Cards on the Table (5 page)

D
espard entered the room with a quick springing step—a step that reminded Poirot of something or someone.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting all this while, Major Despard,” said Battle. “But I wanted to let the ladies get away as soon as possible.”

“Don't apologize. I understand.”

He sat down and looked inquiringly at the superintendent.

“How well did you know Mr. Shaitana?” began the latter.

“I've met him twice,” said Despard crisply.

“Only twice?”

“That's all.”

“On what occasions?”

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

“A cocktail party here?”

“Yes.”

“Where did it take place—this room or the drawing room?”

“In all the rooms.”

“See this little thing lying about?”

Battle once more produced the stiletto.

Major Despard's lip twisted slightly.

“No,” he said. “I didn't mark it down on that occasion for future use.”

“There's no need to go ahead of what I say, Major Despard.”

“I beg your pardon. The inference was fairly obvious.”

There was a moment's pause, then Battle resumed his inquiries.

“Had you any motive for disliking Mr. Shaitana?”

“Every motive.”

“Eh?” The superintendent sounded startled.

“For disliking him—not for killing him,” said Despard. “I hadn't the least wish to kill him, but I would thoroughly have enjoyed kicking him. A pity. It's too late now.”

“Why did you want to kick him, Major Despard?”

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

“Know anything about him—to his discredit, I mean?”

“He was too well dressed—he wore his hair too long—and he smelt of scent.”

“Yet you accepted his invitation to dinner,” Battle pointed out.

“If I were only to dine in houses where I thoroughly approved of my host I'm afraid I shouldn't dine out very much, Superintendent Battle,” said Despard drily.

“You like society, but you don't approve of it?” suggested the other.

“I 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 laughter—yes, I enjoy that—for a time. And then the insincerity of it all sickens me, and I want to be off again.”

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

Despard shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly.

“Mr. Shaitana didn't lead a dangerous life—but he is dead, and I am alive!”

“He may have led a more dangerous life than you think,” said Battle meaningly.

“What do you mean?”

“The late Mr. Shaitana was a bit of a Nosey Parker,” said Battle.

The other leaned forward.

“You mean that he meddled with other people's lives—that he discovered—what?”

“I really meant that perhaps he was the sort of man who meddled—er—well, with women.”

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

“I don't think women would take a mountebank like that seriously.”

“What's your theory of who killed him, Major Despard?”

“Well, I know I didn't. Little Miss Meredith didn't. I can't imagine Mrs. Lorrimer doing so—she reminds me of one of my more God-fearing aunts. That leaves the medical gentleman.”

“Can you describe your own and other people's movements this evening?”

“I got up twice—once for an ashtray, and I also poked the fire—and once for a drink—”

“At what times?”

“I couldn't say. First time might have been about half past ten, the second time eleven, but that's pure guesswork. Mrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once and said something to Shaitana. I didn't actually hear him answer, but, then, I wasn't paying attention. I couldn't swear he didn't. Miss Meredith wandered about the room a bit, but I don't think she went over near the fireplace. Roberts was always jumping up and down—three or four times at least.”

“I'll ask you M. Poirot's question,” said Battle with a smile. “What did you think of them as bridge players?”

“Miss Meredith's quite a good player. Roberts overcalls his hand disgracefully. He deserves to go down more than he does. Mrs. Lorrimer's damned good.”

Battle turned to Poirot.

“Anything else, M. Poirot?”

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.

“What is it?” demanded Battle.

“Nothing,” said Poirot. “It just occurred to me that he walked like a tiger—yes, just so—lithe, easy, does the tiger move along.”

“H'm!” said Battle. “Now, then”—his eyes glanced round at his three companions—
“which of 'em did it?”

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

“The girl or the doctor,” 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.

“One of 'em did it,” said Battle musingly. “One of 'em's lying like hell. But which? It's not easy—no, it's not easy.”

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

“If we're to go by what they
say,
the medico thinks Despard did it, Despard thinks the medico did it, the girl thinks Mrs. Lorrimer did it—and Mrs. Lorrimer won't say! Nothing very illuminating there.”

“Perhaps not,” said Poirot.

Battle shot him a quick glance.

“You think there is?”

Poirot waved an airy hand.

“A
nuance
—nothing more! Nothing to go upon.”

Battle continued:

“You two gentlemen won't say what you think—”

“No evidence,” said Race curtly.

“Oh, you
men!
” sighed Mrs. Oliver, despising such reticence.

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

“We know that Shaitana believed she had committed murder,” said Poirot.

“The angelic face masking the demon,” mused Mrs. Oliver.

“This getting us anywhere, Battle?” asked Colonel Race.

“Unprofitable speculation, you think, sir? Well, there's bound to be speculation in a case like this.”

“Isn't it better to find out something about these people?”

Battle smiled.

“Oh, we shall be hard at work on that. I think you could help us there.”

“Certainly. How?”

“As regards Major Despard. He's been abroad a lot—in South America, in East Africa, in South Africa—you've means of knowing those parts. You could get information about him.”

Race nodded.

“It shall be done. I'll get all available data.”

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Oliver. “I've got a plan. There are four of us—four sleuths, as you might say—and 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, I'll take Anne Meredith, and M. Poirot takes Mrs. Lorrimer. Each of us to follow our own line!”

Superintendent Battle shook his head decisively.

“Couldn't quite do that, Mrs. Oliver. That is official, you see. I'm in charge. I've got to investigate
all
lines. Besides, it's all very well to say back your fancy. Two of us might want to back the same horse! Colonel Race hasn't said he suspects Major Despard. And M. Poirot mayn't be putting his money on Mrs. Lorrimer.”

Mrs. Oliver sighed.

“It was such a good plan,” she sighed regretfully. “So
neat
.” Then she cheered up a little. “But you don't mind me doing a little investigating on my own, do you?”

“No,” said Superintendent Battle slowly. “I can't say I object to that. In fact, it's out of my power to object. Having been at this party tonight, you're naturally free to do anything your own curiosity or interest suggests. But I'd like to point out to you, Mrs. Oliver, that you'd better be a little careful.”

“Discretion itself,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I shan't breathe a word of—of anything—” she ended a little lamely.

“I do not think that was quite Superintendent Battle's meaning,” said Hercule Poirot. “He 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 time—if he considers it necessary.”

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

“Y
OU HAVE BEEN WARNED,
” she quoted. “Thank you, M. Poirot. I'll watch my step. But I'm not going to be out of this.”

Poirot bowed gracefully.

“Permit me to say—you are the sport, madame.”

“I presume,” said Mrs. Oliver, sitting up very straight and speaking in a businesslike committee-meeting manner, “that all information we receive will be pooled—that 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.”

Superintendent Battle sighed.

“This isn't a detective story, Mrs. Oliver,” he said.

Race said:

“Naturally, all information must be handed over to the police.”

Having said this in his most “Orderly Room” voice, he added with a slight twinkle in his eye: “I'm sure you'll play fair, Mrs. Oliver—the stained glove, the fingerprint on the tooth glass, the fragment of burnt paper—you'll turn them over to Battle here.”

“You may laugh,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But a woman's intuition—”

She nodded her head with decision.

Race rose to his feet.

“I'll have Despard looked up for you. It may take a little time. Anything else I can do?”

“I don't think so, thank you, sir. You've no hints? I'd value anything of that kind.”

“H'm. Well—I'd keep a special lookout for shooting or poison or accidents, but I expect you're onto that already.”

“I'd made a note of that—yes, sir.”

“Good man, Battle. You don't need me to teach you your job. Goodnight, Mrs. Oliver. Goodnight, M. Poirot.”

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

“Who is he?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“Very fine Army record,” said Battle. “Travelled a lot, too. Not many parts of the world he doesn't know about.”

“Secret Service, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You can't tell me so—I know; but he wouldn't have been asked otherwise this evening. The four murderers and the four sleuths—Scotland Yard. Secret Service. Private. Fiction. A clever idea.”

Poirot shook his head.

“You are in error, madame. It was a very
stupid
idea. The tiger was alarmed—and the tiger sprang.”

“The tiger? Why the tiger?”

“By the tiger I mean the murderer,” said Poirot.

Battle said bluntly:

“What's
your
idea of the right line to take, M. Poirot? That's one question. And I'd also like to know what you think of the psychology of these four people. You're rather hot on that.”

Still smoothing his bridge scores, Poirot said:

“You are right—psychology 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 nerve—a person who was willing to take a risk. Well, we have Dr. Roberts—a bluffer—an overcaller of his hand—a 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 terror—she would stick at nothing to save herself. It would be the same result, though brought about through a different reaction—not cool nerve and daring, but desperate panic. Then take Major Despard—a 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 favour—and 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.”

He paused:

“So you see, that does not help us much. No—there is only one way in this crime. We must go back into the past.”

Battle sighed.

“You've said it,” he murmured.

“In 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 cases—”

“I agree with you there,” said Battle, nodding his head. “That would be a bit too much of a coincidence.”

“I suggest that it might come about this way—murder or a certain form of murder is mentioned, and Mr. Shaitana surprised a look on someone's face. He was very quick—very sensitive to expression. It amuses him to experiment—to probe gently in the
course of apparently aimless conversation—he 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 it—
if you are watching for such a thing
.”

“It's the sort of game that would have amused our late friend,” said Battle, nodding.

“We 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.”

“Or it mayn't have been the kind of case,” said Battle. “Often enough there's a fishy business—we suspect foul play, but we can't ever prove it. Anyway, the course is clear. We've got to go through the records of all these people—and note any deaths that may be significant. I expect you noticed, just as the Colonel did, what Shaitana said at dinner.”

“The black angel,” murmured Mrs. Oliver.

“A neat little reference to poison, to accident, to a doctor's opportunities, to shooting accidents. I shouldn't be surprised if he signed his death warrant when he said those words.”

“It was a nasty sort of pause,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Yes,” said Poirot. “Those words went home to one person at least—that person probably thought that Shaitana knew far more than he really did. That listener thought that they were the prelude to the end—that 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.”

There was a moment's silence.

“This will be a long business,” said Battle with a sigh. “We can't find out all we want in a moment—and we've got to be careful. We don't want any of the four to suspect what we're doing. All our questioning and so on must seem to have to do with
this
murder. There mustn't be a suspicion that we've got any idea of the motive for the crime. And the devil of it is we've got to check up on four possible murders in the past, not one.”

Poirot demurred.

“Our friend Mr. Shaitana was not infallible,” he said. “He may—it is just possible—have made a mistake.”

“About all four?”

“No—he was more intelligent than that.”

“Call it fifty-fifty?”

“Not even that. For me, I say one in four.”

“One innocent and three guilty? That's bad enough. And the devil of it is, even if we get at the truth it mayn't help us. Even if somebody did push their great-aunts down the stairs in 1912, it won't be much use to us in 1937.”

“Yes, yes, it will be of use to us.” Poirot encouraged him. “You know that. You know it as well as I do.”

Battle nodded slowly.

“I know what you mean,” he said. “Same hallmark.”