Cards on the Table (15 page)

O
n 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.

“We're onto it—not a doubt of it,” he finished. “That's what Shaitana was aiming at—with his ‘domestic accident' business. But what gets me is the motive. Why did she want to kill the woman?”

“I think I can help you there, my friend.”

“Go ahead, M. Poirot.”

“This 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.”

Battle looked at him curiously.

“You're very keen on that question.”

“Yes, it's useful. It tells me a good deal. Mademoiselle Meredith was suspicious—very 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 visit—to 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 remembers—except that a vase of chrysanthemums needed its water changing.”

“Well?” said Battle.

“Well, 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 speaks—the girl whose duty it has been to put fresh water in the vases—and, allied to that, there is a girl who loves and notices jewellery. Is not that, at least, suggestive?”

“Ah,” said Battle. “I'm beginning to see what you're driving at.”

“Precisely. 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 Meredith's temperament as it appeared superficially. A rather timid young girl,
poor, but well-dressed, fond of pretty things … 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 character—the 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 mother's help. But, now, suppose a different type of employer—an employer who
did
notice—accused 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 dies—ironically 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.”

“It's possible,” said Superintendent Battle. “It's only a hypothesis, but it's possible.”

“It is a little more than possible, my friend—it is also probable. For this afternoon I laid a little trap nicely baited—the real trap—after 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 alone—and 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 Meredith's handbag.”

“Whew!” Superintendent Battle whistled. “What a risk to take, though.”

“
Pas 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 same—convinced that she can get away with it.”

Battle nodded his head.

“That's true enough. Incredibly stupid. The pitcher goes to the well time after time. Well, I think between us we've 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 murder—but I'm 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?”

He remained silent for a moment or two, then he shook his head.

“It doesn't work out right,” he said reluctantly. “She's not one to take a risk. Change a couple of bottles, yes. She knew no one could fasten that on her. It was absolutely safe—because anyone might have done it! Of course, it mightn't have worked. Mrs. Benson might have noticed before she drank the stuff, or she mightn't have died from it. It was what I call a
hopeful
kind of murder. It might work or it mightn't. Actually, it did. But Shaitana was a very different pair of shoes. That was deliberate, audacious, purposeful murder.”

Poirot nodded his head.

“I agree with you. The two types of crime are not the same.”

Battle rubbed his nose.

“So that seems to wipe her out as far as he's concerned. Roberts and the girl, both crossed off our list. What about Despard? Any luck with the Luxmore woman?”

Poirot narrated his adventures of the preceding afternoon.

Battle grinned.

“I know that type. You can't disentangle what they remember from what they invent.”

Poirot went on. He described Despard's visit, and the story the latter had told.

“Believe him?” Battle asked abruptly.

“Yes, I do.”

Battle sighed.

“So do I. Not the type to shoot a man because he wanted the man's wife. Anyway, what's wrong with the divorce court? Everyone flocks there. And he's not a professional man; it wouldn't ruin him, or anything like that. No, I'm of the opinion that our late lamented Mr. Shaitana struck a snag there. Murderer No. 3. wasn't a murderer, after all.”

He looked at Poirot.

“That leaves—”

“Mrs. Lorrimer,” 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.

“That was Mrs. Lorrimer speaking,” he said. “She wants me to come round and see her—now.”

He and Battle looked at each other. The latter shook his head slowly.

“Am I wrong?” he said. “Or were you expecting something of the kind?”

“I wondered,” said Hercule Poirot. “That was all. I wondered.”

“You'd better get along,” said Battle. “Perhaps you'll manage to get at the truth at last.”

T
he day was not a bright one, and Mrs. Lorrimer's room seemed rather dark and cheerless. She herself had a grey look, and seemed much older than she had done on the occasion of Poirot's last visit.

She greeted him with her usual smiling assurance.

“It is very nice of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot. You are a busy man, I know.”

“At your service, madame,” said Poirot with a little bow.

Mrs. Lorrimer pressed the bell by the fireplace.

“We will have tea brought in. I don't know what you feel about it, but I always think it's a mistake to rush straight into confidences without any decent paving of the way.”

“There are to be confidences, then, madame?”

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:

“You 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.”

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:

“I hear you and little Mademoiselle Meredith had tea together the other day.”

“We did. Have you seen her lately?”

“This very afternoon.”

“She is in London, then, or have you been down to Wallingford?”

“No. She and her friend were so amiable as to pay me a visit.”

“Ah, the friend. I have not met her.”

Poirot said, smiling a little:

“This murder—it has made for me a
rapprochement
. You and Mademoiselle Meredith have tea together. Major Despard, he, too, cultivates Miss Meredith's acquaintance. The Dr. Roberts, he is perhaps the only one out of it.”

“I saw him out at bridge the other day,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “He seemed quite his usual cheerful self.”

“As fond of bridge as ever?”

“Yes—still making the most outrageous bids—and very often getting away with it.”

She was silent for a moment or two, then said:

“Have you seen Superintendent Battle lately?”

“Also this afternoon. He was with me when you telephoned.”

Shading her face from the fire with one hand, Mrs. Lorrimer asked:

“How is he getting on?”

Poirot said gravely:

“He is not very rapid, the good Battle. He gets there slowly, but he does get there in the end, madame.”

“I wonder.” Her lips curved in a faintly ironical smile.

She went on:

“He 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 servants—the 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.”

“Perhaps not,” said Poirot.

“And you, M. Poirot? Have not you made any inquiries?”

“About you, madame?”

“That is what I meant.”

Slowly the little man shook his head.

“It would have been to no avail.”

“Just exactly what do you mean by that, M. Poirot?”

“I will be quite frank, madame. I have realized from the beginning that, of the four persons in Mr. Shaitana's 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.”

Mrs. Lorrimer's brows rose.

“Am I expected to feel flattered?” she asked drily.

Poirot went on, without paying any attention to her interruption:

“For 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.”

Mrs. Lorrimer sat silent for a minute or two, a curious smile playing round her lips. At last she said:

“So that is what you think of me, M. Poirot. That I am the kind of woman to commit an ideal murder.”

“At least you have the amiability not to resent the idea.”

“I find it very interesting. So it is your idea that I am the only person who could successfully have murdered Shaitana?”

Poirot said slowly:

“There is a difficulty there, madame.”

“Really? Do tell me.”

“You may have noticed that I said just now a phrase something like this: ‘For a crime to be successful it is usually necessary to plan every detail of it carefully beforehand.' ‘Usually' 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, ‘Throw a stone and see if you can hit that tree,' and the person obeys quickly,
without thinking—and surprisingly often he
does
hit the tree? But when he comes to repeat the throw it is not so easy—for he has begun to
think
. ‘So hard—no harder—a little more to the right—to the left.' 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 moment—an inspiration—a flash of genius—without 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.”

He shook his head.

“And that, madame, is not your type of crime at all. If you killed Mr. Shaitana, it should have been a premeditated crime.”

“I see.” Her hand waved softly to and fro, keeping the heat of the fire from her face. “And, of course, it wasn't a premeditated crime, so I couldn't have killed him—eh, M. Poirot?”

Poirot bowed.

“That is right, madame.”

“And yet—” She leaned forward, her waving hand stopped.
“I did kill Shaitana, M. Poirot….”