't know. We never shall know. The whole thing is pure hypothesis. All we can say is: it might be.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

“It agrees very well with some remarks made to me by Mr. Shaitana. He was exalting the successful murderer—the man against whom his crime could never be brought home.”

“How did Mr. Shaitana know about it, then?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“That 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. Craddock's case—a 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 eye—all 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 say—he guessed. Did he guess right?”

“Well, I think he did,” said Battle. “I've a feeling that our cheerful, genial doctor wouldn't be too scrupulous. I've known one or two like him—wonderful how certain types resemble each other. In my opinion he's 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?
That's 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. He'd have used the germ and not the knife.”

“I never thought it was him,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Not for a minute. He's too obvious, somehow.”

“Exit Roberts,” murmured Poirot. “And the others?”

Battle made a gesture of impatience.

“I've pretty well drawn blank. Mrs. Lorrimer's been a widow for twenty years now. She's lived in London most of the time, occasionally going abroad in the winter. Civilized places—the Riviera, Egypt, that sort of thing. Can't find any mysterious death associated with her. She seems to have led a perfectly normal, respectable life—the 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 doesn't suffer fools gladly! I don't mind admitting I've been beaten all along the line there. And yet there must be
something!
Shaitana thought there was.”

He sighed in a dispirited manner.

“Then there's Miss Meredith. I've got her history taped out
quite clearly. Usual sort of story. Army officer's daughter. Left with very little money. Had to earn her living. Not properly trained for anything. I've 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 Wight—kind of nursery-governess and mother's help. The woman she was with is out in Palestine but I've talked with her sister and she says Mrs. Eldon liked the girl very much. Certainly no mysterious deaths nor anything of that kind.