CARDS ON THE TABLE



Foreword by the Author


There is an idea prevalent that a detective story is rather like a big race a number
of starters--likely horses and jockeys. "You pays your money and you takes your
choice!" The favorite is by common consent the opposite of a favorite on the racecourse.
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 favor of this story, that it was one of
Hercule Poirot's favorite 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.



CONTENTS

Foreword by the Author


Chapter


I Mr. Shaitana


2 Dinner at Mr. Shaitana's
3 A GameofBridge
4 First Murderer?


5 Second Murderer?
6 Third Murderer?
7 Fourth Murderer?
8 Which of Them?
9 Dr. Roberts
10 Dr. Roberts (continued)
11 Mrs. Lorrimer
12 Anne Meredith
13 Second Visitor
14 Third Visitor
15 Major Despard


16 The Evidence of Elsie Batt

17 The Evidence of Rhoda Dawes
18 Tea Interlude
19 Consultation


20 The Evidence of Mrs. Luxmore

21 Major Despard


22 Evidence from Combeacre

23 The Evidence of a Pair of Silk Stockings


378


381


384


388


393


398


400


405


407


413


418


422


426


429


434


438


442


445


449


452


460


464


467


468



24
	Elimination of Three Murderers?

25
	Mrs. Lorrimer Speaks

26
	The Truth
27'
	The EyeWitness

28
	Suicide

29
	Accident

30
	Murder

31
	Cards on the Table

471

474

476

480

482

487

491

494


CHAPTER 1
Mr. Shaitana


"My dear M. Poirot!"

It was a soft purring voicc a voice/used deliberately as an
inStrument--nothing impulsive or unpremeditated 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.

"My dear Mr. Shaitana," 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.

"Darlingxquisite!"

"Simply divine, aren't they, my dear?"

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

"My dear man," said Mr. Shaitana, "how 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 afternoon--that would be too delicious."

"Alas, Monsieur," said Poirot. "I am here in a purely private capacity."

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:

"My dear--why didn't you come to my party? It really was a marvellous party!
Quite a lot of people actually spoke to me! One woman even said 'How do you do,'
and 'Good-bye' and 'Thank you so much' but of course she came from a Garden
City, poor dear!"

While the Lovely Young Thing made a suitable reply, Poirot allowed himselfa
good study of the hirsute adornment on Mr. Shaitana's upper lip.

A fine moustache a very fine moustache--the only moustache in London,
perhaps, that could compete with that of M. Hercule Poirot.

"But it is not so luxuriant," he murmured to himself. "No, decidedly it is
inferior in every respect. Tout de rrme, it catches the eye."

The whole of Mr. Shaitana's person caught the eyc it 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 heavfiy accented and jet black, he


381



	382
	Agatha Chrtie

wore a moustache with stiffwaxed ends and a tiny black imperial. His clothes were
works of art--of exquisite cut but with a suggestion of the bizarre.
Every healthy Englishman who saw him longed earnestly and fervently to kick
him! They said, with a singular lack of originality, "There's that damned Dago,
Shaitana!"
Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers said,
varying the idiom according to their generation, words to this effect: "I know, my
dear. Of course, he is too terrible. But so rich! And such marvellous parties! And
he's always got something amusing and spiteful to tell you about people."
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 parties--large parties, small parties, macabre parties,
respectable parties and definitely "queer" 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.
"So even a policeman needs recreation?" he said. "You study the art in your
old age, M. Poirot."
Poirot smiled good-humouredly.
"I see," he said, "that you yourself have lent three snuffboxes to the
Exhibition."
Mr. Shaitana waved a deprecating hand.
"One 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.'
"Your tastes are catholic," said Poirot smiling.
"As you say."
Suddenly Mr. Shaitana's eyes danced, the corners of his lips curled up, his
eyebrows assumed a fantastic tilt.
"I could even show you objects in your own line, M. Poirot!"
"You have then a private 'Black Museum.'"
"Bah!" Mr. Shaitana snapped disdainful fingers. "The cup used by the
Brighton murderer, the jemmy of a celebrated burglar absurd childishness! I
should never burden myself with rubbish like that. I collect only the best objects of
their kind."
"And what do you consider the best objects, artistically speaking, in crime?"
inquired Poirot.
Mr. Shaitana leaned forward and laid two fingers on Poirot's shoulder. He
hissed his words dramatically.
"The human beings who commit them, M. Poirot."
Poirot's eyebrows rose a trifle.
"Aha, I have startled you," said Shaitana. "My 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


	Cards on the Table
	383

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!"
	"The best being ?" asked Poirot.
		"My dear fellow--the 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 it is an amusing hobby."

		"It was another word I was thinking of not amusing."

		"An idea!" cried Shaitana, paying no attention to Poirot. "A 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. Yes--yes, I see it allI see it exactly ....

	You must give me a little time--not next week--let us sa the week after next. You
are free? What day shall we say?"

	"Any day of the week after next would suit me," saidoirot with a bow.
"Good then 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."
	"I am not quite sure if it pleases me," said Poirot slowly. "I do not mean that I
am insensible to the kindness of your invitation--no---not that
	"
	Shaitana interrupted him.
	"But it shocks your bourgeois sensibilities? My dear fellow, you must free
yourself from the limitations of the policeman mentality."
	Poirot said slowly:
	"It is true that I have a thoroughly bourgeois attitude to murder."
	"But, my dear, why? A stupid, bungled, butchering business--yes, I agree
with you. But murder can be an art! A murderer can be an artist."
	"Oh, I admit it."
	"Well then?" Mr. Shaitana asked.
	"But he is still a murderer!"
"Surely, 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!"
	Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I am not as insensitive to art in crime as you think. I can admire the perfect
murderer--I can also admire a tiger--that 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 spring 	"
	Mr.
Shaitana laughed.
	"I see. And the murderer?"
	"Might
murder," said Poirot gravely.
"My dear fellow--what an alarmist you are! Then you will not come to meet
my collection of--tigers?"
	"On the contrary, I shall be enchanted."
	"How brave!"
"You 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!"


	384
			Agatha Christie

			Mr. Shaitana laughed, a very Mephistophelian laugh.

		He said:

		"I may expect you, then, on the 18th?'

		Poirot gave a little bow.

		"You may expect me on the 18th. Mille remerciments."

		"I shall arrange a little party," mused Shaitana. "Do not forget. Eight o'clock."

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

		He shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

CHAPTER 2
Dinner at Mr. Shaitana's

The door of Mr. Shaitana's 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:
"What name shall I say?" "M. Hercule Poirot."
There was a little hum of talk that eddied out into the hall as the butler opened
a door and announced:
"M. Hercule Poirot."
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.
"Let me introduce you--do you know Mrs. Oliver?"
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 Passion-nels;
Murder for Love v. Murder for Gain. She was also a hot-headed 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,
"Now ifa woman were the head of Scotland Yard!" She was an earnest believer in
woman's 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 intellectual--a brow with the hair scraped back from it
and coiled in a large bun in the neck--on 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.


	Cards on the Table
	385

"And Superintendent Battle you doubtless know," said Mr. Shaitana.
A big square, wooden-faced man moved forward. Not only did an onlooker feel that Superintendent Battle was carved out of wood he 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 Yard's best representative.
He always looked stolid and rather stupid.
"I know M. Poirot," said Superintendent Battle.
And his wooden face creased into a smile and then returned to its former
unexpressiveness.
"Colonel Race," 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 empire especially 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 Race's activities.
Poirot had by now taken in and appreciated te particular essence of his host's
humorous intentions.
"Our other guests are late," said Mr. Shaitana. 'ly fault, perhaps. I believe I
told them 8:15."
But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced:
"Dr. Roberts."
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 practitio/er. His manner was cheerful and confident. You
felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and
practical "a little champagne in convalescence perhaps." A man of the world!
"Not late, I hope?" said Dr. Roberts genially.
He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed
particularly gratified at meeting Battle.
"Why, you're one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren't 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. Mustn't say so to
my nervous patients--ha ha!"
Again the door opened.
"Mrs. Lorrimer."
Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had finely-cut features,
beautifully arranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive voice.
"I hope I'm not late," she said, advancing to her host.
She turned from him to greet Dr. Roberts, with whom she was acquainted.
The butler announced:
"Major Despard."
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 Race--and the two men were soon talking sport and comparing their
experiences on safari.
For the last time the door opened and the butler announced:
"Miss Meredith."
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.


	386
	Agatha Chrtie

	She said:
"Oh dear, am I the last?"
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 Poirot's side.
"Our friend is very punctilious," said Poirot with a smile.
The girl agreed.
"I know. People rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say 'I
expect you know everybody' and leave it at that."
"Whether you do or you don't?"
	"Whether you do or don't. Sometimes it makes it awkward
	but I think this is
more awe-inspiring."

	She hesitated and then said:

	"Is that Mrs. Oliver, the novelist?"
Mrs. Oliver's bass voice rose powerfully at that minute, speaking to Dr.
Roberts.
"You can't get away from a woman's 'instinct, doctor. Women know these
things."
Forgetting that she no longer had a brow she endeavoured to sweep her hair
back from it but was foiled by the fringe.
"That is Mrs. Oliver," said Poirot.
"The one who wrote The Body in the Library?"
"That identical one."
Miss Meredith frowned a little.
"And that wooden-looking man--a superintendent did Mr. Shaitana say?"
"From Scotland Yard."
"And you?"
"And me?"
"I know all about you, M. Poirot. It was you who really solved the A.B.C.
Crimes."
"Mademoiselle, you cover me with confusion."
Miss Meredith drew her brows together.
"Mr. Shaitana," she began and then stopped. "Mr. Shaitana--
Poirot said quietly:
"One might say he was 'crime-minded.' 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."
	Miss Meredith gave a little gasp as she said:

	"What a queer man he is!"

	"Dr. Roberts?"

	"No, Mr. Shaitana.'
	She shivered a little and said:
	"There's always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never
know what would strike him as amusing. It might--it might be something cruel." "Such as fox-hunting, eh?"
	Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.
	"I meant-oh! something Oriental!"
	"He has perhaps the tortuous mind," admitted Poirot.
	"Torturer's?"
	"No, no, tortuous, I said."


	Cards on the Table
	387

"I don't think I like him frightfully," confided Miss Meredith, her voice
dropping.
"You will like his dinner, though," Poirot assured her. "He has a marvellous
cook."
She looked at him doubtfully and then laughed.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I believe you are quite human."
"But certainly I am human!"
"You see," said Miss Meredith, "all these celebrities are rather intimidating."
"Mademoiselle, you should not be intimidated--you should be thrilled! You
should have all ready your autograph book and your fountain-pen."
"Well, you see, I'm not really terribly interested in crime. I don't think
women are: it's always men who read detective stories."
Hercule Poirot sighed affectedly.
"Alasl" he murmured. "What would I not give at this minute to be even the
most minor of film stars!"
The butler threw the door open.
"Dinner is served," he murmured.
Poirot's 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 apologised 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.
"You're not going to be allowed to monopolise the only pretty girl all the
evening. You French fellows, you don't waste your time, do you?"
"I happen to be Belgian," murmured Poirot.
"Same thing where the ladies are concerned, I expect, my boy," 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
judgments 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.
"Well, there's curare.'
"My dear man, vieux jeu! That's been done hundreds of times. I mean
something new!"
Major Despard said dryly:
"Primitive tribes are rather old-fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff
their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them."
"Very tiresome of them," said Mrs. Oliver. "I 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 one's ever heard of."
"You should go to civilisation, not to the wilds for that," said Despard. "In the


388
	Agatha Christie

modern laboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent-looking germs that will
produce bona ride diseases."
"That wouldn't do for mq public," said Mrs. Oliver. "Besides one is so apt to
get the names wrong--staphylococcus and streptococcus and all those things---so
difficult for my secretary and anyway rather dull, don't you think so? What do you think, Superintendent Battle?"
"In real life people don't bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Oliver," said the
superintendent. "They usually stick to arsenic because it's nice and handy to get
hold of."
	"Nonsense," said Mrs. Oliver. "That's simply because there are lots of crimes
you people at Scotland Yard never find out. Now if you hada woman there
	"As a matter of fact we have "
"Yes, those dreadful policewomen in funny hats who bother people in parks. I
mean a woman at the head of things. Women know about crime."
	"They're usually very successful criminals," said Superintendent Battle.
"Keep their heads well. It's amazing how they'll brazen things out."
	Mr. Shaitana laughed gently.
"Poison is a woman's weapon," he said. "There must be many secret women
poisoners--never found out."
"Of course there are," said Mrs. Oliver happily, helping herself lavishly to a mousse of foie gras.
	"A doctor, too, has opportunities," went on Mr. Shaitana thoughtfully.
"I protest," cried Dr. Roberts. "When we poison our patients it's entirely by
accident." He laughed heartily.
"But if I were to commit a crime," went on Mr. Shaitana.
He stopped; something in that pause compelled attention.
All faces were turned to him.
"I should make it very simple, I think. There's always accident--a shooting
accident, for instance or the domestic kind of accident."
	Then he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his wineglass.
	"But who am I to pronounce--with so many experts present ....
	He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine on to his face with
its waxed moustache, its little imperial, its fantastic eyebrows ....
There was a momentary silence.
Mrs. Oliver said:
	"Is it twenty-to or twenty-past? An angel passing 	My
feet aren't
crossed
it must be a black angel!"

CHAPTER
3
A
Game of Bridge

When
the company returned to the drawing-room a bridge table had been set out. Coffee
was handed round.
"Who
plays bridge?" asked Mr. Shaitana. "Mrs. Lorrimer, I know. And Dr. Roberts.
Do you play, Miss Meredith?"


	Cards on the Table
	389

"Yes. I'm not frightfully good, though."
"Excellent. And Major Despart? Good. Supposing you four play here."
"Thank goodness there's to be bridge," said Mrs. Lorrimer in an aside to
Poirot. "I'm one of the worst bridge fiends that ever lived. It's growing on me. I
simply will not go out to dinner now if there's no bridge afterwards! I just fall
asleep. I'm ashamed of myself, but there it is."
They cut for partners. Mrs. Lorrimer was partnered with Anne Meredith
against Major Despard and Dr. Roberts.
"Women against men," said Mrs. Lorrimer as she took her seat and began
shuffling the cards in an expert manner. "The blue cards, don't you think, partner?
I'm a forcing two."
"Mind you win," said Mrs. Oliver, her feminist feelings rising. "Show the men
they can't have it all their own way."
"They haven't got a hope, the poor dears," said Dr. Roberts cheerfully as he
started shuffling the other pack. "Your teal, I think, Mrs. Lorrimer."
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.
"Cut, please," 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.
"There is another bridge table in the other room," 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. "We must cut out," said Colonel Race.
Mr. Shaitana shook his head.
"I do not play," he said. "Bridge is not one of the games that amuse me."
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.
"One heart." "Pass." "Three clubs." "Three spades." "Four diamonds." "Double."
"Four hearts."
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 glow. A slightly
stronger light shone over the bridge table, from whence the monotonous
ejaculations continued.
"One no trump" an aggressive note in the voiceDr. Roberts.
"No bid" a quiet voice--Anne Meredith's.
A slight pause always before Despard's voice came. Not so much a slow
thinker as a man who liked to be sure before he spoke.
"Four hearts."
"Double."
His face lit up by the flickering firelight, Mr. Shaitana smiled.


	390
	Agatha Christie


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

His party was amusing him.


"Five diamonds. Game and rubber," said Colonel Race.

"Good for you, partner," he said to Poirot. "I didn't think you'd do it. Lucky
they didn't lead a spade."

"Wouldn't have made much difference, I expect," said Superintendent Battle,
a man of gentle magnanimity.

He had called spades. His partner, Mrs. Oliver, had had a spade, but

"something had told her" to lead a club--with disastrous results.
Colonel Race looked at his watch.
"Ten-past-twelve. Time for another?"

"You'll excuse me," said Superintendent Battle. "But I'm by way of being an
'early-to-bed' man."

"I, too," said Hercule Poirot.

"We'd better add up," said Race.

The result of the evening's 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.

"Everything went wrong for me tonight," she said. "It is like that sometimes. I
held the most beautiful cards ysterday. A hundred and fifty honours three times
running."

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

"I suppose our host is next door," 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.

"Double five clubs," Mrs. Lorrimer was saying in her cool, incisive voice.
"Five No Trumps."

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.

"Got to be going, Shaitana," 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 ejaculation, bent forward. Poirot was beside
him in a minute, he, too, looking where Colonel Race was pointing--something
that might have been a particularly ornate shirt stud but it was not ....

Poirot bent, raised one of Mr. Shaitana's hands, then let it fall. He met Race's

inquiring glance and nodded. The latter raised his voice.

"Superintendent Battle, just a minute."

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:
"Something wrong?"

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.



	Cards on the Table
	391


Shaitana's face. Rather a silly face it looked now, the mouth drooping open--the
devilish expression lacking ....

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

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

Now he stood up, unemotional, capable, soldierly--prepared to take charge
efficiently of the situation.

"Just a minute, please," 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 Meredith's hand remained poised over an
ace of spades in dummy.

"I'm sorry to tell you all," he said, "that our host, Mr. Shaitana, is dead."

Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts rose to their feet. Despard stared and

frowned. Anne Meredith gave a little gasp.

"Are you sure, man?"

Dr. Roberts, his professional instincts aroused?.came briskly across the floor
with a bounding medical "in-at-the-death" step.

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

"Just a minute, Dr. Roberts. Can you tell me first who's been in and out of this
room this evening?"

Roberts stared at him.

'"In and out? I don't understand you. Nobody has."
The superintendent transferred his gaze. "Is that right, Mrs. Lorrimer?"
"Quite right."

"Not the butler nor any of the servants?"

"No. The butler brought in that tray as we sat down to bridge. He has not
been in since."

Superintendent Battle looked at Despard.

Despard nodded in agreement.

Anne said rather breathlessly, "Yes--yes, that's right."

"What's all this, man," said Roberts impatiently. "Just let me examine him;
may be just a fainting fit."

"It isn't a fainting fit, and I'm sorry--but nobody's going to touch him until the

divisional surgeon comes. Mr. Shaitana's been murdered, ladies and gentlemen." "Murdered?" A horrified incredulous sigh from Anne.
A stare---a very blank stare from Despard.

A sharp incisive "Murdered?" from Mrs. Lorrimer.

A "Good God!" from Dr. Roberts.

Superintendent Battle nodded his head slowly. He looked rather like a

Chinese porcelain mandarin. His expression was quite blank.
"Stabbed," he said. "That's the way of it. Stabbed."
Then he shot out a question:

"Any of you leave the bridge table during the evening?"

He saw four expressions break up--waver. He saw fearomprehensionm

indignation-dismay--horror; but he saw nothing definitely helpful.

"Well?"

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):

"i think every one of us, at one time or another, moved from the bridge



	392
	Agatha Christie


table--either 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."

"Asleep?"

"I thought so--yes."

"He may have been," said Battle. "Or he may have been dead then. We'll go
into that presently. I'll ask you now to go into the room next door." He turned to

the quiet figure at his elbow: "Colonel Race, perhaps you'll go with them?"
Race gave a quick nod of comprehension.
"Right, superintendent."

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:

"The local police will be round immediately. Orders from headquarters are
that I'm to take on the case. Divisional surgeon will be here almost at once. How
long should you say he's been dead, M. Poirot? I'd say well over an hour myself."

"I agree. Alas, that one cannot be more exact--that one cannot say, 'This man

has been dead one hour, twenty-five minutes and forty seconds.'"

Battle nodded absently.

"He was sitting right in front of the fire. That makes a slight difference. Over
an hour--not more than two and a half: that's what our doctor will say, I'll be
bound. And nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Amazing! What a
desperate chance to take. He might have cried out."

"But he did not. The murderer's luck held. As you say, mon ami, it was a very
desperate business."

"Any idea, M. Poirot, as to motive? Anything of that kind?"

Poirot said slowly:

"Yes, I have something to say on that score. Tell me, M. Shaitana--he did not

give you any hint of what kind of a party you were coming to tonight?"
Superintendent Battle looked at him curiously.

"No, M. Poirot. He didn't say anything at all. Why?"

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

"That's our people," said Superintendent Battle. "I'll go and let 'em in. We'll

have your story presently. Must get on with the routine work."
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.

"The stupid little man! Oh, the stupid little man," murmured Hercule Poirot. "To dress up as the devil and try to frighten people. Quel enfantillage!"

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.



	Cards on the Table
	393


CHAPTER 4
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.

"Before I have those four in, I want to hear what you've got to tell me.
According to you there was something behind this party tonight?"

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

Superintendent Battle pursed his lips. He verynead'y whistled.

"Exhibitsh? Murderers all alive oh! And yiu think he meant it? You don't

think he was pulling your leg?"

Poirot shook his head.

"Oh, no, he meant it. Sbaitana was a man who prided himself on his
Mephistophelian attitude to life. He was a man of great vanity. He was also a
stupid man--that is why he is dead."

"I get you," said Superintendent Battle, following things out in his mind. "A
party of eight and himself. Four 'sleuths,' so to speak--and four murderers!"

"It's impossible!" cried Mrs. Oliver. "Absolutely impossible. None of those
people can be criminals."

Superintendent Battle shook his head thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Mrs. Oliver. Murderers look and behave very
much like everybody else. Nice, quiet, well-behaved, reasonable folk very often."

"In that case, it's Dr. Roberts," said Mrs. Oliver firmly. "I felt instinctively
that there was something wrong with that man as soon as I saw him. My instincts
never lie."

Battle turned to Colonel Race.

"What do you think, sir?"

Race shrugged his shoulders. He took the question as referring to Poirot's
statement and not to Mrs. Oliver's suspicions.

"It could be," he said. "It could be. It shows that Shaitana was right in one case at least! After all, he can only have suspected that these people were
murderers--he can't have been sure. He may have been right in all four cases, he
may have been right in only one case but he was right in one case; his death
proved that."

"One of them got the wind up. Think that's it, M. Poirot?"

Poirot nodded.

"The late Mr. Shaitana had a reputation," he said. "He had a dangerous sense
of humour, and was reputed to be merciless. The victim thought that Shaitana was
giving himself an evening's amusement, leading up to a moment when he'd hand
the victim over to the policeyou.t He (or she) must have thought that Shaitana
had definite evidence."



	394
	Agatha Christie

"Had he?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"That we shall never know."
"Dr. Roberts!" repeated Mrs. Oliver firmly. "Such a hearty man. Murderers
are often hearty--as a disguise! If I were you, Superintendent Battle, I should
arrest him at once."
"I dare say we would if there was a Woman at the Head of Scotland Yard," said
Superintendent Battle, a momentary twinkle showing in his unemotional eye.
"But, you see, mere men being in charge, we've got to be careful. We've got to get
there slowly."
"Oh, men--men," sighed Mrs. Oliver, and began to compose newspaper
articles in her head.
"Better have them in now," said Superintendent Battle. "It won't do to keep
them hanging about too long."
Colonel Race half rose.
"If you'd like us to go "
Superintendent Battle hesitated a minute as he caught Mrs. Oliver's eloquent
eye. He was well aware of Colonel Race's 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.
"You can all stay," he said, "as far as I'm concerned. But no interruptions,
please (he looked at Mrs. Oliver), and there mustn't be a hint of what M. Poirot has
just told us. That was Shaitana's little secret, and to all intents and purposes it died
with him. Understand?"
"Perfectly," said Mrs. Oliver.
Battle strode to the door and called the constable who was in duty in the hall.
"Go to the little smoking-room. You'll find Anderson there with the four
guests. Ask Dr. Roberts if he'll be so good as to step this way."
"I should have kept him to the end," said Mrs. Oliver. "In a book, I mean,"
she added apologetically.
"Real life's a bit different," said Battle.
"I know," said Mrs. Oliver. "Badly constructed."
Dr. Roberts entered with the springiness of his step slightly subdued.
"I say, Battle," he said. "This 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." He shook his head. "Whew! I
wouldn't like to have done it!" A slight smile twitched up the corners of his mouth.
"What can I say or do to convince you that I didn't do it?"
"Well, there's motive, Dr. Roberts."
The doctor nodded his head emphatically.
"That's all clear. I hadn't the shadow of a motive for doing away with poor
Shaitana. I didn't even know him very well. He amused me--he was such a
fantastic fellow. Touch of the Oriental about him. Naturally, you'll investigate my
relations with him closely--I expect that. I'm not a fool. But you won't find
anything. I'd no reason for killing Shaitana, and I didn't kill him."
Superintendent Battle nodded woodenly.
"That's all right, Dr. Roberts. I've got to investigate, as you know. You're a
sensible man. Now, can you tell me anything about the other three people?"
"I'm afraid I don't know very much. Despard and Miss Meredith I met for the


	Cards on the Table
	395

first time tonight. I knew of Despard beforeread his travel book, and a jolly good
yarn it is."
"Did you know that he and Mr. Shaitana were acquainted?"
"No. Shaitana never mentioned him to me. As I say, I'd heard of him, but
never met him. Miss Meredith I've never seen before. Mrs. Lorrimer I know
slightly."
"What do you know about her?"
Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
"She's a widow. Moderately well off. Intelligent, well-bred woman first-class
bridge player. That's where I've met her, as a matter of fact--playing bridge."
"And Mr. Shaitana never mentioned her, either?" "No."
"H'm--that doesn't help us much. Now, Dr. Roberts, perhaps you'll 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."
Dr. Roberts took a few minutes to think.
"It's difficult," he said frankly. "I can remeb, ermy own movements, more or
less. I got up three times--that 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."
"Can you remember the times?"
"I 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 soda--but those times are quite approximate. I
couldn't answer for their being correct."
"The table with the drinks was beyond Mr. Shaitana's chair?"
"Yes. That's to say, I passed quite near him three times."
"And each time, to the best of your belief, he was asleep?"
"That's what I thought the first time. The second time I didn't even look at
him. Third time I rather fancy the thought just passed through my mind: 'How the
beggar does sleep.' But I didn't really look closely at him."
"Very good. Now, when did your fellow-players leave their seats?"
Dr. Roberts frowned.
"Difficult--very difficult. Despard went and fetched an extra ash-tray, I think.
And he went for a drink. That was before me, for I remember he asked me if I'd
have one, and I said I wasn't quite ready."
"And the ladies?"
"Mrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once. Poked it, I think. I rather fancy she
spoke to Shaitana, but I don't know. I was playing a rather tricky no trump at the
time."
"And Miss Meredith?"
"She certainly left the table once. Came round and looked at my hand--I was
her partner at the time. Then she looked at the other people's hands, and then she
wandered round the room. I don't know what she was doing exactly. I wasn't
paying attention."
Superintendent Battle said thoughtfully:
"As you were sitting at the bridge-table, no one's chair was directly facing the
fireplace?"


	396
	Agatha Christie

"No, sort of sideways on, and there was a big cabinet betweenhinese
piece, very handsome. I can see, of course, that it would be perfectly possible to
stab the old boy. After all, when you're playing bridge, you're playing bridge.
You're not looking round you and noticing what is going on. The only person who's
likely to be doing that is dummy. And in this case--"
"In this case, undoubtedly, dummy was the murderer,'said Superintendent
Battle.
"All the same," said Dr. Roberts, "it wanted nerve, you know. After all, who
is to say that somebody won't look up just at the critical moment?"
"Yes," said Battle. "It was a big risk. The motive must have been a strong one.
I wish we knew what it was," he added with unblushing mendacity.
"You'll find out, I expect," said Roberts. "You'll go through his papers, and all
that sort of thing. There will probably be a clue."
	"We'll hope so," said Superintendent Battle gloomily.
	He shot a keen glance at the other.
"I wonder if you'd oblige me, Dr. Roberts, by giving me a personal opinion--as
man to man."
	"Certainly."
	"Which do you fancy yourself of the three?"
	Dr. Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
"That's easy. Off-hand, I'd say Despard. The man's got plenty of nerve; he's
used to a dangerous life where you've got to act quickly. He wouldn't mind taking a
risk. It doesn't seem to me likely the women are in on this. Take a bit of strength, I
should imagine."
	"Not so much as you might think. Take a look at this."
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.
	"What a tool! What a tool! Absolutely made for murder, this little toy. Go in
like butter absolutely like butter. Brought it with him, I suppose."
	Battle shook his head.
"No. It was Mr. Shaitana's. It lay on the table near the door with a good many
other knickknacks."
	"So the murderer helped himself. A bit of luck finding a tool like that."

	"Well, that's one way of looking at it," said Battle slowly.

	"Well, of course, it wasn't luck for Shaitana, poor fellow."
"I didn't 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 criminal's mind."
"You mean it was a sudden inspiration--that the murder wasn't premeditated?
He conceived the idea after he got here? Er--anything to suggest that idea to
you?"
	He glanced at him searchingly.
	"It's just an idea," said Superintendent Battle stolidly.

	"Well, it might be so, of course," said Dr. Roberts slowly

	Superintendent Battle cleared his throat.
"Well, I won't keep you any longer, doctor. Thank you for your help. Perhaps
you'll leave your address."
	"Certainly. 200 Gloucester Terrace, W.2. Telephone No. Bayswater 23896."

	"Thank you. I may have to call upon you shortly."


	Cards on the Table
	397


	"Delighted to see you any time. Hope there won't be too much in the papers.

	I don't want my nervous patients upset."

	Superintendent Battle looked round at Poirot.

	"Excuse me, M. Poirot. If you'd like to ask any questions, I'm sure the doctor

	wouldn't mind."

	"Of course not. Of course not. Great admirer of yours, M. Poirot. Little grey

	cells---order and method. I know all about it. I feel sure you'll think Of something

	most intriguing to ask me."

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

	"No, no. I just like to get all the details clear in my mind. For instance, how

	many rubbers did you play?"

	"Three," said Roberts promptly. "We'd got to one game all, in the fourth

	rubber, when you came in."

	"And who played with who?"

	"First rubber, Despard and I against the ladies. They beat us, God bless 'em.

	Walk over; we never held a card.

	"Second 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 ruboer, Miss Meredith and I

again."
	/

	"Who won and who lost?"

"Mrs. 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."

Poirot said, smiling, "The 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."

"Mrs. Lorrimer's first class," Dr. Roberts replied promptly. "I'll bet she
makes a good income a year out of bridge. Despard's a good player, toowhat I
call a sound player--long-headed chap. Miss Meredith you might describe as quite

a safe player. She doesn't make mistakes, but she isn't brilliant."
"And you yourself, doctor?"
Roberts' eyes twinkled.

	"I overcall my hand a bit, or so they say. But I've always found it pays."

	Poirot smiled.

	Dr. Roberts rose.

	"Anything more?"

	Poirot shook his head.

"Well, good-night, then. Good-night, Mrs. Oliver. You ought to get some
copy out of this. Better than your untraceable poisons, eh?"

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

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



398
	Agatha Christie

CHAPTER 5
Second Murderer?

Mrs. Lorrimer came into the dining-room like a gentlewoman. She looked a little
pale, but composed.
"I'm sorry to have to bother you," Superintendent Battle began.
"You must do your duty, of course," said Mrs. Lorrimer quietly. "It is, I
agree, an unpleasant position in which to be placed, but there is no good shirking
it. I quite realise that one of the four people in that room must be guilty. Naturally,
I can't expect you to take my word that I am not the person."
She accepted the chair that Colonel Race offered her and sat down opposite
the superintendent. Her intelligent grey eyes met his. She waited attentively.
"You knew Mr. Shaitana well?" began the superintendent.
"Not very well. I have known him over a period of some years, but never
intimately."
"Where did you meet him?"
"At a hotel in Egypt--the Winter Palace at Luxor, I think."
"What did you think of him?"
Mrs. Lorrimer shrugged her shoulders slightly.
"I thought him--I may as well say so--rather a charlatan."
"You had---excuse me for asking--no motive for wishing him out of the way?"
Mrs. Lorrimer looked slightly amused.
"Really, Superintendent Battle, do you think I should admit it if I had?"
"You might," said Battle. "A really intelligent person might know that a thing
was bound to come out."
Mrs. Lorrimer inclined her head thoughtfully.
"There 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 is--or rather was--my attitude towards him."
"That is that, then. Now, Mrs. Lorrimer, can you tell me anything about your
three companions?"
"I'm 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. He's a
very popular doctor, I believe."
"He is not your own doctor?"
"Oh, no."
"Now, 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?"
Mrs. Lorrimer did not take any time to think.
"I thought you would probably ask me thatl 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."
"And he answered?"
"That he hated radiators."
"Did any one overhear your conversation?"


	Cards on the Table
	399


"I don't think so. I lowered my voice, not to interrupt the players." She added
dryly: "In fact you have only my word for it that Mr. Shaitana was alive and spoke
to me."

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

"What time was that?"

"I should think we had been playing a little over an hour."

"What about the others?"

"Dr. Roberts got me a drink. He also got himself one--that was later. Major

Despard also Went to get a drink at about 11:15, I should say."

"Only once?"

"No---twice, I think. The men moved about a fair amount but I didn't notice
what they did. Miss Meredith left her seat once only, I think. She went round to
look at her partner's hand."

"But she remained near the bridge-table?"

"I couldn't say at all. She may have move! away."

Battle nodded.

"It's all very vague," he grumbled.

"I am sorry."

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

"Will you look at this, Mrs. Lorrimer?"
Mrs. Lorrimer took it without emotion.
"Have you ever seen that before?"
"Never."

"Yet it was lying on a table in the drawing-room."

"I didn't notice it."

"You realise, perhaps, Mrs. Lorrimer, that with a weapon like that a woman
could do the trick just as easily as a man."

"I suppose she could," said Mrs. Lorrimer quietly.

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

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

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

"Do you know anything of the relations between the other three and Mr.
Shaitana?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing at all."

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

Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up stiffly.

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

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

"Address, please," he mumbled, drawing his notebook towards him.
"111 Cheyne Lane, Chelsea."
"Telephone number?"
"Chelsea 45632."
Mrs. Lorrimer rose.

"Anything you want to ask, M. Poirot?" said Battle hurriedly.



	400
	Agatha Christie

Mrs. Lorrimer paused, her head slightly inclined.
"Would it be a proper question, Madame, to ask you your opinion of your
companions, not as potential murderers but as bridge players?"
Mrs. Lorrimer answered coldly:
"I have no objection to answering that--if it bears upon the matter at issue in
any way--though I fail to see how it can."
"I will be the judge of that. Your answer, if you please, Madame."
In the tone of a patient adult humouring an idiot child, Mrs. Lorrimer replied:
"Major 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?"
In his turn doing a conjuring trick, Poirot produced four crumpled bridge
scores.
"These scores, Madame, is one of these yours?"
She examined them.
"This is my writing. It is the score of the third rubber.'
"And this score?"
"That must be Major Despard's. He cancels as he goes."
"And this one?"
"Miss Meredith's. The first rubber."
"So this unfinished one is Dr. Roberts'?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, Madame, I think that is all."
Mrs. Lorrimer turned to Mrs. Oliver.
"Good-night, Mrs. Oliver. Good-night, Colonel Race."
Then, having shaken hands with all four of them, she went out.

CHAPTER 6
Third Murderer?

"Didn't get any extra change out of her," commented Battle. "Put me in my place,
too. She's the old-fashioned kind, full of consideration for others, but arrogant as
the devil! I can't believe she did it, but you never know! She's got plenty of
resolution. What's the idea of the bridge scores, M. Poirot?"
Poirot spread them out on the table.
"They 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 it--in these scribbled figures. Here is the first
rubber, you see a tame business, soon over. Small neai figures-careful addition
and subtraction--that is Miss Meredith's score. She was playing with Mrs.
Lorrimer. They had the cards, and they won.
"In 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 Desparda man
who likes the whole time to know at a glance where he stands. The figures are
small and full character.
"This next score is Mrs. Lorrimer's--she and Dr. Roberts against the other


	Cards on the Table
	401
two--a Homeric combat--figures mounting up above the line each side. Overcalling
on the doctor's part, and they go down; but, since they are both first-class
players, they never go down very much. If the doctor's overcalling induces rash
bidding on the other side there is the chance seized of doubling. See--these
figures here are doubled tricks gone down. A characteristic handwriting, graceful,
very legible, firm.
"Here is the last scorethe unfinished rubber. I collected one score in each
person's 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!
"You 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, every one is.ready and willing to speak."
"I never think your questions foolish, M. Poirot," said Battle. "I've seen too
much of your work. Every one's ggt their own ways of working. I know that. I give
my inspectors a free hand always. JEvery one's got to find out for themselves what
method suits them best. But we'd better not discuss that now. We'll have the girl
in."
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.
"Sit down, Miss Meredith, sit down. Now, don't be alarmed. I know all this
seems rather dreadful, but it's not so bad, really."
"I don't think anything could be worse," said the girl in a low voice. "It's so
awful--so awful---to think that one of us--that one of us--"
"You let me do the thinking," said Battle kindly. "Now, then, Miss Meredith,
suppose we have your address first of all."
"Wendon Cottage, Wallingford." "No address in town?"
"No, I'm staying at my club for a day or two."
"And your club is?"
"Ladies' Naval and Military."
"Good. Now, then, Miss Meredith, how well did you know Mr. Shaitana?" "I,, didn't know him well at all. I always thought he was a most frightening
man,
"Why?"
"Oh, well, he was! That awful smile! And a way he had of bending over you.
As though he might bite you."
"Had you known him long?"
"About nine months. I met him in Switzerland during the winter sports."
"I should never have thought he went in for winter sports," said Battle,
surprised.
"He only skated. He was a marvellous skater. Lots of figures and tricks."
"Yes, that sounds more like him. And did you see much of him after that?"
"Well--a fair amount. He asked me to parties and things like that. They were
rather fun."
"But you didn't like him himself?."
"No, I thought he was a shivery kind of man."
Battle said gently:
"But you'd no special reason for being afraid of him?"


	404
	Agatha Christie

	Anne Meredith raised wide limpid eyes to his.

	"Special reason? Oh, no."

	"That's all right, then. Now about tonight. Did you leave your seat at all?"

	"I don't think so. Oh, yes, I may have done once. I went round to look at the
others' hands."
	"But you stayed by the bridge-table all the time?"
	"Yes."
	"Quite sure, Miss Meredith?"

	The girl's cheeks flamed suddenly.

	"No--no, I think I walked about."
"Right. You'll excuse me, Miss Meredith, but try and speak the truth. I know
you're nervous, and when one's nervous one's apt to--well, to say the thing the
way you want it to be. But that doesn't really pay in the end. You walked about.
Did you walk over in the direction of Mr. Shaitana?"
The girl was silent for a minute, then she said: "Honestly--honestly--I don't remember."
"Well, we'll leave it that you may have done. Know anything about the other
three?"
	The girl shook her head.
	"I've never seen any of them before."
	"What do you think of them? Any likely murderers amongst them?"
"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. It couldn't be Major Despard. And I
don't believe it could be the doctor after all, a doctor could kill any one in much
easier ways. A drug--something like that."
	"Then, if it's any one, you think it's Mrs. Lorrimer."
"Oh, I don't. I'm sure she wouldn't. She's so charming--and so kind to play
bridge with. She's so good herself, and yet she doesn't make one feel nervous, or
point out one's mistakes."
	"Yet you left her name to the last," said Battle.
	"Only because stabbing seems somehow more like a woman."

	Battle did his conjuring trick. Anne Meredith shrank back.

	"Oh, horrible. Must I--take it?"
	"I'd rather you did."
He watched her as she took the stiletto gingerly, her face contracted with
repulsion.
	"With this tiny thing--with this. "
	"Go in like butter," said Battle with gusto. "A child could do it."
"You mean--you mean" wide, terrified eyes fixed themselves on his face--"that
I might have done it? But I didn't. Oh, I didn't. Why should I?"
"That's just the question we'd like to know," said Battle. "What's the motive?
Why did any one want to kill Shaitana? He was a picturesque person, but he wasn't
dangerous, as far as I can make out."
Was there a slight indrawing of her breath--a sudden lifting of her breast?
"Not a blackmailer,, for instance, or anything of that sort?" went on Battle.
"And anyway, Miss Meredith, you don't look the sort of girl who's got a lot of guilty
secrets."
	For the first time she smiled, reassured by his geniality.
	"No, indeed I haven't. I haven't got any secrets at all."
"Then don't you 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.'
	He got up.


II

	Cards on the Table
	405

"Now you go off. My constable will get you a taxi; and don't you lie awake
worrying yourself. Take a couple of aspirins."
He ushered her out. As he came back Colonel Race said in a low, amused
voice:
"Battle, what a really accomplished liar .you are! Your fatherly air was
unsurpassed."
"No good dallying about with her, Colonel Race. Either the poor kid is dead
scared in which case it's cruelty, and I'm not a cruel man; I never have been--or
she's a highly accomplished little actress, and we shouldn't get any further if we
were to keep her h/ere half the night."
Mrs. Oliver gfve a sigh and ran her hands freely through her fringe until it
stood upright andjgave her a wholly drunken appearance.
"Do you knffw," she said, "I rather believe now that she did it! It's lucky it's
not in a bvok. They don't 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?" "Me, I have just made a discovery." "In the bridge scores again?"
"Yes. Miss Anne Meredith turns her score over, draws lines and uses the
back."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means she has the habit of poverty or else is of a naturally economical turn
of mind."
"She's expensively dressed," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Send in Major Despard," said Superintendent Battle.

CHAPTER 7
Fourth Murderer?


	Despard entered the room with a quick springing step--a step that reminded
Poirot of something or some one.
"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 apologise. I understand."
He sat down and looked ihquiringly 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?"


	406
	Agatha Christie


	Battle once more produced the stilleto.

	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 dryly.
"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


"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 ash-tray, and I also poked the fireand 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



	Cards on the Table
	407


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 good-night and left the
room.

As he closed the door behind him, Poirot made a slight movement. "W' 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 eye glanced round at his three companions"which of'em did it?"


CHAPTER 8
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.

	"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 raen!" sighed Mrs. Oliver, despising such reticence.

	"Let's look at the rough possibilities," said Battle. He considered a minute. "I



	408
	Agatha Christie

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. Lorrimer?
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 any
one. 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. This 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.


	Cards on the Table
	409

"You 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
business-like 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 Baffle 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 on to 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. Good-night, 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 tour 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


410 Agatha Christie

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 nerva 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 signed.
"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 some one'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 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.


	Cards on be Tab
	411

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 accidents, 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
licner thought that they were the prelude to the end--that the party was a
dramahe 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
these 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-aunt 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."
"Do you mean," said Mrs. Oliver, "that the former victim will have been
stabbed with a dagger too?"
"Not quite as crude as that, Mrs. Oliver," said Battle turning to her. "But I
don't doubt it will be essentially the same type of crime. The details may be
different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. It's odd, but a
criminal gives himself away every time by that."
"Man is an unoriginal animal," said Hercule Poirot.
"Women," said Mrs. Oliver, "are capable of infinite variation. I should never
commit the same type of murder twice running."
"Don't you ever write the same plot twice running?" asked Battle.
"The Lotus Murder," murmured Poirot. "The Clue of the Candle Wax."


	412
	Agatha Chrtie

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

	"That's clever of you--that's really very clever of you. Because, of course,

	those two are exactly the same plot--but nobody else has seen it. One is stolen

	papers at an informal week-end party of the Cabinet, and the other's a murder in

	Borneo in a rubber planter's bungalow."

		"But the essential point on which the story turns is the same," said Poirot.

	"One of your neatest tricks. The rubber planter arranges his own murder--the

	Cabinet Minister arranges the robbery of his own papers. At the last minute the

	third person steps in and turns deception into reality."

		"I enjoyed your last, Mrs. Oliver," said Superintendent Battle kindly. "The

	one where all the Chief Constables were shot simultaneously. You just slipped up

	once or twice on official details. I know you're keen on accuracy, so I wondered

	if-"

		Mrs. Oliver interrupted him.

		"As a matter of fact I don't 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 don't 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 thing's getting a little dull, some
	more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell something--and then they're

	killed first! That always goes down well. It comes in all my books-camoufiaged

	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 any one really) and a hero who can dispose of anything

	from three to seven villains single-handed. I've written thirty-two books by now--

	and of course they're all exactly the same really, as M. Poirot seems to have

	noticed--but nobody else has--and I only regret one thing--making my detective

	a Finn. I don't really know anything about Finns and I'm always getting letters

	from Finland pointing out something impossible that he's said or done. They seem

	to read detective stories a good deal in Finland. I suppose it's the long winters with

	no daylight. In Bulgaria and Roumania they don't seem to read at all. I'd have done

	better to have made him a Bulgar."

			She broke off.

			"I'm so sorry. I'm talking shop. And this is a real murder." Her face lit up.

	"What a good idea it would be if none of them had murdered him. If he'd asked

	them all, and then quietly committed suicide just for the fun of making a

	schemozzle."

			Poirot nodded approvingly.

			"An admirable solution. So neat. So ironic. But, alas, Mr. Shaitana was not

	that sort of man. He was very fond of life."

			"I don't think he was really a nice man," said Mrs. Oliver slowly.

			"He was not nice, no," said Poirot. "But he was alive--and now he is dead,

	and as I told him once, I have a bourgeois attitude to murder. I disapprove of it."

			He added softly:
	"And soI am prepared to go inside the tiger's cage 	"


	Cards on the Table
	413


CHAPTER 9
Dr. Roberts


"Good-morning, Superintendent Battle."

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

"How are things going?" he went on.

/uperintendent Battle glanced round the comfortable consulting-room before
swering.

"Well, Dr. Roberts, strictly speaking, they're not going. They're standing
still."

"There's been nothing much in the papers, I've been glad to see."

"Sudden death of the well-known Mr. Shaitana at an evening party in his own
house. It's left at that for the moment. We've had the' autopsy--I brought a report
of the findings along--thought it might interest you- "

"That's very kind of you--it would--h'm--h'm. Yes, very interesting."

He handed it back.

"And we've interviewed Mr. Shaitana's solicitor. We know the terms of his
will. Nothing of interest there. He has relatives in Syria, it seems. And then, of
course, we've been through all his private papers."

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

"And?" said Dr. Roberts.

"Nothing," said Superintendent Battle, watching him.

There wasn't a sigh of relief. Nothing so blatant as that. But the doctor's figure

seemed to relax just a shade more comfortably in his chair.

"And so you've come to me?"

"And so, as you say, I've come to you."

The doctor's eyebrows rose a little and his shrewd eyes looked into Battle's.
"Want to go through my private papers---eh?" "That was my idea."
"Got a search-warrant?" "No."

"Well, you could get one easily enough, I suppose. I'm not going to make
difficulties. It's not very pleasant being suspected of murder but I suppose I can't
blame you for what's obviously your duty."

"Thank you, sir," said Superintendent Battle with real gratitude. "I appreciate
your attitude, if I may say so, very much. I hope all the others will be as
reasonable, I'm sure."

"What can't be cured must be endured," said the doctor good-humouredly.
He went on:

"I've finished seeing my patients here. I'm just offon my rounds. I'll leave you
my keys and just say a word to my secretary and you can rootle to your heart's
content."

"That's all very nice and pleasant, I'm sure," said Battle. "I'd like to ask you a
few more questions before you go."



	414
	Agatha Christie

	"About the other night? Really, I told you all I know."

	"No, not about the other night. About yourself."

	"Well, man, ask away, what do you want to know?"

	"I'd just like a rough sketch of your career, Dr. Roberts. Birth, marriage, and
SO on."
"It will get me into practice for Who's Who," said the doctor dryly. 'My
career's a perfectly straightforward one. I'm 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. I'm a St.
Christopher's man but you'll have all the medical details already, I expect."
"I looked you up, yes, sir. You an only child or have you any brothers or
sisters?"
"I'm an only child. Both my parents are dead and I'm 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. I'll give you his address if you like. I live here
with a cook, a parlourmaid and a housemaid. My secretary comes in daily. I make a
good income and I only kill a reasonable number of my patients. How's that?"
Superintendent Battle grinned.
"That's fairly comprehensive, Dr. Roberts. I'm glad you've got a sense of
humour. Now I'm going to ask you one more thing."
"I'm a strictly moral man, superintendent."
"Oh, that wasn't my meaning. No, I was just going to ask you if you'd give me
the names of four friends--people who've known you intimately for a number of
years. Kind of references, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I think so. Let me see now. You'd prefer people who are actually in
London now?"
"It would make it a bit easier, but it doesn't really matter."
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.
"Will those do? They're the best I can think of on the spur of the moment."
Battle read carefully, nodded his head in satisfaction and put the sheet of
paper away in an inner pocket.
"It's just a question of elimination," he said. "The sooner I can get one person
eliminated and go on to the next, the better it is for every one concerned. I've got
to make perfectly certain that you weren't 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 slightly--but it isn't a question
of my belief. I've got to say I've made sure."
"Oh, I understand perfectly. You've got to think everybody's a liar till he's
proved he's speaking the truth. Here are my keys, superintendent. That's the
drawers of the desk--that's the bureau--that little one's the key of the poison
cupboard. Be sure you lock it up again. Perhaps I'd better just have a word with my
secretary."
He pressed a button on his desk.
Almost immediately the door opened and a competent-looking young woman
appeared.
"You rang, doctor?"
"This is Miss Burgess--Superintendent Battle from Scotland Yard."
Miss Burgess turned a cool gaze on Battle. It seemed to say:


	Cards on the Table
	415

	"Dear me, what sort of an animal is this?"

	"I should be glad, Miss Burgess, ffyou will answer any questions Superinten
	dent Battle may put to you, and give him any help he may need."

	"Certainly, if you say so, doctor."

	"Well," said Roberts, rising, "I'll be off. Did you put the morphia in my case?

	I shall need it for the Lockheart case."

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

	She returned a minute or two later to say:

	"Will you press that button when you want me, Superintendent Battle?"

	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 Roberts' ready acquiescence dispelled the chance

	of that. Roberts was no fool. He would realise that a search would be bound to

	come md he would make provisions accordingly There was, however, a faint

	chanfe that Battle might come across a hint of the information he was really after,

	sincRoberts would not know the real object of his search.

	Superintendent Battle opened and shut drawers, rifled pigeon-holes, glanced

	through a cheque-book, estimated the unpaid bills--noted what those same bills

	were for, scrutinised Roberts' pass-book, 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 doctor's
	
	.
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.

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

	"Dr. Roberts told me," said Miss Burgess shortly.

	"The whole thing's rather delicate," said Superintendent Battle

	"Is it?" said Miss Burgess.

	"Well, it's rather a nasty business. Four people are under suspicion and one of

	them must have done it. What I want to know is whether you've ever seen this Mr.

	Shaitana?"

	"Never."

	"Ever heard Dr. Roberts speak of him?"

	"Never--no, 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."

	"And that is the first you ever heard of this Mr. Shaitana?"

	"Yes."
	"Never seen his name in the papers? He was often in the fashionable news."

	"I've got better things to do than reading the fashionable news."

	"I expect you have. Oh, I expect you have," said the superintendent mildly.

	"Well,' he went on. "There 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.

	It's my job to find out which of them it was."


	416
	Agatha Christie

There was an unhelpful pause. Miss Burgess seemed quite uninterested in the
performance of Superintendent Battle's job. It was her job to obey her employer's
orders and sit here listening to what Superintendent Battle chose to say and answer
any direct questions he might choose to put to her.
"You know, Miss Burgess," the superintendent found it uphill work but he
persevered, ,"I doubt if you appreciate half the difficulties of our job. People say
things, for instance. Well, we mayn't believe a word of it, but we've got to take
notice of it all the same. It's particularly noticeable in a case of this kind. I don't
want to say anything against your sex but there's no doubt that a woman, when
she's 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 ease."
"Do you mean," demanded Miss Burgess, "that one of these other people
have been saying things against the doctor?"
"Not exactly said anything," said Battle cautiously. "But all the same, I'm
bound to take notice. Suspicious circumstances about the death of a patient.
Probably all a lot of nonsense. I'm ashamed to bother the doctor with it."
"I suppose some one's got hold of that story about Mrs. Graves," said Miss
Burgess wrathfully. "The way people talk about things they know nothing whatever
about is disgraceful. Lots of old ladies get like that they think everybody is
poisoning them--their 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. It's the only thing to do in these cases, he said. And after Dr. Lee she had
Dr. Steele, and then Dr. Farmer--until she died, poor old thing."
"You'd be surprised the way the smallest thing starts a story," said Battle.
"Whenever a doctor benefits by the death of a patient somebody has something ill-natured
to say. And yet why shouldn't a grateful patient leave a little something, or
even a big something to her medical attendant."
"It's the relations," said Miss Burgess. "I always think there's nothing like
death for bringing out the meanness of human nature. Squabbling over who's to
have what before the body's cold. Luckily, Dr. Roberts has never had any trouble
of that kind. He always says he hopes his patients won't leave him anything. I
believe he once had a legacy of fifty pounds and he's had two walking-sticks and a
gold watch, but nothing else."
"It's a difficult life, that of a professional man," said Battle with a sigh. "He's
always open to blackmail. The most innocent occtrrences lend themselves
sometimes to a scandalous appearance. A doctor's got to avoid even the appearance
of evil--that means he's got to have his wits about him good and sharp."
"A lot of what you say is true," said Miss Burgess. "Doctors have a dicult
time with hysterical women."
"Hysterical women. That's right. I thought, in my own mind, that that was all
it amounted to."
"I suppose you mean that dreadful Mrs. Craddock?"
Battle pretended to think.
"Let me see, was it three years ago? No, more."
"Four 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 lies--they
always do, of course. Poor man, he wasn't quite himself he'd begun to be ill.
He died of anthrax, you know, an infected shaving brush."
"I'd forgotten that," said Battle untruthfully.


Cards on the Table 417
"And then she ent abroad and died not long afterwards. But I always thought
she was a nasty type,f woman--man-mad, you know."
"I know the kind, said Battle. "Very dangerous, they are. A doctor's got to give
them a wide berth. Whereabouts did she die abroad I don't seem to remember." "Egypt, I think it was. She got blood-poisoning--some native infection."
"Another thing that must be difficult for a doctor," said Battle, making a
conversational leap, "is when he suspects that one of his patients is being poisoned
by one of their relatives. What's he to do? He's got to be sure--or else hold his
tongue. And if he's done the latter, then it's awkward for him if there's talk of foul
play afterwards. I wonder if any case of that kind has ever come Dr. Roberts' way?"
"I really don't think it has," said Miss Burgess, considering. "I've never heard
of anything like that."
"From the statistical point of view, it would be interesting to know how many
deaths occur among a doctor's pr,,actice per year. For instance now, you've been
with Dr. Roberts some years
"Seven." '
"Seven. Well, how many deaths have there been in that time offhand?"
"Really, it's difficult tO say." Miss Burgess gave herself up to calculation. She
was by now quite thawed and unsuspicious. "Seven, eight--of course, I can't
remember exact]y--I shouldn't say more than thirty in the time."
"Then I fancy Dr. Roberts must be a better doctor than most," said Battle
genially. "I suppose, too, most of his patients are upper-class. They can afford to
take care of themselves.'
"He's a very popular doctor. He's so good at diagnosis.'
Battle sighed and rose to his feet.
"I'm afraid I've been wandering from my duty, which is to find out a
connection between the doctor and this Mr. Shaitana. You're quite sure he wasn't a
patient of the doctor's?"
"Quite sure.'
"Under another name, perhaps?" Battle handed her a photograph. "Recognise
him at all?"
"What a very theatrical-looking person. No, I've never seen him here at any
time."
"Well, that's that." Battle sighed. "I'm much obliged to the doctor, I'm sure,
for being so pleasant about everything. Tell him so from me, will you? Tell him I'm
passing on to No. 2. Good-bye, Miss Burgess, and thank you for your help."
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 &
Wessex Bank.
The display of his offleial card brought him to a private interview with the
manager.
"Good-morning, sir. One of your clients is a Dr. Geoffrey Roberts, I
understand."


	418
	Agatha Christie


"Quite correct, superinterdent."

"I shall want some information about that gentleman's account going back over
a period of years."

"I will see what I can do for you."

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

"Got what you want?" inquired the bank manager curiously.

"No, I haven't. Not one suggestive lead. Thank you all the same."

At the same moment, Dr. Ro!erts, washing his hands in his consulting-room, said
over his shoulder to Miss Burgess:

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

"He didn't get much out of me, I can tell you," said Miss Burgess, setting her
lips tightly.

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

"Oh, he kept harping oh your knowing that man Shaitana--suggested even
that he might have come her as a patient under a different name. He showed me
his photograph. Such a theatrical-looking man!"

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

"Really nothing very much. Except---oh, yes somebody had been telling him
some absurd nonsense about Mrs. Graves--you know the way she used to go on."

"Graves? Graves? Oh, ys, old Mrs. Graves! That's rather funny!" The doctor
laughed with considerable arusement. "That's really very funny indeed."

And in high good humohr he went in to lunch.


CHAPTER 10

Dr. Roberts (continued)


Superintendent Battle was ltmching with M. Hercule Poirot.

The former looked downcast, the latter sympathetic.

"Your morning, then, has not been entirely successful," said Poirot
thoughtfully.

Battle shook his head.

"It's going to be uphill work, M. Poirot."

"What do you think of him?"

"Of the doctor? Well, frankly, I think Shaitana was right. He's a killer.
Reminds me of Westaway. And of that lawyer chap in Norfolk. Same hearty, self-confident
manner. Same /)opularity. Both of them were clever devils--so's
Roberts. All the same, it doesn't follow that Roberts killed Shaitana--and as a
matter of fact I don't think he did. He'd know the risk too well better than a
layman would--that Shaitaaa might wake and cry out. No, I don't think Roberts
murdered him."



	Cards on the Table
	419


"But you think he has murdered some one?"

"Possibly quite a lot of people. Westaway had. But it's going to be hard to get
at. I've looked over his bank account--nothing suspicious there--no large sums
suddenly. At any rate, in the last seven years he's not had any legacy from a
patient. That wipes out murder for direct gain. He's never married--that's a pity--so
ideally simple for a doctor to kill his own wife. He's well-to-do, but then he's got
a thriving practice among well-to-do people."

	"In fact he. appears to lead a thoroughly blameless life--and perhaps does do

SO."

	"Maybe. But I prefer to believe the worst."

	He went on:

"There's the hint of a scandal over a woman---one of his patients--name of
Craddock. That's worth looking up, I think. I'll get some one on to that
straightaway. Woman actually died out in Egypt of some local disease, so I don't

	think there's anything in that
	but it might throw a light on his general character

	and morals."

		"Was there a husband?"

	"Yes. Husband died of anthrax."

	"Anthrax?"

	"Yes, there were a lot of cheap shaving brushes on the market just then--some

of them infected. There was a regular scandal about it."

	"Convenient," suggested Poirot.

"That's what I thought. If her husband were threatening to kick up a row
But there, it's all conjecture. We haven't a leg to stand upon."

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

	"And fall into the ditch as a result of thinking about them," grinned Battle.

	Then he asked curiously:

	"What about you, M. Poirot? Going to take a hand?"

	"I too, might call on Dr. Roberts."

	"Two of us in one day. That ought to put the wind up him."

	"Oh, I shall be very discreet. I shall not inquire into his past life."

"I'd like to know just exactly what line you'll take," said Battle curiously, "but
don't tell me unless you want to."

"Du tout--du tout. I am most willing. I shall talk a little of bridge, that is all."
"Bridge again. You harp on that, don't you, M. Poirot?" "I find the subject very useful."

"Well, every man to his taste. I don't deal much in these fancy approaches.
They don't suit my style."

"What is your style, superintendent?"

The superintendent met the twinkle in Poirot's eye with an answering twinkle
in his own.

"A straightforward, honest, zealous officer doing his duty in the most laborious
manner--that's my style. No frills. No fancy work. Just honest perspiration. Stolid

and a bit stupid--that's my ticket."

Poirot raised his glass.

"To our respective methodsand may success crown our joint efforts."

"I expect Colonel Race may get us something worth having about Despard,"
said Battle. "He's got a good many sources of information."

"And Mrs. Oliver?"



	420
	Agatha Christie

"Bit of a toss-up there. I rather like that woman. Talks a lot of nonsense, but
she's a sport. And women get to know things about other women that men can't get
at. She may spot something useful."
	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. Roberts' eyebrows rose comically as he greeted his guest.
	"Two sleuths in one day," he asked. "Handcuffs by this evening, I suppose."

	Poirot smiled.
"I can assure you, Dr. Roberts, that my attentions are being equally divided
between all four of you."
	"That's something to be thankful for, at all events. Smoke?"
	"If you permit, I prefer my own."
	Poirot lighted one of his tiny Russian cigarettes.
	"Well, what can I do for you?" asked Roberts.
	Poirot was silent for a minute or two puffing, then he said:

	"Are you a keen observer of human nature, doctor?"

	"I don't know. I suppose I am. A doctor has to be."
"That was exactly my reasoning. I said to myself, 'A doctor has always to be
studying his patients--their expressions, their colour, how fast they breathe, any
signs of restlessness--a doctor notices these things automatically almost without
noticing he notices! Dr. Roberts is the man to help me.'"
	"I'm willing enough to help. What's the trouble?"
Poirot produced from a neat little pocket-case three carefully folded bridge
scores.
"These are the first three rubbers the other evening," he explained. "Here is
the first one--in Miss Meredith's handwriting. Now can you tell me with this to
refresh your memory--exactly what the calling was and how each hand went?"
Roberts stared at him in astonishment.
	"You're joking, M. Poirot. How can I possibly remember?"
"Can't you? I should be so 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."
	"Let me seethat was the first hand. Yes, I think they went out in spades."

	"And the next hand?"
	"I suppose one or other of us went down fifty--but I can't remember which or
what it was in. Really, M. Poirot, you can hardly expect me to do so."
	"Can't you remember any of the calling or the hands?"
"I got a grand slam--I remember that. It was doubled too. And I also
remember going down a nasty smack--playing three no trumps, I think it was--went
down a packet. But that was later on."
	"Do you remember with whom you were playing?"
"Mrs. Lorrimer. She looked a bit grim, I remember. Didn't like my overcalling, I expect."
	"And you can't remember any other of the hands or the calling?"
	Roberts laughed.
	"My dear M. Poirot, did you really expect I could. First there was the
	murder---enough to drive the most spectacular hands out of one's mind
	and in
	addition I've played at least half a dozen rubbers since then."

	Poirot sat looking rather crestfallen.

	"I'm sorry," said Roberts.
	"It does not matter very much," said Poirot slowly. "I hoped that you might


	Cards on the Table
	421

remember one or two, at least, of the hands, because I thought they might be
valuable landmarks in remembering other things."
"What other things?"
"Well, 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,rieks by failing to lead an obvious card."
Dr. Roberts became suddenly serious. He leaned forward in his chair.
"Ah," he said. "Now I see what you're driving at. Forgive me. I thought at
first you were talking pure nonsense. You mean that the murder--the successful
accomplishment of the murder--might have made a definite difference in the
guilty party's play?"
Poirot nodded.
"You have seized the idea correctly. It would be a clue of the first excellence if
you had been four players who knew each other's game well. A variation, a sudden
lack of brilliance, a missed oppOrtunity--that 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 inequalities--any sudden glaring mistakes--in the play of any one?"
There was silence for a minute or two, then Dr. Roberts shook his head.
"It's no good. I can't help you," he said frankly. "I simply don't remember. All
I can tell you is what I told you before: Mrs. Lorrimer is a first-class player--she
never made a slip that I noticed. She was brilliant from start to finish. Despard's
play was uniformly good too. Rather a conventional player--that is, his bidding is
strictly conventional. He never steps outside the rules. Won't take a long chance.
Miss Meredith "He hesitated.
"Yes? Miss Meredith?" Poirot prompted him.
"She did make mistakes--once or twiceI remember--towards the end of the
evening, but that may simply have been because she was tired--not being a very
	experienced player. Her hand shook, too
	"
	He stopped.

	"When did her hand shake?"

	"When was it now? I can't remember 	I
think she was just nervous. M.
	Poirot,
you're making me imagine things."
	"I apologise. There is another point on which I seek your help."
	"Yes?"
	Poirot
said slowly:
"It is difficult. I do not, you see, wish to ask you a leading question. If I say, did you
notice so and so--well, 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."
	Roberts
looked thoroughly astonished.
	"The
contents of the room?"
	"If you will be so good."
	"My dear fellow, I simply don't know where to begin."
	"Begin
anywhere you choose."
	"Well,
there was a good deal of furniturc	"
	"Non,
non, non, be precise, I pray of you."

	Dr. Roberts sighed.
	He began facetiously after the manner of an auctioneer.
	"One large settee upholstered in ivory brocadeone ditto in green ditto--


422
	Agatha Christie

four or five large chairs. Eight or nine Persian rugs--a set of twelve small gilt

Empire chairs. William and Mary bureau. (I feel just like an auctioneer's clerk.)

Very beautiful Chinese cabinet. Grand piano. There was other furniture but I'm

afraid I didn't notice it. Six first-class Japanese prints. Two Chinese pictures on

looking-glass. Five or six very beautiful snuff-boxes. Some Japanese ivory netsuke

figures on a table by themselves. Some old silver--Charles I. tazzas, I think. One

or two pieces of Battersea enamel--"

"Bravo, bravo!" Poirot applauded.

"A couple of old English slipware birds--and, I think, a Ralph Wood figure.
Then there was some Eastern stuff--intricate silver work. Some jewellery, I don't
know much about that. Some Chelsea birds, I remember. Oh, and some
miniatures in a case-pretty good ones, I fancy. That's not all by a long way--but
it's all I can think of for the minute."

"It is magnificent," said Poirot with due appreciation. "You have the true
observer's eye."

The doctor asked curiously:

"Have I included the object you had in mind?"

"That is the interesting thing about it,"said Poirot. "If you had mentioned the
object I had in mind it would have been extremely surprising to me. As I thought,

you would not mention it."

"Why?"

Poirot twinkled.

"Perhaps--because it was not there to mention."

Roberts stared.

"That seems to remind me of something."

"It 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."

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


"That is excellent, that. In confidence, that is how I get my little effects."

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

"You may at least comprehend this, what you have told me is going to be very

helpful to me in my next interview."

The doctor rose also.

"I can't see how, but I'll take your work for it," he said.

They shook hands.

Poirot went down the steps of the doctor's house, and hailed a passing taxi.
"111 Cheyne Lane, Chelsea," he told the driver.


CHAPTER 11
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.



	Cards on the Table
	423

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

and apron.

	In answer to Poirot's inquiry she said that her mistress was at home.

	She preceded him up the narrow staircase.

	"What name, sir?"

	"M. Hercule Poirot."

	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 spe and light, and some

really beautiful chrysanthemums arranged in a tall

	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.

	"I hope, Madame," said Hercule Poirot, "that you will forgive this visit."

	Looking directly at him, Mrs. Lorrimer asked:

	"Is this a professional visit?"

	"I confess it."

	"You realise, I suppose, M0 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?"

	"I am quite aware of that fact, Madame. If you show me the door, me, I march

	to that door with complete submission."

	Mrs. Lorrimer smiled very slightly.

	"I 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."

	"Ten minutes will be ample for my purpose. I want you to describe to me,

	madame, the room in which you played bridge the other evening--the room in

	which Mr. Shaitana was killed."

	Mrs. Lorrimer's eyebrows rose.

	"What an extraordinary questionl I do not see the point of it."

	"Madame, if when you were playing bridge, some one were to say to you--

	why 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?"

		Mrs. Lorrimer smiled slightly.

		"Meaning that in this game you are the expert and I am the novice. Very

	well." She reflected a minute. "It was a large room. There were a good many things

	in it."

		"Can you describe 'some of those things?"
	"There were some glass flowers--modern--rather beautiful 	And
I think
there
were some Chinese or Japanese pictures. And there was a bowl of tiny red
tulips--amazingly
early for them."
	"Anything
else?"
	"I'm afraid I didn't notice anything in detail."
	"The
furniturc do you remember the colour of the upholstery?"
	"Something
silky, I think. That's all I can say."
	"Did
you notice any of the small objects?"
"I'm
afraid not. There were so many. I know it struck me as quite a collector's room."
There
was a silence for a minute. Mrs. Lorrimer said with a faint smile:


424
	Agatha Christie

"I'm afraid I have not been very helpful,"
"There is something else." He produced the bridge scores. "Here are the first
three rubbers played. I wondered if you could help me with the aid of these scores
to reconstruct the hands."
"Let me see." Mrs. Lorrimer looked interested. She bent over the scores. "That 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."
"Epatant,'" said Poirot. "What a memory!"
Mrs. Lorrimer went on, disregarding him:
"On 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."
She took up the next score.
"It is difficult, that," said Poirot. "Major Despard scores in the cancellation
manner."
"I rather fancy both sides went down fifty to start with--then Dr. Roberts
went down to five diamonds and we doubled and got him down 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."
She picked up the next score.
"This 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
spades--no 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 spade, 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 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."
'Je crois bien--a 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."
"Oh, but you shouldn't," said Mrs. Lorrimer with energy. "You must play the
game properly."
"Take risks, you mean?"
"There 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


Cards on the Table 425

	winning cards in it and a hand without losing cards
	but I mustn't give you a
	lecture on bridge, or on the losing count, M. Poirot."

	"It would improve my play, I am sure, Madame."

	Mrs. Lorrimer resumed her study of the score.
	"After that excitement the next hands were rather tame. Have you the fourth
score there? Ah, yes. A ding-dong barrio neither side able to score below."
	"It is often like that as the evening wears on."
	"Yes, one starts tamely and then the cards get worked up."
	Poirot collected the scores and made a little bow.
	"Madame, I congratulate you. Your card memory is magnificent--but
	You remember, one might say, every card that was//15Iayed!"

magnificent!
	"I believe I do."

		/
"Memory is a wonderful gift. With it the past is never the past--I should
imagine, Madame, that to you the past unrolls itself, every incident clear as
yesterday. Is that so?"
	She looked at him quickly. Her eyes were wide and dark.
	It was only for a moment, then she had resumed her woman-ofthe-world
manner, but Hercule Poirot did not doubt. That shot had gone home.
	Mrs. Lorrimer rose.
"I'm afraid I shall have to leave now. I am so sorry--but I really mustn't be
late."
	"Of course not---of course not. I apologise for trespassing on your time."

	"I'm sorry I haven't been able to help you more."

	"But you have helped me," said Hercule Poirot.

	"I hardly think so."
She spoke with decision.
"But yes. You have told me something I wanted to know."
She asked no question as to what that something was.
He held out his hand,
"Thank you, Madame, for your forbearance."
As she shook hands with him she said:
"You are an extraordinary man, M. Poirot." "I am as the good God made me, Madame." "We are all that, I suppose."
"Not all, Madame. Some of us have tried to improve on His pattern. Mr.
Shaitana, for instance."
"In what way do you mean?"
"He had a very pretty taste in objets de virtu and bric-a-brac--he should have
been content with that. Instead, he collected other things."
"What sort of things?"
"Well--shall we say--sensations?"
"And don't you think that was clans son caractre?"
Poirot shook his head gravely.
"He played the part of the devil too successfully. But he was not the devil. Au
fond, he was a stupid man. And so--he died."
"Because he was stupid?"
"It is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, Madame."
There was a silence. Then Poirot said:
"I take my departure. A thousand thanks for your amiability, Madame. I will
not come again unless you send for me."
Her eyebrows rose.


	426
	Agatha Christie


"Dear me, M. Poirot, why should I send for you?"

"You might. It is just an idea. If so, I will come. Remember that."
He bowed once more and left the room.

In the street he said to himself.

"I am right .... I am sure I am right .... It must be that!"


CHAPTER 12
Anne Meredith


Mrs. Oliver extricated herself from the driving-seat of her little two-seater with
some difficulty. To begin with, the makers of modem motor-cars assume that only
a pair of sylph-like 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 hangbag, 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
offwhilst composing the complicated plot of The Death in the Drain Pipe--coming to herself with a start and an incipient stomach-ache 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 the 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 absent-mindedly 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 raag the bell and executed-a cheerful

little rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker--a quaint coaceit in the form of a toad's 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 sua 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.

"How do you do, Miss Meredith? You remember me, don't you?"

"Oh--oh, of course.' Anne Meredith extended her hand hurriedly. Her eyes
looked wide and startled. Then she pulled herself together.

"This is my friend who lives with me--Miss Dawes. Rhoda, this is Mrs.
Oliver."

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

"Oh, are you the Mrs. Oliver? Ariadne Oliver?"



	Cards on the Table
	427

"I am," said Mrs. Oliver, and she added to Anne, "Now let us sit down
somewhere, my dear, because I've got a lot to say to you."
"Of course. And we'll have tea- "
'"Tea can wait," 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.
"Now, my dear," she said briskly. "Don't let's beat about the bush. About this
murder the other evening. We've got to get busy and do something."
"Do something?" queried Anne.
"Naturally," said Mrs. Oliver. "I don't know what you think, but I haven't the
least doubt who did it. That doctor. What was his name? Roberts. That's 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 bume. Very
unstable. But never mind about her. Roberts did it--that's the point and we must
put our heads together and prove he did."
Rhoda Dawes laughed suddenly--then she blushed.
"I beg your pardon. But you're--you're so different from what I would have
imagined."
"A disappointment, I expect," said Mrs. Oliver serenely. "I'm used to that.
Never mind. What we must do is prove that Roberts did it!"
"How can we?" said Anne.
"Oh, don't be so defeatist, Anne," cried Rhoda Dawes. "I think Mrs. Oliver's
splendid. Of course, she knows all about these things. She'll do just as Sven
Hjerson does."
Blushing slightly at the name of her celebrated Finnish detective, Mrs. Oliver
said:
"It's got to be done, and I'll tell you why, child. You don't want people
thinking you did it?"
"Why should they?" asked Anne, her colour rising.
"You know what people are!" said Mrs. Oliver. "The three who didn't do it
will come in for just as much suspicion as the one who did."
Anne Meredith said slowly:
"I still don't quite see why you came to me, Mrs. Oliver?"
"Because in my opinion the other two don't matter! Mrs. Lorrimer is one of
those women who play bridge at bridge clubs all day. Women like that must be
made of armour-plating--they can look after themselves all right! And anyway she's
old. It wouldn't matter ffany one thought she'd done it. A girl's different. She's got
her life in front of her."
"And Major Despard?" asked Anne.
"Pah!" said Mrs. Oliver. "He's 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. He's getting his fun at home instead of on the Irrawaddy--or
do I mean the Limpopo? You know what I mean--that yellow African river that
men like so much. No, I'm not worrying my head about either of those two."
"It's very kind of you," said Anne slowly.
"It was a beastly thing to happen," said Rhoda. "It's broken Anne up, Mrs.
Oliver. She's awfully sensitive. And I think you're quite right. It would be ever so
much better to do something than just to sit here thinking about it all."
"Of course it would," said Mrs. Oliver. "To tell you the truth, a real murder
has never come my way before. And, to continue telling the truth, I don't believe


	428
	Agatha Christie

real murder is very much in my line. I'm so used to loading the dice--ff you
understand what I mean. But I wasn't going to be out of it and let those three men
have all the fun to themselves. I've always said that if a woman were the head of
Scotland Yard "
"Yes?" said Rhoda, leaning forward with parted lips. "If you were head of
Scotland Yard, what would you do?"
"I should arrest Dr. Roberts straight away--"
"Yes?"
"However, I'm not the head of Scotland Yard," said Mrs. Oliver, retreating
from dangerous ground. "I'm a private individual "
"Oh, you're not that," said Rhoda, confusedly complimentary.
"Here we are," continued Mrs. Oliver, "three private individuals--all
women. Let us see what we can do by putting our heads together."
Anne Meredith nodded thoughtfully. Then she said: "Why do you think Dr, Roberts did it?"
"He's that sort of man," replied Mrs. Oliver promptly.
"Don't you think, though ' Anne hesitated. "Wouldn't a doctor ? I
mean, something like poison would be so much easier for him."
"Not at all. Poison--drugs 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 he'd take special care not to
use anything of a medical kind."
"I see," said Anne doubtfully.
Then she said:
"But why do you think he wanted to kill Mr. Shaitana? Have you any idea?"
"Idea? I've got any amount of ideas. In fact, that's 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 then it's agony to decide between them. I can think of six beautiful
reasons for the murder. The trouble is I've 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 couldn't 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
Shaitana's second cousin, and will inherit all Shaitana's money through her. Or '
How many have I got to?"
"Four," said Rhoda.
"Or--and this is a really good one--suppose Shaitana knew some secret in
Roberts' past. Perhaps you didn't notice, my dear, but Shaitana said something
rather peculiar at dinner--just before a rather queer pause."
Anne stooped to tickle a caterpillar. She said, "I don't think I remember."
"What did he say?" asked Rhoda.
"Something about--what was it? an accident and poison. Don't you remember?''
Anne's left hand tightened on the basketwork of her chair.
"I do remember something of the kind," she said composedly.
Rhoda said suddenly, "Darling, you ought ,to have a coat. It's not summer,
remember. Go and get one,"
Anne shook her head. "I'm quite warm."
But she gave a queer little shiver as she spoke.
"You see my theory," went on Mrs. Oliver. "I dare say one of the doctor's


	Cards o the Table
	429


patients poisoned himself by accident; but, of course, really, it was the doctor's
own doing. I dare say he's murdered lots of people that way."

A sudden colour came into Anne's cheeks. She said, "Do doctors usually want
to murder their patients wholesale? Wouldn't it have rather a regrettable effect on
their practice?"

"There would be a reason, of course," said Mrs. Oliver vaguely:

"I think the idea is absurd," said Anne crisply. "Absolutely absurdly
melodramatic."

"Oh, Anne!" 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. "Try and understand. Try and understand," those eyes said.

"I think it's a splendid idea, Mrs. Oliver," Rhoda said earnestly. "And a doctor

could get hold of somethitig quite untraceable, couldn't he?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Anne.

The other two turned to look at her.

"I remember something else," she said. "Mr. Shaitana said something about a
doctor's opportunities in a laboratory. He must have meant something by that."

"It wasn't Mr. Shaitana who said that." Mrs. Oliver shook her head. "It was
Major Despard."

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

"Well!" she exclaimed. "Talk of the devil!"

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


CHAPTER 13
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.

"I apologise, Miss Meredith," he said. "Been ringing your bell. Nothing
happened. Was passing this way. Thought I might just look you up,"

"I'm so sorry you've been ringing," said Anne. "We haven't got a maid---only a

woman who comes in the mornings."
She introduced him to Rhoda.
Rhoda said briskly:

"Let's have some tea. It's getting chilly. We'd better go in."

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

said:

"This is quite a coincidence--our all meeting here."

Despard said slowly, "Yes."

His eyes rested on her thoughtfully--appraising eyes.

"I've been telling Miss Meredith," said Mrs. Oliver, who was thoroughly
enjoying herself, "that we ought to have a Plan of campaign. About the murder, I

mean. Of course, that doctor did it. Don't you agree with me?"

"Couldn't say. Very little to go on."

Mrs. Oliver put on her "How like a man!" expression.



430
	Agatha Christie

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 wouldn't have any tea.
"I'm going to leave you my card," she said. "Here it is, with my address on it.
Come and see me when you come up to town, and we'll talk everything over and
see if we can't think of something ingenious to get to the bottom of things."
"I'll come out to the gate with you," said Rhoda.
Just as they were walking down the path to the front gate, Anne Meredith ran
out of the house and overtook them.
"I've been thinking things over," she said.
Her pale face looked unusually resolute.
"Yes, my dear?"
"It's extraordinarily kind of you, Mrs. Oliver, to have taken all this trouble.
But I'd really rather not do anything at all. I mean--it was all so horrible. I just
want to forget about it."
"My dear child, the question is, will you be allowed to forget about it?"
"Oh, I quite understand that the police won't let it drop. They'll probably
come here and ask me a lot more questions. I'm prepared for that. But privately, I
mean, I don't want to think about it--or be reminded of it in any way. I dare say
I'm a coward, but that's how I feel about it."
"Oh, Anne!" cried Rhoda Dawes.
"I can understand your feeling, but I'm not at all sure that you're wise," said
Mrs. Oliver. "Left to themselves, the police will probably never find out the
truth."
Anne Meredith shrugged her shoulders.
"Does that really matter?"
"Matter?" cried Rhoda. "Of course it matters. It does matter, doesn't it, Mrs.
Oliver?"
"I should certainly say so," said Mrs. Oliver dryly.
"I don't agree," said Anne obstinately. "Nobody who knows me would ever
think I'd done it. I don't see any reason for interfering. It's the business of the
police to get at the truth."
"Oh, Anne, you are spiritless," said Rhoda.
"That's how I feel, anyway," said Anne. She held out her hand. "Thank you
very much, Mrs. Oliver. It's very good of you to have bothered."
"Of course, if you feel that way, there's nothing more to be said," said Mrs.
Oliver cheerfully. "I, at any rate, shall not let the grass grow under my feet. Goodbye,
my dear. Look me up in London if you change your mind."
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.
"What you said about looking you up in London," she said breathlessly.
"Did you only mean Anne, or did you mean me, too?"
Mrs. Oliver applied the brake. "I meant both of you, of course."
"Oh, thank you. Don't stop. I--perhaPs I might come one day. There's
something--- No, don't stop. I can jump off."
She did so and, waving a hand, ran back to the gate, where Anne was
standing.
"What on earth ?" began Anne.
"Isn't she a duck?" asked Rhoda enthusiastically. "I do like her. She had on


	Cards on the Table
	431

odd stockings, did you notice? I'm sure she's frightfully clever. She must be--to
write all those books. What fun if she found out the truth when the police and
every one were baffled."
"Why did she come here?" asked Anne.
Rhoda's eyes opened wide.
"Darling--she told you--Anne
made an impatient gesture.
"We must go in. I forgot. I've left him all alone."
Major Despard was standing by the mantelpiece, teacup in hand.
He cut short Anne's apologies for leaving him.
"Miss Meredith, I want to explain why I've butted in like this."
"Oh--but "
"I said that I happened to be passing--that wasn't strictly true. I came here on
purpose."
"How did you know my address?" asked Anne slowly. "I got it from Superintendent Battle."
He saw her shrink slightly at the name.
He went on quickly:
"Battle's 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."
"But why?"
Despard hesitated just for a minute.
"I may have been presumptuous--but I had the impression that you were,
perhaps, what is called 'alone in the world.'"
"She's got me," 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.
"I'm sure she couldn't have a more devoted friend than you, Miss Dawes," he
said courteously; "but it occurred to me that, in the peculiar circumstances, the
advice of some one with a good dash of worldly wisdom might not be amiss.
Frankly, the situation is this: Miss Meredith is under suspicion of having
committed murder. The same applies to me and to the two other people who were
in the room last night. Such a situation is not agreeableand it has its own peculiar
difficulties and dangers which some one as young and inexperienced as you are,
Miss Meredith, might not recognise. In my opinion, you ought to put yourself in
the hands of a thoroughly good solicitor. Perhaps you have already done so?"
Anne Meredith shook her head. "I never thought of it."
"Exactly as I suspected. Have you got a good man--a London man, for
choice?"
Again Anne shook her head.
"I've hardly ever needed a solicitor."
"There's Mr. Bury," said Rhoda. "But he's about a hundred-and-two, and
quite gaga."
"If you'll 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. They're first-class people, and they know all the ropes."
Anne had got paler. She sat down.
"Is it really necessary?" she asked in a low voice.
"I should say emphatically so. There are all sorts of legal pitfalls."


	432
	Agatha Christie

"Are these people very--expensive?-
"That doesn't matter a bit," said Rhoda. "That will be quite all right, Major
Despard. I think everything you say is quite true. Anne ought to be protected."
"Their charges will, I think, be quite reasonable," said Despard. He added
seriously: "I really do think it's a wise course, Miss Meredith." "Very well," said Anne slowly. "I'll do it if you think so."
"Good."
Rhoda said warmly:
"I think it's awfully nice of you, Major Despard. Really frightfully nice."
Anne said, "Thank you."
She hesitated, and then said:
"Did you say Superintendent Battle was coming here?"
"Yes. You mustn't be alarmed by that. It's inevitable."
"Oh, I know. As a matter of fact, I've been expecting him."
Rhoda said impulsively:
"Poor darling--it's nearly killing her, this business. It's such a shamso
frightfully unfair."
Despard said:
"I agree--it's a pretty beastly businessdragging a young girl into an affair of
this kind. If any one wanted to stick a knife into Shaitana, they ought to have
chosen some other place or time."
Rhoda asked squarely:
"Who do you think did it? Dr. Roberts or that Mrs. Lorrimer?"
A very faint smile stirred Despard's moustache.
"May have done it myself, for all you know."
"Oh, no," cried Rhoda. "Anne and I know you didn't do it."
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 she'd been
in her friend's place. Nice girls. He'd like to know more about them.
These thoughts passed through his mind. Aloud he said:
"Never take anything for granted, Miss Dawes. I don't set as much value on
human life as most people do. All this hysterical fuss about road deaths for
instance. Man is always in danger from traffic, from germs, from a hundred-and-one
things. As well be killed one way as another. The moment you begin being
careful of yourself adopting as your motto 'Safety First'-you might as well be
dead, in my opinion."
"Oh, I do agree with you," cried Rhoda. "I think one ought to live frightfully
dangerously--if one gets the chance, that is. But life, on the whole, is terribly
tame."
"It has its moments."
"Yes, 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
everything's terribly uncomfortable but frightfully thrilling."
"Well, Miss Meredith has had her thrill, too. I don't suppose it often happens
that you've actually been in the room while a murder was committed--"
"Oh, don't!" cried Anne.
He said quickly: "I'm sorry."
But Rhoda said with a sigh:
"Of course it was awful but it was exciting, too! I don't think Anne


	Cards on the Table
	433

appreciates that side of it. You know, I think that Mrs. Oliver is thrilled to the core
to have been there that night."
"Mrs ? Oh, your fat friend who writes the books about the unpronounceable
Finn. Is she trying her hand at detection in real life?"
"She wants to."
"Well, let's wish her luck. It would be amusing if she put one over on Battle
and Co."
"What is Superintendent Battle like?" asked Rhoda curiously.
Major Despard said gravely:
"He's an extraordinarily astute man. A man of remarkable ability."
"Oh!" said Rhoda. "Anne said he looked rather stupid."
"That, I should imagine, is part of Battle's stock-in-trade. But we mustn't
make any mistakes. Battle's no fool."
He rose.
"Well, I must be off. There's just one other thing I'd like to say."
Anne had risen also.
"Yes?" 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.
"Don't be offended with me," he said. "I just want to say this: It's humanly
possible that there may be some feature of your acquaintanceship with Shaitana
that you don't want to come out. If so--don't be angry, please" (he felt the
instinctive pull of her hand)"you are perfectly within your rights in refusing to
answer any questions Battle may ask unless your solicitor is present."
Anne tore her hand away. Her eyes opened, their grey darkening with anger.
"There's nothing--nothing .... I hardly knew the beastly man." "Sorry," said Major Despard. "Thought I ought to mention it."
"It's quite true," said Rhoda. "Anne barely knew him. She didn't like him
much, but he gave frightfully good parties."
"That," said Major Despard grimly, "seems to have been the only justification
for the late Mr. Shaitana's existence."
Anne said in a cold voice:
"Superintendent Battle can ask me anything he likes. I've nothing to hide nothing."
Despard said very gently, "Please forgive me."
She looked at him. Her anger dwindled. She smiled it was a very sweet
smile.
"It's all right," she said. "You meant it kindly, I know."
She held out her hand again. He took it and said:
"We're in the same boat, you know. We ought to be pals .... "
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.
"He's frightfully attractive, Anne."
"He's nice, isn't he?"
"A great deal more than nice .... I've got an absolute passion for him. Why
wasn't I at that damned dinner instead of you? I'd have enjoyed the excitement--
the net closing round me--the shadow of the scaffold-- "No, you wouldn't. You're talking nonsense, Bhoda.'
Anne's voice was sharp. Then it softened as she said:
"It was nice of him to come all this way--for a stranger--a girl he's only met
once."


	434
	Agatha Christie


"Oh, he fell for you. Obviously. Men don't do purely disinterested kindnesses.
He wouldn't have come toddling down if you'd been cross-eyed and
covered with pimples!"

	"Don't you think so?"

	"I do not, my good idiot. Mrs. Oliver's a much more disinterested party."

	"I don't like her," said Anne abruptly. "I had a sort of feeling about her 	I

wonder
what she really came for?"
"The
usual suspicions of your own sex. I dare say Major Despard had an axe to grind,
if it comes to that."
	"I'm
sure he hadn't," cried Anne hotly.
	Then
she blushed as Rhoda Dawes laughed.

CHAPTER
14 Third
Visitor

Superintendent
Battle arrived at Wallingford about six o'clock. 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 one of these weekenders wanting to take a furnished cottage,"
and two more would have said they knew positively, and for a fact, that he
was the representative of a hardcourt tennis firm.
The information that
the superintendent gathered was entirely favourable. "Wendon Cottage? Yes,
that's right--on the Marlbury Road. You can't miss it. Yes, two young
ladies. Miss Dawes and Miss Meredith. Very nice young ladies,. too. The quiet
kind.
"Here for years?
Oh, no, not that long. Just over two years. September quarter they came
in. Mr. Pickersgill they bought it from. Never used it much, he didn't, after his
wife died."
Superintendent Battle's 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 didn't think two young ladies ought to be living alone.
But very quiet, they were. None of this cocktail-drinking week-end 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 superintendent's researches
at last led him inevitably to Mrs. Astwell---
who "did" for
the ladies at Wendon Cottage.
Mrs. Astwell was
a loquacious lady.
"Well, no, sir.
I hardly think they'd want to sell. Not so soon. They only got in two years ago.
I've done for them from the beginning, yes, sir. Eight o'clock till twelve, those are
my hours. Very nice, lively young ladies, always ready for a joke or a bit of
fun. Not stuck-up at all."


	Cards on the Table
	435


"Well, of course, I couldn't say ffit's the same Miss Dawes you knew, sir--the
same family, I mean. It's my fancy her home's in Devonshire. She gets the cream
sent her now and again, and says it reminds her of home; so I think it must be.

"As you say, sir, it's sad for so many young ladies having to earn their livings
nowadays. These young ladies aren't what you'd call rich, but they have a very
pleasant life. It's Miss Dawes has got the money, of course. Miss Anne's her
companion, in a manner of speaking, I suppose you might say. The cottage belongs
to Miss Dawes.

"I couldn't really say what part Miss Anne comes from. I've heard her mention
the Isle of Wight, and I know she doesn't like the North of England; and she and
Miss Rhoda were together in Devonshire, because I've heard them joke about the
hills and talk about the pretty coves and beaches."

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.
"Miss Meredith live here?" inquired Superintendent Battle.
He looked very wooden and soldierly.
"Yes, she does."

"I'd like to speak to her, please. Superintendent Battle."

He was immediately favoured with a piercing stare.

"Come in," 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 crape-de-chine pyjamas.

"It's Superintendent Battle," said Rhoda, ushering in the guest.

Anne rose and came forward with outstretched hand.

"A bit late for a call," said Battle. "But I wanted to find you in, and it's been a
fine day."

Anne smiled.

"Will you have some coffee, superintendent? Rhoda, fetch another cup."
"Well, it's very kind of you, Miss Meredith."

"We think we make rather good coffee," 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.
"We've been expecting you," said Anne.

Her tone was almost reproachful. "Why have you neglected me?" it seemed to

say.

"Sorry, Miss Meredith. I've had a lot of routine work to do."

"Satisfactory?"

"Not particularly. But it all has to be done. I've turned Dr. Roberts inside out,
so to speak. And the same for Mrs. Lorrimer. And now I've come to do the same

for you, Miss Meredith."
Anne smiled.
"I'm ready."

"What about Major Despard?" asked Rhoda.

"Oh, he won't be overlooked. I can promise you that," said Battle.

He set down his coffee-cup and looked towards Anne. She sat up a little
straighter in her chair.



	436
	Agatha Christie


	"I'm quite ready, superintendent. What do you want to know?"

	"Well, roughly, all about yourself, Miss Meredith."

	"I'm quite a respectable person," said Anne, smiling.

	"She's led a blameless life, too," said Rhoda. "I can answer for that."

	"Well, that's very nice," said Superintendent Battle cheerfully. "You've

known Miss Meredith a long time, then?"

	"We were at school together," said Rhoda. "What ages ago it seems, doesn't

	it, Anne?"

	"So long ago, you can hardly remember it, I suppose," said Battle with a

	chuckle. "Now, then, Miss Meredith, I'm afraid I'm going to be rather like those

	forms you fill up for passports."

	"I was born
	"began Anne.

	"Of poor but honest parents," Rhoda put in.

	Superintendent Battle held up a slightly reproving hand.

	"Now, now, young lady," he said.

	"Rhoda, darling," said Anne gravely. "It's serious, this."

	"Sorry," said Rhoda.

	"Now, Miss Meredith, you were born--where?"

	"At Quetta, in India."

	"Ah, yes. Your people were Army folk?"

"Yes--my 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."
Battle nodded his head sympathetically.
"Bit of a shock to you, I expect."

"It was, rather. I always knew that we weren't well off, but to find there was

practically nothing--well, that's different."

"What did you do, Miss Meredith?"

"I had to take a job. I hadn't been particularly well educated and I wasn't
clever. I didn't know typing or shorthand, or anything. A friend in Cheltenham
found me a job with friends of hers--two small boys home in the holidays, and

general help in the house."

"Name, please?"

"That 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."

"My aunt," put in Rhoda.

"Yes, Rhoda got me the job. I was very happy. Rhoda used to come and stay
sometimes, and we had great fun."

"What were you there companion?"

"Yes--it amounted to that.".

"More like under-gardener," said Rhoda.

She explained:

"My Aunt Emily is just mad on gardening. Anne spent most of her time
weeding or putting in bulbs."

"And you left Mrs. Deering?"

"Her health got worse, and she had to have a regular nurse."

"She's got cancer," said Rhoda. "Poor darling, she has to have morphia and
things like that."

"She had been very kind to me. I was very sorry to go," went on Anne.

"I was looking about for a cottage," said Rhoda, "and wanting some one to
share it with me. Daddy's married again--not my sort at all. I asked Anne to come
here with me, and she's been here ever since."



	Cards on the Table
	43 7

"Well, that certainly seems a most blameless life," said Battle. "Let's just get
the dates clear. You were with Mrs. Eldon two years, you say. By the way, what is
her address now?"
"She's in Palestine. Her husband has some Government appointment out
there---I'm not sure what."
"Ah, well, I can soon find out. And after that you went to Mrs. Deering?"
"I was with her three years," said Anne quickly. "Her address is Marsh Dene,
Little Hembury, Devon."
"I see," said Battle. "So you are now twenty-five, Miss Meredith. Now,
there's just one thing morthe name and address of a couple of people in
Cheltenham who knew you and your father."
Anne supplied him with these.
"Now, about this irip to Switzerland where you met Mr. Shaitana. Did you
go alone there--or was Miss Dawes here with you?"
"We went out together. We joined some other people. There was a. party of
eight."
"Tell me about your meeting with Mr. Shaitana."
Anne crinkled her brows.
"There's really nothing to tell. He was just there. We knew him in the way
you do know people in a hotel. He got first prize at the Fancy Dress Ball. He went
as Mephistopheles."
Superintendent Battle sighed.
"Yes, that always was his favourite effect."
"He really was marvellous," said Rhoda. "He hardly had to make-up at all."
The superintendent looked from one girl to the other.
"Which of you two young ladies knew him best?"
Anne hesitated. It was Rhoda who answered.
"Both 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."
"I just think he did it to annoy me," said Anne. "Because I didn't like him. I
think it amused him to make me feel embarrassed."
Rhoda said, laughing:
"We told Anne it would be a nice rich marriage for her. She got simply wild
with us."
"Perhaps," said Battle, "you'd give me the names of the other people in your
party?"
"You aren't what I'd call a trustful man," said Rhoda. "Do you think that every
word we're telling you is downright lies?"
Superintendent Battle twinkled.
"I'm going to make quite sure it isn't, anyway," he said.
"You are suspicious," said Rhoda.
She scribbled some names on a piece of paper and gave it to him.
Battle rose.
"Well, thank you very much, Miss Meredith," he said. "As Miss Dawes says,
you seem to have led a particularly blameless life. I don't think you need worry
much. It's odd the way Mr. Shaitana's manner changed to you. You'll excuse my
asking, but he didn't ask you to marry him--or-er--pester you with attentions of
another kind?"
"He didn't try to seduce her," said Rhoda helpfully. "If that's what you mean."


	438
	Agatha Christie

Anne was blushing.
"Nothing of the kind," she said. "He was always most polite and and--
formal. It was just his elaborate manners that made me uncomfortable."
"And little things he said or hinted?"
"Yes-at least--no. He never hinted things."
"Sorry. These lady-killers do sometimes. Well, good-night, Miss Meredith.
Thank you very much. Excellent coffee. Good-night, Miss Dawes."
"There," said Rhoda as Anne came back into the room after shutting the front
door after Battle. "That's over, and not so very terrible. He's a nice fatherly man,
and he evidently doesn't suspect you in the least. It was all ever so much better
than I expected."
Anne sank down with a sigh.
"It was really quite easy," she said. "It was silly of me to work myself up so. I
thought he'd try to browbeat me--like K.C. s on the stage."
"He looks sensible," said Rhoda. "He'd know well enough you're not a
murdering kind of female."
She hesitated and then said:
"I say, Anne, you didn't mention being at Croftways. Did you forget?"
Anne said slowly:
"I didn't think it counted. I was only there a few months. And there's no one
to ask about me there. I can write and tell him if you think it matters; but I'm sure
it doesn't. Let's leave it."
"Right, if you say so."
Rhoda rose and turned on the wireless.
A raucous voice said:
"You have just heard the Black Nubians play 'Why do you tell me lies, Baby?'"

CHAPTER 15
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 day--the 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 new-comer, but after a few minutes a tentative
voice murmured:
"It is a good view of London, is it not, that one gets from the top of a bus?"
Despard turned his head. He looked puzzled for a moment, then his face
cleared.
"I beg your pardon, M. Poirot. I didn't see it was you. Yes, as you say, one has
a good bird's-eye view of the world from here. It was better, though, in the old
days, when there wasn't all this caged-in glass business."


	Cards on the Table
	439


Poirot sighed.

"Tout de rru2me, it was not always agreeable in the wet weather when the

inside was full. And there is much wet weather in this country."

"Rain? Rain never did any harm to any one."

"You are in error," said Poirot. "It leads often to afluxion de poitrine.' Despard smiled.

"I see you belong to the well-wrapped-up school, M. Poirot."

Poirot was indeed well equipped against any treachery of an autumn day. He
wore a greatcoat and a muffler.

"Rather odd, running into you like this," 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.

"True. We have not seen each other since the evening at Mr. Shaitana's," he
replied.

"Aren't you taking a hand in that business?" asked Despard.

Poirot scratched his ear delicately.

"I reflect," he said. "I 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."
Despard said unexpectedly:

"Reflect, eh? Well, you might do worse. There's too much rushing about
nowadays. If people sat tight and thought about a thing before they tackled it,
there'd be less mess-ups than there are."

"Is that your procedure in life, Major Despard?"

"Usually," said the other simply. "Get your bearings, figure out your route,

weigh up the pros and cons, make your decision--and stick to it."

His mouth set grimly.

"And, after that, nothing will turn you from your path, eh?" asked Poirot.

"Oh, I don't say that. No use in being pig-headed over things. If you've made
a mistake, admit it."

"But I imagine that you do not often make a mistake, Major Despard." "We all make mistakes, M. Poirot."

"Some of us," said Poirot with a certain coldness, possibly due to the pronoun
the other had used, "make less than others."

Despard looked at him, smiled slightly and said:

"Don't you ever have a failure, M. Poirot?"

"The last time was twenty-eight years ago," said Poirot with dignity. "And

even then, there were circumstancesbut no matter."

"That seems a pretty good reord," said Despard.

He added: "What about Shaitana's death? That doesn't count, I suppose, since
it isn't officially your business."

"It is not my business--no. 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 nose by some one who mocks himself at my ability to solve it!"

"Not under your nose only," said Despard dryly. "Under the nose of the
Criminal Investigation Department also."

"That was probably a bad mistake," said Poirot gravely. "The good square
Superintendent Battle, he may look wooden, but he is not wooden in the head--not
at all."

"I agree," said Despard. "That stolidity is a pose. He's a very clever and able
officer."



	440
	Agatha Christie

	"And I think he is very active in the case."
"Oh, he's active enough. See a nice quiet soldierly-looking fellow on one of
the back seats?"
	Poirot looked over his shoulder.
	"There is no one here now but ourselves."
"Oh, well, he's inside, then. He never loses me. Very efficient fellow. Varies
his appearance, too, from time to time. Quite artistic about it."
"Ah, but that would not deceive you. You have the very quick and accurate
eye."
"I never forget a face even a black one--and that's a lot more than most
people can say.'
"You are just the person I need," said Poirot. "What a chance, meeting you
today! I need some one 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.
Shaitana's, and tell me what you remember of it."
Despard looked puzzled. "I don't quite understand."
	"Give me a description of the room--the furnishings--the objects in it."
"I don't know that I'm much of a hand at that sort of thing," said Despard
slowly. "It was a rotten sort of room--to my mind. Not a man's room at all. A lot of
brocade and silk and stuff. Sort of room a fellow like Shaitana would have."
	"But to particularise
	"
	Despard shook his head.

	"Afraid I didn't notice 	He'd
got some good rugs. Two Bokharas and three
or
four really good Persian ones, including a Hamadan and a Tabriz. Rather a good eland head--no,
that was in the hall. From Rowland Ward's, I expect."
"You do
not think that the late Mr. Shaitana was one to go out and shoot wild beasts?"
"Not
he.
Never potted anything but sitting game, I'll bet. What else was there? I'm
sorry to fail you, but I really can't 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 don't see many of
them. There
was some Malay stuff, too. No, I'm afraid I can't help you." "No matter," said
Poirot, looking slightly crestfallen. He went on:
	"Do 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." Despard shrugged his
shoulders.
"Some women are
like that. Because they play pretty well all day long, I suppose."
	"You could
not
do it, eh?"
	The other shook
his head.
"I just remember
a couple of hands. One where I could have got game in diamonds--and Roberts bluffed
me out of it. Went down himself, but we didn't double him, worse
luck. I remember a no trumper, too. Tricky business every
card wrong. We
went down a couplelucky not to have gone down more."
	"Do you play much bridge, Major Despard?"
	"No, I'm not a regular player. It's a good game, though."
	"You
prefer it to poker?"


	Cards on the Table
	441

	"I do personally. Poker's too much of a gamble."

	Poirot said thoughtfully:

	"I do not think Mr. Shaitana played any game any card game, that is."

	"There's only one game that Shaitana played consistently," said Despard

grimly.

	"And that?"

	"A lowdown game."

	Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

	"Is it that you know that? Or do you just think it?"

	Despard went brick red.

	"Meaning one oughtn't to say things without giving chapter and verse? I

suppose that's true. Well, it's accurate enough. I happen to know. On the other

hand, I'm not prepared to give chapter and verse. Such information as I've got

came to me privately."

	"Meaning a woman or women are concerned?"

	"Yes. Shaitana, like the dirty dog he was, preferred to deal with women."

	"You think he was a blackmailer? That is interesting."

	Despard shook his head.

	"No, no, you've misunderstood me. In a way, Shaitana was a blackmailer, but

	not the common or garden sort. He wasn't after money. He was a spiritual

	blackmailer, if there can be such a thing."

	"And he got out of it--what?"

	"He got a kick out of it. That's 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 it's a very effective pose with women. He'd only got to hint that he

	knew everything--and they'd start telling him a lot of things that perhaps he didn't

	know. That would tickle his sense of humour. Then he'd strut about in his

	Mephistophelian attitude of 'I know everything! I am the great Shaitana!' The man

	was an ape!"

	"So you think that he frightened Miss Meredith that way," said Poirot slowly.

	"Miss Meredith?" Despard stared. "I wasn't thinking of her. She isn't the kind

	to be afraid of a man like Shaitana."

		"Pardon. You meant Mrs. Lorrimer."

	"No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I was speaking generally. It wouldn't be

	easy to frighten Mrs. Lorrimer. And she's not the kind of woman who you can

	imagine having a guilty secret. No, I was not thinking of any one in particular."

	"It was the general method to which you referred?"

	".Exactly."

	"There is no doubt," said Poirot slowly, "that what you call a Dago often has a

	very clever understanding of women. He knows how to approach them. He worms
	secrets out of {hem
	"
	He paused.
	Despard broke in impatiently:
	"It's absurd. The man was a mountebank--nothing, really dangerous about
	him. And yet women were afraid of him. Ridiculously so.
	He started up suddenly.
"Hallo, I've overshot the mark. Got too interested in what we were
discussing. Good-bye, M. Poirot. Look down and you'll see my faithful shadow
leave the bus when I do."
He hurried to the back and down the steps. The conductor's bell jangled. But
a double pull sounded before it had time to stop.


	442
	Agatha Christie

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.
	"No one in particular," he murmured to himself. "Now, I wonder."

CHAPTER 16
The EvidenCe of Elsie Batt

Sergeant O'Connor was unkindly nicknamed by his colleagues at the Yard: "The
Maidservant's Prayer."
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 O'Connor got results, and got them quickly.
So rapid was he, that only four days after the murder of Mr. Shaitana,
Sergeant O'Connor 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 O'Connor was just
launching the great offensive.
" .Reminds me," he was saying, "of the way one of my old governors used
to carry on. Name of Craddock. He was an odd cuss, if you like."
"Craddock," said Elsie. "I was with some Craddocks once."
"Well, that's funny. Wonder whether they were the same?"
"Lived in North Audley Street, they did," said Elsie.
"My lot were going to London when I left them," said O'Connor promptly.
"Yes, I believe it was North Audley Street. Mrs. Craddock was rather a one for the
gents."
Elsie tossed her head.
"I'd no patience with her. Always finding fault and grumbling. Nothing you
did right."
"Her husband got some of it, too, didn't he?"
"She was always complaining he neglected her--that he didn't understand
her. And she was always saying how bad her health was and gasping and groaning.
Not ill at all, if you ask me."
O'Connor slapped his knee.
"Got it. Wasn't there something about her and some doctor? A bit too thick or
something?"
"You mean Dr. Roberts? He was a nice gentleman, he was."
"You girls, you're all alike," said Sergeant O'Connor. "The moment a man's a
bad lot, all the girls stick up for him. I know his kind."
"No, you' don't, and you're all wrong about him. There wasn't anything of that
kind about him. Wasn't his fault, was it, if Mrs. Craddock was always sending for
him? What's a doctor to do? If you ask me, he didn't think nothing of her at all,
except as a patient. It was all her doing. Wouldn't leave him alone, she wouldn't."


	Cards on the Table
	443

"That's all very well, Elsie. Don't mind me calling you Elsie, do you? Feel as
though I'd known you all my life."
"Well, you haven't! Elsie, indeed."
She tossed her head.
"Oh, very well, Miss Batt." He gave her a glance. "As I was saying, that's all
very well, but the husband, he cut up rough, all the same, didn't he?"
"He was a bit ratty one day," admitted Elsie. "But, ffyou ask me, he was ill at
the time. He died just after you know."
"I remember--died of something queer, didn't he?"
"Something Japanese, it was all from a new shaving brush he'd got. Seems
awful, doesn't it, that they're not more careful? I've not fancied anything Japanese
since."
"Buy British, that's my motto," said Sergeant O'Connor sententiously. "And
you were saying he and the doctor had a row?"
Elsie nodded, enjoying herself as -she re-lived past scandals.
"Hammer and tongs, they went at it," she said. "At least, the master did. Dr.
Roberts was ever so quiet. Just said, 'Nonsense.' And, 'What have you got into
your head?'"
"This was at the house, I suppose?"
"Yes. She'd 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."
"What did he say exactly?"
"Well, of course, I wasn't supposed to hear. It was all in the Missus's
bedroom. I thought something was up, so I got the dustpan and did the stairs. I
wasn't going to miss anything."
Sergeant O'Connor heartily concurred in this sentiment, reflecting how
fortunate it was that Elsie was being approached unofficially. On interrogation by
Sergeant O'Connor of the Police, she would have virtuously protested that she had
not overheard anything at all.
"As I say," went on Elsie, "Dr. Roberts, he was very quiet--the master was
doing all the shouting."
"What was he saying?" asked O'Connor, for the second time approaching the
vital point.
"Abusing of him proper," said Elsie with relish.
"How do you mean?"
Would the girl never come to actual words and phrases?
"Well, I didn't understand a lot of it," admitted Elsie. "There were a lot of
long words, 'unprofessional conduct,' and 'taking advantage,' and things like that--and
I heard him say he'd get Dr. Roberts struck off the Medical Register, would
it be? Something like that."
"That's right," said O'Connor. "Complain to the Medical Council."
"Yes, he said something like that. And the Missus was going on in sort of
hysterics, saying, 'You never cared for me. You neglected me. You left me alone.'
And
	I heard her say that Dr. Roberts had been an angel of goodness to her. "And then the doctor, he came through into the dressing-room with the
master and shut the door of the bedroom--I heard it--and he said quite plain:
"'My good man, don't you realise your wife's hysterical? She doesn't know
what she's saying. To tell you the truth, it's been a very difficult and trying case,
and I'd have thrown it up long ago if I'd thought it was con--con--some long word;
oh, yes, consistent--that was it--consistent with my duty.' That's what he said. He


444
	Agatha Christie


said something about not overstepping a boundary, too--something between
doctor and patient. He got the master quietened a bit, and then he said:

"'You'll be late at your off]ce, you know. You'd better be off. Just think things
over quietly. I think you'll realise that the whole business is a mare's nest. I'll just
wash my hands here before I go on to my next case. Now, you think it over, my
dear fellow. I can assure you that the whole thing arises out of your wife's
disordered imagination.'

"And the master, he said, 'I don't know what to think.'

"And he come out--and, of course, I was brushing hard--but 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, too, 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, I'm quite sure as he hadn't done anything
wrong. It was all her."

"And then Craddock got this anthrax?"

"Yes, I think he'd got it already. The mistress, she nursed him very devoted,
but he died. Lovely wreaths there was at the funeral."

"And afterwards? Did Dr. Roberts come to the house again?"

"No, he didn't, Nosey! You've got some grudge against him. I tell you there
was nothing in it. If there were he'd have married her when the master was dead,
wouldn't he? And 'he never did. No such fool. He'd 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."

"And you didn't see Dr. Roberts in all that time?"

"No. She did, because she went to him to have this what do you call it?-
'noculation 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 didn't ring him up no more, and she went off very cheerful with a lovely lot of
new clothes--all light colours, although it was the middle of winter, but she said it
would be all sunshine and hot out there."

"That's right," said Sergeant O'Connor. "It's too hot sometimes, I've heard.
She died out there. You know that, I suppose?"

"No, indeed I didn't. Well, fancy that! She may have been worse than I
thought, poor soul."

She added with a sigh:

"I wonder what they did with all that lovely lot of clothes. They're blacks out
there, so they couldn't wear them."

"You'd have looked a treat in them, I expect," said Sergeant O'Connor.
"Impudence," said Elsie.

"Well, you won't have my impudence much longer," said Sergeant O'Connor.

"I've got to go away on business for my firm."

"You going for long?"

"May be going abroad," said the Sergeant.

Elsie's face fell.

Though unacquainted with Lord Byron's famous poem, "I never loved a dear
gazelle," etc., its sentiments were at that moment hers. She thought to herself:

"Funny how all the really attractive ones never come to anything. Oh, well,
there's always Fred."

Which is gratifying, since it shows that the sudden incursion of Sergeant
O'Connor into Elsie's life did not affect it permanently. "Fred" may even have
been the gainer!



	Cards on the Table
	445

CHAPTER 17
The Evidence of Rhoda Dawes

Rhoda Dawes came out of Debenham's 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 Rhod,,a's face said, "Shall I or shan't I? I'd like
to 	But
perhaps I'd better not ....
	The
commissionaire said, "Taxi, Miss?" to her, hopefully.
	Rhoda
shook her head.
	A
stout woman carrying parcels with an eager "shopping early for Christmas"
	expression
on her face, cannoned into her severly, but still Rhoda stood stockstill,
	trying
to make up her mind.
	Chaotic
odds and ends of thought flashed through her mind.
	"After all, why shouldn't I? She asked me to--but perhaps it's just a thing she
says
to every one 	She doesn't
mean it to be taken seriously 	Well, after
all,
Anne didn't
want me. She made it quite clear she'd rather go with Major Despard to the
solicitor man alone .... And why shouldn't she? I mean, three is a crowd .... And
it isn't really any business of mine .... It isn't as though I particularly wanted to
see Major Despard .... He is nice, though .... I think he must have fallen
for Anne. Men don't take a lot of trouble unless they have .... I mean, it's never
just kindness .... "
	A messenger boy
bumped into Rhoda and said, "Beg pardon, Miss," in a
reproachful tone.
	"Oh,
dear," thought
Rhode. "I can't go on standing here all day. Just because
I'm such an
idiot that I can't make up my mind 	I think that coat
and skirt's
going to be awfully
nice. I wonder if brown would have been more useful than green? No, I don't
think so. Well, come on, shall I go, or shan't I? Half-past three--it's quite a
good timeI mean, it doesn't look as though I'm cadging a meal or
anything. I might just go and look, anyway."
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 "all among the nursing homes."
"Well,
she can't eat me," thought Rhoda, and plunged boldly into the building.
Mrs.
Oliver's 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.
"This
is awful," thought Rhoda. "Worse than dentists. I must go through with it
now, though."
Pink
with embarrassment, she pushed the bell.
The
door was opened by an elderly maid.
"Is
ould I--is Mrs. Oliver at home?" asked
Rhoda.
The maid drew back, Rhoda entered, she was shown into a very
untidy drawing-room. The maid
said:
"What name shall I say,
please?"
"Oh--er--Miss Dawes--Miss Rhoda
Dawes."


	446
	Agatha Christie


	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.

	"Will you step this way, miss?"

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!

Birds-masses 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.

"My dear, how nice to see you," 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.

	"Never mind, my dear, don't bother, some one will pick them up some tifne."

Rather breathless, Rhoda rose from a stooping position with five apples in her
grasp.

"Oh, thank you--no, I shouldn't put them back in the bag. I think it's got a
hole in it. Put them on the mantelpiece. That's right. Now, then, sit down and let's
talk."

	Rhoda accepted a second battered chair and focused her eyes on her hostess.

"I say, I'm terribly sorry. Am I interrupting, or anything?" she asked
breathlessly.

"Well, you are and you aren!t," said Mrs. Oliver. "I 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 he's just detected
deadly poison in the sage-and-onion stuffing of the Michaelmas goose, and I've just
remembered that French beans are over by Michaelmas."

Thrilled by this peep into the inner world of creative detective fiction, Rhoda
said breathlessly, "They might be tinned."

"They might, of course," said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. "But it would rather
spoil the point. I'm always getting tangled up in horticulture and things like that.
People write to me and say I've got the wrong flowers all out together. As though it
mattered--and, anyway, they are all out together in a London shop."

"Of course it doesn't matter," said Rhoda loyally. "Oh, Mrs. Oliver, it must be
marvellous to write."

	Mrs. Oliver rubbed her forehead with a carbonny finger and said:

	"Why?"

"Oh," said Rhoda, a little taken aback. "Because it must. It must be wonderful
just to sit down and write off a whole book."

"It doesn't happen exactly like that," said Mrs. Oliver. "One 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 you'll never get out of the
mess but you do! Writing's not particularly enjoyable. It's hard work, like
everything else."

	"It doesn't seem like work," said Rhoda.

"Not to you," said Mrs. Oliver, "because you don't have to do it! It feels very
like work to me. Some days I can only keep going by repeating over and over to



	Cards on the Table
	447

myself the amount of money I might get for my next serial rights. That spurs you
on, you know. So does your bank-book when you see how much overdrawn you
"I never imagined you actually typed your books yourself," said Rhoda. "I thought you'd have a secretary."
"I 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 semi-colons than I did, that it gave me a kind of
inferiority complex. Then I tried having a thoroughly incompetent secretary, but,
of course, that didn't answer very well, either."
"It must be so wonderful to be able to think of things," said Rhoda.
"I can always think of things," said Mrs. Oliver happily. "What is so tiring is
writing them down. I always think I've finished, and then when I count up I find
I've 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. It's all very
boring."
Rhoda did not answer. She was staring at Mrs. Oliver with the reverence felt
by youth for celebrity--slightly tinged by disappointment.
"Do you like the wall-paper?" asked Mrs. Oliver, waving an airy hand. "I'm
frightfully fond of birds. The foliage is supposed to be tropical. It makes me feel it's
a hot day, even when it's freezing. I can't do anything unless I feel very, very
warm. But Sven Hjerson breaks the ice on his bath every morning!"
"I think it's all marvellous,." said Rhoda. "And it's awfully nice of you to say I'm
not interrupting you.
"We'll have some coffee and toast," said Mrs. Oliver. "Very black coffee and
very hot toast. I can always eat that any time."
She went to the door, opened it and shouted. Then she returned and said:
"What brings you to town--shopping?"
"Yes, I've been doing some shopping." "Is Miss Meredith up, too?"
"Yes, she's gone with Major Despard to a solicitor."
"Solicitor, eh?"
Mrs. Oliver's brows rose inquiringly.
"Yes. You see, Major Despard told her she ought to have one. He's been
awfully kind--he really has."
"I was kind, too," said Mrs. Oliver, "but it didn't seem to go down very well,
did it? In fact, I think your friend rather resented my coming."
"Oh, she lidn't--really she didn't." Rhoda wriggled on her chair in a
paroxysm of embarrassment. "That's really one reason why I wanted to come to-day-to
explain, You see, I saw you had got it all wrong. She did seem very
ungracious, but it wasn't that, really. I mean, it wasn't your coming. It was
something you said."
"Something I said?"
"Yes. You couldn't tell, of course. It was just unfortunate."
"What did I say?"
"I don't expect you remember, even. It was just the way you put it. You said
something about an accident and poison."
"Did I?"
"I knew you'd probably not remember. Yes. You see, Anne, had a ghastly
experience once. She was in a house w]aere a woman took some poison--hat paint, I think i.t wasby mistake for something else. And she died. And, of course, it was


448
	Agatha Christie


an awful shock to Anne. She can't 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 couldn't say anything in front of her.
But I did want you to know that it wasn't what you thought. She wasn't
ungrateful."

Mrs. Oliver looked at Rhoda's flushed eager face. She said slowly:

"I see."

"Anne's awfully sensitive," said Rhoda. "And she's bad about--well, facing
things. If anything's upset her, she'd just rather not talk about it, although that isn't
any good, really--at least, I don't think so. Things are there just the same
whether you talk about them or not. It's only running away from them to pretend
they don't exist. I'd rather have it all out, however painful it would be."

"Ah," said Mrs. Oliver quietly. "But you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne
isn't."

Rhoda flushed.
Mrs. Oliver smiled.
"Anne's a darling."

She said, "I didn't say she wasn't. I only said she hadn't got your particular
brand of courage."

She sighed, then said rather unexpectedly to the girl:

"Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don't you?"

"Of course I believe in the truth," said Rhoda, staring.

"Yes, you say that but perhaps you haven't thought about it. The truth hurts
sometimes--and destroys one's illusions."

"I'd rather have it, all the same," said Rhoda. "So would I. But I don't know that we're wise."
Rhoda said earnestly:

"Don't tell Anne, will you, what I've told you? She wouldn't like it."

"I certainly shouldn't dream of doing any such thing. Was this long ago?"
"About four years ago. It's odd, isn't it, how the same things happen again and
again to people. I had an aunt who was always in shipwrecks. And here's A.nne
mixed up in two sudden deaths--only, of course, this one's much worse. Murder's

rather awful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

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:

"I do hope I haven't interrupted you too terribly. Would you mind--I mean,
would it bother you awfully--if I sent one of your books to you, would you sign it
for me?"

Mrs. Oliver laughed.

"Oh, I can do better than that for you." She opened a cupboard at the far end
of the room. "Which would you like? I rather fancy The Affair of the Second
Goldfish myself. It's not quite such frightful tripe as the rest."

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.

"There you are."

"Thank you very much. I have enjoyed myself. Sure you didn't mind mY
coming?"



	Cards on the Table
	449

"I wanted you to," said Mrs. Oliver.
She added after a moment's pause:
"You're a nice child. Good-bye. Take care of yourself, my dear."
"Now, why did I say that?" 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.

CHAPTER 18
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 facea 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 back 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.


	452
	Agatha Christie

"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."

CHAPTER 19
Consultation

The
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 11:307"
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?"
"EnchantS, 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 Batfie's own room. The superintendent


	Cards on the Table
	453


was sitting behind a table and looking more wooden than ever. "Just like a 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 to-morrow and had a lot of things to see to."

"Where are you going to?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "A little shooting tripBaluchistan 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 agains, t 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?"



	454
	Agatha Christie

	"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 fox-hunting 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 judgment. 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 half-way 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 realise 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.


	Cards on the Table
	455
"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 nor 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. That was only to be expected. No, as M. Poirot said, there's only
one hopethe 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 committedand 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 {ew 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 term-
porarily-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 Indian! 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. Dare say Craddock wouldn't have wanted him in
any case. The only evidence I've got--and that's precious littleis 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 amongst 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


	456
	Agatha Christie

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 some time 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 casea 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 ffhe 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 a 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. Civilised placesthe Riviera, Egypt, that sort of thing. Can't find any
mysterious deaths associated with her. She seems to have led a perfectly normal,
respectable life---the life of a woman of the world. Every one 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


	Cards on the Table
	457

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. Every one 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.
"When 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 now--Miss Rhoda Dawes. She was there over two years until Miss
Dawes got too ill and had to have a regular trained nurse. Cancer, I gather. She's
alive still, but very vague. Kept under morphia a good deal, I imagine. I had an
interview with her. She remembered 'Anne,' 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.
"Since then there's been Switzerland. Thought I might get on the track of
some fatal accident there, but nothing doing. And there's nothing in Wallingford
either."
"So Anne Meredith is acquitted?" asked Poirot.
Battle hesitated.
"I wouldn't say that. There's something .... There's a scared look about her
that can't quite be accounted for by panic over Shaitana. She's too watchful. Too
much on the alert. I'd swear there was something. But there it is--she's led a
perfectly blameless life."
Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath--a breath of pure enjoyment.
"And yet," she said, "Anne Meredith was in the house when a woman took
poison by mistake and died."
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.
"Is this true, Mrs. Oliver? How do you know?"
"I've been sleuthing," said Mrs. Oliver. "I 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 friendly---oh, 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 hadn't 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 I'd said had reminded her of a painful incident, and then she went on to
describe the incident."
"Did she say when and where it happened?"
"Three years ago in Devonshire."
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.


458
	Agatha Christie

Battle recovered his temper.
"I take off my hat to you, Mrs. Oliver," he said. "You've put one over on us
this time. That is very valuable information. And it just shows how easily you can
miss a thing."
He frowned a little.
"She can't have been therewherever it was--long. 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. Eldon's sister only remembers she
went off to a place in Devonshirc she doesn't remember exactly who or where."
"Tell me," said Poirot, "was this Mrs. Eldon an untidy woman?"
Battle bent a curious gaze upon him.
"It's odd your saying that, M. Poirot. I don't see how you could have known.
The sister was rather a precise party. In talking I remember her saying 'My sister is
so dreadfully untidy and slapdash.' But how did you know?"
"Because she needed a mother's-help," said Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot shook his head.
"No, no, it was not that. It is of no moment. I was only curious. Continue,
Superintendent Battle."
"In the same way," went on Battle, "I took it for granted that she went to Miss
Dawes straight from the Isle of Wight. She's sly, that girl. She deceived me all
right. Lying the whole time."
"Lying is not always a sign of guilt," said Poirot.
"I know that, M. Poirot. There's 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 it's a pretty
grave risk to take, suppressing facts like that."
"She wouldn't know you had any idea of past crimes," said Mrs. Oliver.
"That's all the more reason for not suppressing that little piece of information.
It must have been accepted as a bona ride case of accidental death, so she'd nothing
to fear-unless she were guilty."
"Unless she were guilty of the Devonshire death, yes," said Poirot.
Battle turned to him.
"Oh, I know. Even if that accidental death turns out to be not so accidental, it
doesn't 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."
"According to Mr. Shaitana, that is impossible," remarked Poirot.
"It is in Roberts' case. It remains to be seen if it is in Miss Meredith's. I shall
go down to Devon tomorrow."
"Will you know where to go?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "I didn't like to ask Rhoda
for more details."
"No, that was wise of you. I shan't have much difficulty. There must have
been an inquest. I shall find it in the coroner's records. That's routine police work.
They'll have it all taped out for me by to-morrow morning."
"What about Major Despard?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "Have you found out
anything about him?"
'"I've been waiting for Colonel Race's report. I've had him shadowed, of
course. One rather interesting thing, he went down to see Miss Meredith at
Wallingford. You remember he said he'd never met her until the other night."
"But she is a very pretty girl," murmured Poirot.
Battle laughed.
"Yes, I expect that's all there is to it. By the way, Despard's taking no chances.
He's already consulted a solicitor. That looks as though he's expecting trouble."


	Cards on the Table
	459

"He is a man who looks ahead," said Poirot. "He is a man who prepared for
every contingency."
"And therefore not the kind of man to stick a knife into a man in a hurry," said
Battle with a sigh.
"Not unless it was the only way," said Poirot. "He can act quickly,
remember."
Battle looked across the table at him.
"Now, M. Poirot, what about your cards? Haven't seen your hand down on the
table yet."
Poirot smiled.
"There 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? Thisl
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 him--rugs, trophies of sport. He has neither what I call the
outward vision (seeing details all around you what is called an observant person)
nor the inner vision--concentration, the focusing of the mind on one object. He
has a purposefully limited vision. He sees only what blends and harmonises with
the bent of his mind."
"So those are what you call facts---eh?" said Battle curiously.
"They are facts. Very small fry--perhaps."
"What about Miss Meredith?"
"I have left her to the end. But I shall question her too as to What she
remembers in that room."
"It's an odd method of approach," said Battle thoughtfully. "Purely psychological.
Suppose they're leading you up the garden path?"
Poirot shook his head with a smile.
"No, that would be impossible. Whether they try to hinder or to help, they
necessarily reveal their type of mind."
"There's something in it, no doubt," said Battle thoughtfully. "I couldn't work
that way myself, though."
Poirot said, still smiling:
"I feel I have done very little in comparison with you and with Mrs. Oliver--
and with Colonel Race. My cards, that I place on the table, are very low ones."
Battle twinkled at him.
"As to that, M. Poirot, the two of trumps is a low card, but it can take any one
of three aces. All the same, I'm going to ask you to do a practical job of work." "And that is?"
"I want you to interview Professor Luxmore's widow."
"And why do you not do that yourself?."
"Because, as I said just now, I'm off to Devonshire."
"Why do you not do that yourself?." repeated Poirot.
"Won't be put off, will you? Well, I'll speak the truth. I think you'll get more
out of her than I shall."
"My methods being less straightforward?"
"You can put it that way if you like," said Battle, grinning. "I've heard
Inspector Japp say that you've got a tortuous mind."
"Like the late Mr. Shaitana?"
"You think he would have been able to get things out of her?"


	460
	Agatha Christie

Poirot said slowly:
"I rather think he did get things out of her!" "What makes you think so?" asked Battle sharply. "A chance remark of Major Despard's."
"Gave himself away, did he? That sounds unlike him.'
"Oh, my dear friend, it is impossible not to give oneself away--unless one
never opens one's mouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers."
"Even if people tell lies?" asked Mrs. Oliver.
"Yes, madame, because it can be seen at once that you tell a certain kind of
"You make me feel quite uncomfortable,'' said Mrs. Oliver, getting up.
Superintendent Battle accompanied her to the door and shook her warmly by
the hand.
"You've been the goods, Mrs. Oliver," he said. "You're a much better
detective than that long lanky Laplander of yours."
"Finn," corrected Mrs. Oliver. "Of course he's idiotic. But people like him.
Goodbye."
"I, too, must depart," said Poirot.
Battle scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it into Poirot's
hand.
"There you are. Go and tackle her."
Poirot smiled.
"And what do you want me to find out?"
"The truth about Professor Luxmore's death."
"Mon chef Battle! Does anybody know the truth about anything?"
"I'm going to about this business in Devonshire," said the superintendent
with decision.
Poirot murmured:
"I wonder."

CHAPTER 20
The Evidence of Mrs. Luxmore

The maid who opened the door at Mrs. Luxmore's 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.
"Give that to your mistress. I think she will see me."
It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words "Private Detective" 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 door-knocker with intense
disgust at its unpolished condition.
"Ah! for some Brasso and a rag," he murmured to himself.


	Cards on the Table
	461


	Breathing excitedly the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.

He was shown into a room on the first floor--a 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.

	"M. Hercule Poirot?"

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.

	"What did you want to see me about?"

	Again Poirot bowed.

	"If I might be seated? It will take a little time "

She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a

sofa.

	"Yes? Well?"

"It is, madame, that I make the inquiriesthe private inquiries, you
understand?"

	The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.

	"Yes--yes?"

	"I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore."

	She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.

	"But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?"

	Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.

"There 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

husband's death, for instance
	"

	She broke in at once:

	"My husband died of fevern the Amazon."

	Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to

and froa maddening, monotonous motion.
"Madame, madame "he protested.
"But I know! I was there at the time."

	"Ah, yes, certainly. You were there. Yes, my information says so."

	She cried out:

	"What information?"

	Eyeing her closely Poirot said:

	"Information supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana."

	She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.

	"Shaitana?" she muttered.

"A man," said Poirot, "possessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable
man. That man knew many secrets."

	"I suppose he did," she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.

	Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.

	"He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever."

	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.

	"I don't--I don't know what you mean."

	It was very unconvincingly said.



	462
	Agatha Christie


"Madame," said Poirot, "I will come out into the open. I will," he smiled,

"place my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of a fever. He died of a
bullet!"

	'"Oh!" 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.

"And therefore," said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, "you might just as well
tell me the whole story."

	She uncovered her face and said:

	"It wasn't in the least the way you think."

	Again Poirot leaned forward again he tapped her knee.

"You misunderstand me--you misunderstand me utterly," he said. "I know
very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were
the cause."

"I don't know. I don't know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a
sort of fatality that pursues me."

"Ah, how true that is," cried Poirot. "How 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."

	Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.

	"You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally."

	"You travelled together into the interior, did you not?"

"Yes. 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."

There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half
and then murmured as though to himself.

	"Yes, one can picture it. The winding river--the tropical night--the hum of

the insects--the strong soldierly man--the beautiful woman 	"

	Mrs.
Luxmore sighed.
	"My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child
	before I
knew what I was doing 	"
	Poirot shook
his
head sadly.
	"I know. I
know. How often does that not occur?"
	"Neither of us
would admit what was happening," went on Mrs. Luxmore.
"John Despard never
said anything. He was the soul of honour."
	"But a woman
always knows," prompted Poirot.
"How right you
are .... Yes, a woman knows .... But I never showed him that I knew. We
were Major Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end .... We
were both determined to play the game."
	She was silent, lost
in admiration of that noble attitude.
	"True," murmured Poirot. "One
must play the cricket. As one of your poets so
finely says, 'I could
not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.'" "Honour," corrected Mrs. Luxmore
with a slight frown.
	"Of course--of course--honour. 'Loved
I not honour more."
"Those words might have
been written for us," murmured Mrs. Luxmore. "No matter what it
cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And then- "

	"And then "prompted Poirot.

	"That ghastly night." Mrs.
Luxmore shuddered.


	Cards on the Table
	463


	"Yes?"

	"I suppose they must have quarrelled--John and Timothy, I mean. I came out

of my tent .... I came out of my tent..."

	"Yes--yes?"

Mrs. Luxmore's eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though
it were being repeated in front of her.

	"I came out of my tent," she repeated. "John and Timothy were
	Oh!" she

shuddered. "I can't remember it all clearly. I came between them 	I
said
'No--no,
it isn't true? Timothy wouldn't listen. He was threatening John. John had to fire
in self-defence. Ah!" She gave a cry and covered her face with her hands.
"He
was dead stone dead--shot through the heart."
	"A terrible moment for you, madame."
"I shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused
to hear of it. We argued all night. 'For my sake,' I kept saying. He saw that in
the end. Naturally he couldn't let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Passions.
"I 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."
	A deep, tortured
sigh shook her form.
	"And then--back to
civilisation--and to part for ever."
	"Was it necessary,
madame?"
"Yes, yes. Timothy
dead stoodbetween us just as Timothy alive had don more so. We
said good-bye to each other--for ever. I meet John Despard sometimes---out in the
world. We smile, we speak politely--no one would ever guess that there
was anything between us. But I see in his eyes--and he in mine that we will
never forget .... "
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 nose	the spell
was
broken.
	"What
a
tragedy," said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.
"You can
see, M. Poirot," said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, "that the truth must never be
told."
"It would
be painful. "
"It would
be impossible. This friend, this writer--surely he would not wish to blight the
life of a perfectly innocent woman?"
"Or even
to hang a perfectly innocent man?" murmured Poirot.
"You see
it like that? I am so glad. He was innocent. A crime passionnel is not really a
crime. And in any case it was in self-defence. He had to shoot. So you do understand, M.
Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?"
Poirot
murmured.

"Writers are
sometimes curiously callous."
"Your 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.

"Madame," he said
as he took her hand, "such splendid self-sacrifice is unnecessary. I will
do my best so that the true facts shall never be known."


	464
	Agatha Christie


A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore's face. She raised her hand

slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it. "An unhappy woman thanks you, M. Poirot," she said.

It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favoured courtier--clearly an
exit line. Poirot duly made his exit.

Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.


CHAPTER 21

Major Despard


"Quelle femme," murmured Hercule Poirot. "Ce pauvre Despard! Ce qu'il a du

souffrir! Quel voyage pouvantable!"

Suddenly he began to laugh.

He was now walking along the Brompton Road. He paused, took out his
watch, and made a calculation.

"But 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 sing--how many yearsforty years ago? 'A little piece of sugar for the
bird.'"

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.

"Silk stockings? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure
silk."

Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent once more.

"French silk stockings? With the duty, you know, they are very expensive."
A fresh lot of boxes was produced.

"Very nice, mademoiselle, but I had something of a finer texture still in
mind."

"These are a hundred gauge. Of course, we have some extra fine, but I'm
afraid they come out at about thirty-five shillings a pair. And no durability, of
course. Just like cobwebs."

"C'est fa, exactement."

A prolonged absence of the young lady this time.

She returned at last.

"I'm afraid they are actually thirty-seven and sixpence a pair. But beautiful,
aren't they?"

She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelopethe finest, gauziest wisps of
stockings.

"Enfin--that is it exactly!"

"Lovely, aren't they? How many pairs, sir?"

"I want let me see, nineteen pairs."

The young lady very nearly fell down behind the counter, but long training in
scornfulness just kept her erect.



	Cards on the Table
	465

"There would be a reduction on two dozen," she said faintly.
"No, I want nineteen pairs. Of slightly different colours, please."
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:
"Wonder 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!"
Unaware of the low estimate formed by the young ladies of Messrs. Harvey
Robinson's upon his character, Poirot was trotting homewards.
He had been in for about half an hour when he heard the door-bell ring. A few
minutes later Major Despard entered the room.
He was obviously keeping his temper with difficulty.
"What the devil did you want to go and see Mrs. Luxmore for?" he asked.
Poirot smiled.
"I wished, you see, for the true story of Professor Luxmore's death."
"True story? Do you think that woman's capable of telling the truth about
anything?" demanded Despard wrathfully,
"Eh bien, I did wonder now and then," admitted Poirot.
"I should think you did. That woman's crazy.'
Poirot demurred.
"Not at all. She is a romantic woman, that is all."
"Romantic be damned. She's an out-and-out liar. I sometimes think she even
believes her own lies."
"It is quite possible."
"She's an appalling woman. I had the hell of a time with her out there."
"That also I can well believe."
Despard sat down abruptly.
"Look here, M. Poirot, I'm going to tell you the truth."
"You mean you are going to give me your version of the story?" "My version will be the true version."
Poirot did not reply.
Despard went on dryly:
"I quite realise that I can't claim any merit in coming out with this now. I'm
telling the truth because it's the only thing to be done at this stage. Whether you
believe me or not is up to you. I've no kind of proof that my story is the correct
one."
He paused for a minute and then began.
"I arranged the trip for the Luxmores. He was a nice old boy quite batty about
mosses and plants and things. She was a well, she was what you've no doubt
observed her to be! That trip was a nightmare. I didn't care a damn for the
woman--rather disliked her, as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind
that always makes me feel pfiekly with embarrassment. Everything went all fight
for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. Old
Luxmore was pretty bad. One night--now you've got to listen to this carefully--I
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 river--and at that
particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance of a rescue. There
wasn't time to rush after him--only one thing to be done. My rifle was beside me
as usual. I snatched it up. I'm a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring
the old boy down--get him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic fool of a


	466
	Agatha Christie

woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, 'Don't shoot. For
God's sake, don't shoot.' She caught my arm and jerked it ever so slightly just as
the rifle went off with the result that the bullet got him in the back and killed him
dead!
"I can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that damned fool of a
woman still didn't understand what she'd done. Instead ofrealising that she'd been
responsible for her husband's death, she firmly believed that I'd been trying to
shoot the old boy in cold blood--for love of her, ffyou please! We had the devil ora
sceneshe insisting that we should say he'd died of fever. I was sorry fo, r her--especially
as I saw she didn't realise what she'd done. But she'd have to realise 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 wanted--partly for
the sake of peace, I'll admit. After all, it didn't seem to matter much. Fever or
accident. And I didn't want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantness--even if she was a damnedfool. 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 they'd swear to if need be. We buried
poor old Luxmore and got back to civilisation. Since then I've spent a good deal of
time dodging the woman."
He paused, then said quietly:
"That's my story, M. Poirot."
Poirot said slowly:
"It was to that incident that Mr. Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at
dinner that night?"
Despard nodded.
"He must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out
of her. That sort of thing would have amused him."
"It might have been a dangerous story--to you--in the hands of a man like
Shaitana."
Despard shrugged his shoulders. "I wasn't afraid of Shaitana."
Poirot didn't answer.
Despard said quietly:
"That again you have to take my word for. It's true enough, I suppose, that I
had a kind of motive for Shaitana's death. Well, the truth's out now--take it or
leave it."
Poirot held out a hand.
"I will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South
America happened exactly as you have described."
Despard's face lit up.
"Thanks," he said laconically.
And he clasped Poirot's hand warmly.


	Cards on the Table
	467

CHAPTER 22
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.
"That's how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The docto was satisfied.
Every one was satisfied. Why not?"
"Just give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite
clear.'
"Syrup of Figs-that's what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then
there was this hat paint she'd been usingr 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, 'Put it in that old
bottle- the Syrup of Figs bottle.' That's all right. The servants heard her. The
young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlourmaid---they 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."
"Not relabelled?"
"No. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that."
"Go oil."
"On 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. Realised what
she'd done and they sent offat 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."
"She herself believed it to be an accident?"
"Oh, yes---every one 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 didn't."
Superintendent Battle was silent--thinking. 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 it with gloves, possibly, and anyway, the
last prints would be those of Mrs. Benson herself. Yes, so easy--so simple. But, all
the same, murder! The perfect crime.
But why? That still puzzled him--why?
"This young lady-companion, this Miss Meredith, she didn't come into money
at Mrs. Benson's death?" he asked.
Inspector Harper shook his head.
"No. She'd only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine.
Young ladies didn't stay long as a rule."
Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didn't 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 kfil unless it were sheer unreasoniilg
vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true.
"Who did get Mrs. Benson's money?"


	468
	Agatha Christie


"I couldn't say, sir, nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldn't be very
much-not when it was divided up, and I heard as how most of her income was one
of these annuities."

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. Miss-couldn't
remember her namenice girl but rather helpless--had been very upset and
distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs. Benson's last companion--a
modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson had
been--not diffficult--but a trifle severe toward 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 monthsthat
was all-and 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 woman--but that was all.

Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression
that, for some reason unknown, Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered
her employer.


CHAPTER 23

The Evidence of a Pair of Silk Stockings


As Superintendent Battle's train rushed eastwards through England, Anne
Meredith and Rhoda Dawes were in Hercule Poirot's sitting-room.

Anne had been unwilling to accept the invitation that had reached her by the
morning's post, but Rhoda's counsel had prevailed.

"Anneyou're a cowardyes, a coward. It's no good going on being an
ostrich, burying your head in the sand. There's been a murder and you're one of
the suspects--the least likely one perhaps--

"That would be the worst," said Anne with a touch ofhumour. "It's always the
least likely person who did it.'

"But you are one," continued Rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. "And
so it's no use putting your nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and
nothing to do with you."

"It is nothing to do with me," Anne persisted. "I mean, I'm quite willing to
answer any questions the police want to ask me, but this man, this Hercule Poirot,
he's an outsider."

"And what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? He'll think you're
bursting with guilt."

"I'm certainly not bursting with guilt,' said Anne coldly.

"Darling, I know that. You couldn't murder anybody ffyou tried. But horrible



Cards on the Table 469


suspicious foreigners don't know that. I think we ought to go nicely to his house.

Otherwise he'll come down here and try to worm things out of the servants." "We haven't got any servants."

"We've got Mother Astwell. She can wag a tongue with anybody! Come on,
Anne, let's go. It will be rather fun really."

"I don't see why he wants to see me." Anne was obstinate.

"To put one over on the official police, of course," said Rhoda impatiently.
"They always do---the amateurs, I mean. They make out that Scotland Yard are all
boots and brainlessness."

"Do you think this man Poirot is clever?"

"He doesn't look a Sherlock," said Rhoda. "I expect he has been quite good in
his day. He's gaga now, of course. He must be at least sixty. Oh, come on, Anne,

let's go and see the old boy. He may tell us dreadful things about the others."
"All right," said Anne, and added, "You do enjoy all this so, Rhoda."

"I suppose because it isn't my funeral," said Rhoda. "You were a noodle,
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."

So it came about that at three o'clock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes
and Anne Meredith sat primly on their chairs in Poirot's neat room and sipped
blackberry sirop (which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse) from
old-fashioned glasses.

"It was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle," Poirot
was saying.

"I'm sure I shall be glad to help you in any way I can," murmured Anne
vaguely.

"It is a little mater of memory."

"Memory?"

"Yes, 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."

Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

"I want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the
drawing-room of Mr. Shaitana."

A weary shadow passed over Anne's face. Was she never to be free of that
nightmare?

Poirot noticed the expression.

"I know, mademoiselle, I know," he said kindly. "C'est pnible, n'est 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."
Rhoda's feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor.
"Well?" said Anne.

"Cast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that
room?"

Anne stared at him suspiciously.

"I don't understand?"

"But, yes. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments, the wallpaper, the curtains,
the fire-irons. You saw them all. Can you not then describe them?"

"Oh, I see." Anne hesitated, frowning. "It's difficult. I don't really think I
remember. I couldn't say what the wallpaper was like. I think the walls were
painted--some inconspicuous colour. There were rugs on the floor. There was a
piano." She shook her head. "I really couldn't tell you any more."



	470
	Agatha Christie

"But you are not trying, mademoiselle. You must remember some object,
some ornament, some piece of bricabrac?"
"There was a case of Egyptian jewellery, I remember," said Anne slowly.
"Over by the window."
"Oh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay
the little dagger."
	Anne looked at him.
	"I never heard which table that was on."
"Pas si bte," commented Poirot to himself. "But then, no more is Hercule
Poirot! If she knew me better she would realise I would never lay a piege as gross as
that!"
	Aloud he said:
	"A case of Egyptian jewellery, you say?"
	Anne answered with some enthusiasm.
"Yes--some of it was lovely. Blues and red. Enamel. One or two lovely rings.
And scarabsbut I don't like them so much."
	"He was a great collector, Mr. Shaitana," murmured Poirot.
"Yes, he must have been," Anne agreed. "The room was full of stuff. One
couldn't begin to look at it all."
"So that you cannot mention anything else that particularly struck your
notice?"
	Anne smiled a little as she said:
	"Only a vase of chrysanthemums that badly wanted their water changed."

	"Ah, yes, servants are not always too particular about that."

	Poirot was silent for a moment or two.

	Anne asked timidly.
	"I'm afraid I didn't notice--whatever it is you wanted me to notice."
	Poirot smiled kindly.
"It does not matter, mon enfant. It was, indeed, an outside chance. Tell me,
have you seen the good Major Despard lately?"
	He saw the delicate pink colour come up in the girl's face. She replied:

	"He said he would come and see us again quite soon."

	Rhoda said impetuously:
	"He didn't do it, anyway! Anne and I are quite sure of that."
Poirot twinkled at them.
"How fortunates-to have convinced two such charming young ladies of one's
innocence."
"Oh, dear," thought Rhoda. "He's going to be French, and it does embarrass
me so.
She got up and began examining some etchings on the wall.
"These are awfully good," she said.
"They are not bad," said Poirot.
He hesitated, looking at Anne.
"Mademoiselle," he said at last. "I wonder if I might ask you to do me a great
favour--oh, nothing to do with the murder. This is an entirely private and personal
matter."
Anne looked a little surprised. Poirot went on speaking in a slightly
embarrassed manner.
"It is, you understand, that Christmas is coming on. I have to buy presents for
many nieces and grand-nieces. And it is a little difficult to choose what young ladies
like in this present time. My tastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned."
"Yes?" said Anne kindly.


	Cards on the Table
	471


"Silk stockings, now--are silk stockings a welcome present to receive?"
"Yes, indeed. It's always nice to be given stockings."

"You 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?"

"Certainly I will," said Anne, rising, with a laugh.

Poirot directed her towards a table in an alcove--a 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 heaps--some
fur-lined gloves---calendars and boxes of bonbons.

"I send off my parcels very much l'avance," Poirot explained. "See,

mademoiselle, here are the stockings. Select me, I pray of you, six pairs."

He turned, intercepting Rhoda, who was following him.

"As for mademoiselle here, I have a little treat for her--a treat that would be

no treat to you, I fancy, Mademoiselle Meredith."
"What is it?" cried Rhoda.
He lowered his voice.'

"A knife, mademoiselle, with which twelve people once stabbed a man. It was

given me as a souvenir by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits."
"Horrible," cried Anne.

"Ooh! Let me see," said Rhoda.

Poirot led her through into the other room, talking as he went.

"It was given me by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits because

They passed out of the room.

They returned three minutes later. Anne came towards them.

"I 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 it's daylight
in the evening."

"Mille remerciments, mademoiselle."

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.


CHAPTER 24

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.

"We're on to it--not a doubt of it," he finished. "That's what Shaitana was



472 Agatha Christie

o


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
words 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 noticeaccused 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."



	Cards on the Table
	473


	"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 any one 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 latte{ 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? Every one 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--?"



	474
	Agatha Christie

"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."

CHAPTER 25
Mrs. Lorrimer Speaks

The 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. You have 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 /little:
"This murder--it has made for 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."


	Cards on the Table
	475

"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 of no avail."
"Just exactly what do you mean by that, M. Poirot?"
"I will be quite frank, madame, I have realised 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 dryly.
Poirot went on, without paying any attention to her interrupton.
"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 over-confidence; 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."


	476
	Agatha Christie


	"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/s another type of successful crime. Have you ever said suddenly to any one,
'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 .... "


CHAPTER 26
The Truth


There was a pausea 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.

"So it was that--all the time .... Why did you kill him, madame?"

"I think you know why, M. Poirot."

"Because he knew something about you--something that had happened long
ago?"

"Yes."

"And that something wasanother death, madame?"
She bowed her head.
Poirot said gently:



	Cards on the Table
	477

	"Why did you tell me? What made you send for me today?"
	"You told me once that I should do so some day."
"Yes--that is, I hoped .... I knew, madame, that there was only one way of
learning the truth as far as you were concerned and 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 chance that you yourself might w/sh to speak."
	Mrs. Lorrimer nodded.
	"It was clever of you to foresee that--the weariness--the loneliness
	"
	Her voice died away.

	Poirot looked at her curiously.
	"So it has been like that? Yes, I can understand it might be .... "
	"Alonequite alone," said Mrs. Lorrimer. "No one knows what that means
unless they have lived, as I have lived, with the knowledge of what one has done."
Poirot said gently:
"Is it an impertinence, madame, or may I be permitted to offer my
sympathy?'
	She bent her head a little.
	"Thank you, M. Poirot."
	There was another pause, then Poirot said, speaking in a slightly brisker tone:
	"Am I to understand, madame, that you took the words Mr. Shaitana spoke at
dinner as a direct menace aimed at you?"
	She nodded.
"I realised at once that he was speaking so that one person should understand
him. That person was myself. The reference to a woman's 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."
	"And you were sure, too, of his future intentions?"
	Mrs. Lorrimer said dryly:
"It 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."
	"How soon did you make up your mind to act, madame?"
	Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a little.
"It is difficult to remember exactly when the idea came into my mind," she
said. "I had noticed the dagger before going in to 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."
	"It would be dexterously done, I have no doubt, madame."
"I 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.'
"That is your coolness, your successful weighing of chances, coming into play.
Yes, I see that."
"We started to play bridge," continued Mrs. Lorrimer. Her voice was cool and
unemotional. "At 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 and--and did it "
	Her voice shook just a little, but instantly it regained its cool aloofness.
	"I spoke to him. It came into my head that that would make a kind of alibi for


	480
	Agatha Christie

"I 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?"
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.
"You did not kill Shaitana," he said softly. "I see that now. I see everything.
Harley Street. And little Anne Meredith standing forlorn on the pavement. I see,
too, another girl--a very long time ago, a girl who has gone through life always
alone--terribly alone. Yes, I see all that. But one thing I do not see--why are you
so certain that Anne Meredith did it?"
	"Really, M. Poirot "
"Absolutely useless to protest--to 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 Major Despard, non plus. You would not
have done it for Dr. Roberts--oh, no! But Anne Meredith is different. You have
compassion for her, because she has done what you once did. You do not know
even--or so I imaginewhat reason she had for the crime. But you are quite sure
she did it. You were sure that first evening--the evening it happened--when
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?"
	He paused for an answer, but none came. He nodded his head in satisfaction.
"Yes, 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."
	"You forget," said Mrs. Lorrimer in a dry voice, "I am not an innocent woman.
Years ago, M. Poirot, I killed my husband 	"
	There
was a moment's silence.
"I see," said Poirot. "It is justice. After all, only justice. You have the logical mind.
You are willing to suffer for the act you committed. Murder is murder--it 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?'
A
deep sigh broke from Mrs. Lorrimer. Her last resistance had gone down before
Poirot's insistence. She answered his question quite simply like a child.
	"Because,"
she said, "I saw her."

CHAPTER
27 The
EyeWitness

Suddenly
Poirot laughed. He could not help it. His head went back, and his high Gallic
laugh filled the room.
"Pardon,
madame," he said, wiping his eyes. "I could not help it. Here we argue
and we reason! We ask questions! We invoke the psychology--and all the time there was an eye-witness of the crime. Tell me, I pray of you."
"It was fairly late in the evening. Anne Meredith was dummy. She got up anQ looked
over her partner's hand, and then she moved about the room. The hand wasn't
very interesting--the conclusion was inevitable. I didn't need to concen-


	Cards on the Table
	481


trate 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 herself her hand had been actually on his breast--a gesture which
awakened my surprise. She straightened herself, and I saw her face and her quick
look over towards us. Guilt and fear--that is what I saw on her face. Of course, I
didn't know what had happened then. I only wondered what on earth the girl could

have been doing. Later--I knew."

	Poirot nodded.

"But she did not know that you knew. She did not know that you had seen
her?"

	"Poor child," said Mrs. Lorrimer. "Young, frightened--her way to make in

the world. Do you wonder that I--well, held my tongue?"

	"No, no, I do not wonder."

	"Especially knowing that I--that I myself "She finished the sentence with

a shrug. "It was certainly not my place to stand accuser. It was up to the police."
"Quite so--but to-day you have gone further than that."
Mrs. Lorrimer said grimly:

"I've never been a very soft-hearted or compassionate woman, but I suppose
these qualities grow upon one in one's old age. I assure you, I'm not often actuated
by pity."

"It is not always a very safe guide, madame. Mademoiselle Anne is young, she
is fragile, she looks timid and frightened--oh, 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 companion
	because that lady had found

	her out in a petty theft."

	Mrs. Lorrimer looked a little startled.

	"Is that true, M. Poirot?"

"I have no doubt of it, whatsoever. She is so so-so gentlc one would say.
Pah! She is dangerous, madame, that little Mademoiselle Anne! Where her own
safety, her own comfort, is concerned, she will strike wildly--treacherously. With
Mademoiselle Anne those two crimes will not be the end. She will gain confidence
from them .... "

	Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:

	"What you say is horrible, M. Poirot. Horrible!"

	Poirot rose.

	"Madame, I will now take my leave. Reflect on what I have said."

Mrs. Lorrimer was looking a little uncertain of herself. She said with an
attempt at her old manner:

"If 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

is--well, private between ourselves."

	Poirot said gravely.

	"Nothing shall be done without your consent, madame. And be at peace; I

have my own methods. Now that I know what I am driving at
	"

	He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

"Permit me to tell you, madame, that you are a most remarkable woman. All
my homage and respects. 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."

	"What is that?"



	482
	Agatha Christie


	"Told me just why you killed your husband
	and how entirely justified such a

proceeding really was."

	Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up.

"Really, M. Poirot," she said stiffly. "My reasons were entirely my own
business."

"Magnifique!" 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 King's Road.

As he walked he was thinking hard. Occasionally he nodded his head; once he
shook it.

He looked back over his shoulder. Some one was going up the steps of Mrs.
Lorrimer's 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.

	"Hallo." Battle's voice can through. "Got anything?"

"Je crois bien. Mon ami, we must get after the Meredith girl---and quickly." "I'm getting after her but why quickly?"
"Because, my friend, she may be dangerous."
Battle was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

"I know what you mean. But there's no one .... Oh, well, we mustn't take
chances. As a matter of fact, I've written her. Official note, saying I'm calling to see

her to-morrow. I thought it might be a good thing to get her rattled." "It is a possibility, at least. I may accompany you?" '
"Naturally. Honoured to have your company, M. Poirot."
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. "We will see in the morning," he murmured.

	But of what the morning would bring he had no idea.


CHAPTER 28
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 Battle's voice spoke:

"That M. Poirot?"

"Yes, it is I. Qu'est ce qu'il y a?"

The mere inflection of the superintendent's voice had told him that something

had happened. His own vague misgivings came back to him.
"But quickly, my friend, tell me."
"It's Mrs. Lorrimer."



	Cards on the Table
	483


	"Lorrimer--yes?"

"What the devil did you say to her-or did she say to you--yesterday? You
never told me anything; in fact, you let me think that the Meredith girl was the one
we were after."

	Poirot said quietly:

	"What has happened?"

	"Suicide."

	"Mrs. Lorrimer has committed suicide?"

	"That's 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.'
Poirot drew a deep breath.

	"There is no question of accident?"

	"Not the least. It's all cut and dried. She wrote to the three of them.'

	"Which three?"

"The other three. Roberts, Despard and Miss Meredith. All fair and square--no
beating about the bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she
was taking a short-cut out of all the mess--that it was she who had killed Shaitana
and that she apologised---apologised!--to all three of them for the inconvenience
and annoyance they had suffered. Perfectly calm, business-like letter, Absolutely

typical of the woman. She was a cool customer all right."

	For a minute or two Poirot did not answer.

So this was Mrs. Lorrimer's 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 one the saving of the girl with whom she felt a
secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned and carried out with quite
ruthless eiciency--a suicide carefully announced to the three interested parties.
What a woman! His admiration quickened. It was like her like her clear-cut
determination, her insistence on what she had decided being carried out.

	He had thought to have convinced her but evidently she had preferred her

own judgment. A woman of very strong will.

	Battle's voice cut into his meditations. 

"What 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."

	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: "I was in error .... "

There were unaccustomed words on his tongue, and he did not like them.
"You made a mistake, eh?" said Battle. "All the same, she must have thought
you were on to her. It's a bad business letting her slip through our fingers like
this.'

	"You could not have proved anything against her," said Poirot.

	"No--I suppose that's true 	Perhaps
it's all for the best. You---er
idn't
mean this to happen, M.
Poirot?"
	Poirot's disclaimer was indignant. Then he
said:
	"Tell me exactly what has
occurred.'
"Roberts opened his letters just before eight o'clock. 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 hadn't been called yet,
rushed up to her bedroom but it was too late. He tried artificial respiration, but
there



	484
	Agatha Christie


was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after and confirmed his
treatment."

"What was the sleeping stuff?."
"Veronal, I think. One of the Barbituric group, at any rate. There was a bottle
of tablets by her bed."

"What about the other two? Did they not try to communicate with you?"
"Despard is out of town. He hasn't had this morning's post."
"And-Miss Meredith?"
"I've just rung her up." "Eh bien?"

"She had just opened the letter a few moments before my call came through.
Post is later there."

"What was her reaction?"

"A perfectly proper attitude. Intense relief decently veiled. Shocked and
grieved--that sort of thing."

Poirot paused a moment, then he said:
"Where are you now, my friend?" "At Cheyne Lane."

"Bien. I will come round immediately."

In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Dr. Roberts on the point of departure.
The doctor's usual florid manner was rather in abeyance this morning. He looked
pale and shaken.

"Nasty business this, M. Poirot. I can't say I'm not relieved from my own
point of view--but, to tell you the truth, it's a bit of a shock. I never really thought
for a minute that it was Mrs. Lorrimer who stabbed Shaitana. It's been the greatest
surprise to me." .

"I, too, am surprised."

"Quiet, well-bred, self-contained woman. Can't imagine her doing a violent
thing like that. What was the motive, I wonder? Oh, well, we shall never know
now. I confess I'm curious, though.'

"It must take a load off your mind--this occurrence."

"Oh, it does, undoubtedly. It would be hypocrisy not to admit it. It's not very
pleasant to have a suspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman

herself well, it was undoubtedly the best way out.'
"So she thought herself.'
Roberts nodded.

"Conscience, I suppose," 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.

"It's 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 to-day she's gone. I shall
never forget this morning--never as long as I live. The gentleman pealing at the
bell. Rang three times, he did, before I could get to it. And, 'Where's your
mistress?' he shot out at me. I was so flustered, I couldn't hardly answer. You see,
we never went in to the mistress till she rang--that was her orders. And I just
couldn't get out anything. And the doctor, he says, 'Where's her room?' 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, 'Too late,' he says.
She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy and hot water, and he tried desperate



	Cards on the Table
	485

to bring her back, but it couldn't be done. And then the police coming and all--it
isn't--it isn't--decent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldn't have liked it. And why the
police? It's none of their business, surely, even if an accident has occurred and the
poor mistress did take an overdose by mistake."
Poirot did not reply to her question.
He said:
"Last night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried
at all?"
"No, I don't think so, sir. She was tired--and I think she was in pain. She
hasn't been well lately, sir."
"No, I know."
The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on.
"She was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been
worried about her for some time. She couldn't 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."
With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back.
"The young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?"
"Yes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith, her name was."
"Did she stay long?"
"About an hour, sir."
Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
"And afterwards?"
"The mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired."
Again Poirot was silent; then he said:
"Do you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?" "Do you mean after she went to bed? I don't think so, sir."
"But you are not sure?"
"There 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."
"How many were there?"
"Two or three---I'm not quite sure, sir. Three, I think."
"You--or cook whoever posted them--did not happen to notice to whom
they were addressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost
importance."
"I went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top one---it was to
Fortnum and Mason's. I couldn't say as to the others."
The woman's tone was earnest and sincere.
"Are you sure there were not more than three letters?"
"Yes, sir, I'm quite certain of that."
Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then
he sai&.
"You knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?" "Oh, yes, sir, it was the doctor's orders. Dr. Lang."
"Where was this sleeping medicine kept?"
"In the little cupboard in the mistress's room."
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.


	486
	Agatha Chrtie


	"I'm glad you've come, M. Poirot. Let me introduce you to Dr. Davidson."

	The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall, melancholy man.

	"The luck was against us,' he said. "An hour or two earlier, and we might have

saved her."

"H'm," said Battle. "I mustn't say so officially, but I'm not sorry. She was a--well,
she was a lady. I don't know what her reasons were for killing Shaitana, but
she may just conceivably have been justified."

"In any case," said Poirot, "it is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her
trial. She was a very ill woman."

	The surgeon nodded in agreement.

	"I should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best."

	He started down the stairs.

	Battle moved after him.

	"One minute, doctor."

	Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, "I may enter--yes?"

Battle nodded over his shoulder. "Quite all right. We're through." Poirot
passed into the room, closing the door behind him ....

	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 disgrace---or was there a different, a more sinister
explanation?

There were certain facts ....

Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark, diseoloured bruise on the dead
woman's arm.

He straightened himself up again. There was a strange, cat-like gleam in his
eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognised.

	He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were

at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said: "He hasn't come back, sir."
Battle said:

"Despard. I've been trying to get him. There's a letter for him with the
Chelsea postmark all right."

Poirot asked an irrelevant question.

"Had Dr. Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?"

Battle stared. '

"No," he said, "I remember he mentioned that he'd come out without it." "Then he will be at his house now. We can get him."
"But why--?"

But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke:

"Dr. 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?"

"Mrs. Lorrimer's handwriting? I--no, I don't know that I'd ever seen it
before."

'Je vous remercie."

Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.

Battle was staring at him.

"What's the big idea, M. Poirot?" he asked quietly.

Poirot took him by the arm.

"Listen, 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



	Cards on the Table
	487

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?"
"After the servants had gone to bed?" suggested Battle. "She got up and
posted them herself."
"That is possible, yes, but there is another possibility--that she did not write
them at all."
Battle whistled.
"My God, you mean.--"
The telephone trilled. The sergeant picked up the receiver. He listened a
minute, then turned to Battle.
"Sergeant O'Connor speaking from Despard's flat, sir. There's reason to
believe that Despard's down at WallingfordonThames."
Poirot caught Battle by the arm.
"Quickly, 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."

CHAPTER 29

Accident

"Arm, imm?,,
l," said Rhoda.
"No, really, Anne, don't answer with half your mind on a crossword puzzlel I
want you to attend to me."
"I am attending."
Anne sat bolt upright and put down the paper.
"That's better. Look here, Anne." Bhoda hesitated. "About this man coming."
"Superintendent Battle?"
"Yes. Anne, I wish you'd tell him--about being at the Bensons'."
Anne's voice grew rather cold.
"Nonsense. Why should I?"
"Becausewell, it might look--as though you'd been keeping something
back. I'm sure it would be better to mention it." "I can't very well now," said Anne coldly. "I wish you had in the first place."
"Well, it's too late to bother about that now."
"Yes." Rhoda did not sound convinced.
Anne said rather irritably:
"In any case, I can't see why. It's got nothing to do with all this."
"No, of course not."
"I was only there about two months. He only wants these things as--well--references.
Two months doesn't count."
"No, I know. I expect I'm being foolish, but it does worry me rather. I feel you


	488
	Agatha Christie

ought to mention it. You see, if it came out some other way, it might look rather
bad--your keeping dark about it, I mean."
"I don't see how it can come out. Nobody knows but you."
"N-no?"
Anne pounced on the slight hesitation in Rhoda's voice.
"Why, who does know?"
"Well, every one at Combeacre," said Rhoda after a moment's pause.
"Oh, that!" Anne dismissed it with a shrug. "The superintendent isn't likely to
come up against any one from there. It would be an extraordinary coincidence ffhe
did."
"Coincidences happen."
"Rhoda, you're being extraordinary about this. Fuss, fuss, fuss."
"I'm terribly sorry, darling. Only you know what the police might be like if
they thought you werewell hiding things."
"They won't know. Who's to tell them? Nobody knows but you."
It was the second time she had said those words. At this second repetition her
voice changed a little--something queer and speculative came into it.
"Oh, dear, I wish you would," 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.
"Rather fun, Major Despard turning up," said Rhoda. "What? Oh, yes."
"Anne, he/s attractive. If you don't want him, do, do, do hand him over to
me!"
"Don't be absurd, Rhoda. He doesn't care tuppence for me."
"Then why does he keep on turning up? Of course he's keen on you. You're
just the sort of distressed damsel that he'd enjoy rescuing. You look so beautifully
helpless, Anne."
"He's equally pleasant to both of us."
"That's only his niceness. But if you don't want him, I could do the
sympathetic friend act--console his broken heart; etc., etc., and in the end I might
get him. Who knows?" Rhoda concluded inelegantly.
"I'm sure you're quite welcome to him, my dear," said Anne, laughing.
"He's got such a lovely back to his neck," sighed Rhoda. "Very brick red and
muscular."
"Darling, must you be so mawkish?" "Do you like him, Anne?"
"Yes, very much."
"Aren't we prim and sedate? I think he likes me a little---not as much as you,
but a little."
"Oh, but he does like you," said Anne.
Again there was an unusual note in her voice, but Rhoda did not hear it.
"What time is our sleuth coming?" she asked.
"Twelve," said Anne. She was silent for a minute or two, then she said, "It's
only half-past ten now. Let's go out on the river.'
"But isn't--didn't Despard say he'd come round about eleven?"
"Why should we wait in for him? We can leave a message with Mrs. Astwell
which way we've gone, and he can follow us along the towpath."
"In fact, don't make yourself cheap, dear, as mother always said!" laughed
Rhoda. "Come on, then."
She went out of the room and through the garden door. Anne followed her.


	Cards on the Table
	489


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.

"Sweet on one or other of 'em, he is," she observed to herself. "I think it's
Miss Anne, but I'm not certain. He don't give away much by his face. Treats 'em
both alike. I'm not sure they ain't both sweet on him, too. If so, they won't be such
dear friends so much longer..Nothing like a gentleman for coming between two
young ladies."

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 door-bell rang.

"Drat that doo," said Mrs. Astwell. "Do it on purpose, they do. Parcel, I
suppose. Or might be a telegram."

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.
"Miss Meredith at home?" asked the big man.
Mrs. Astwell shook her head.
"Just gone out."

"Really? Which way? We didn't meet her."

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.

"Gone out on the river," she explained.
The other gentleman broke in:
"And the other lady? Miss Dawes?"
"They've both gone."

"Ah, thank you," said Battle. "Let me see, which way does one get to the
river?"

"First turning to the left, down the lane," Mrs. Astwell replied promptly.
"When you get to the towpath, go right. I heard them say that's the way they were
going," she added helpfully. "Not above a quarter of an hour ago. You'll soon catch
em up.

"And I wonder," she added to herself as she unwillingly closed the front door,
having stared inquisitively at their retreating backs, "who you two may be. Can't
place you, somehow."

Mrs. Astwell returned to the kitchen sink, and Battle and Poirot duly took the
first turning to the left--a straggling lane which soon ended abruptly at the
towpath.

Poirot was hurrying along, and Battle eyed him curiously.
"Anything the matter, M. Poirot? You seem in a mighty hurry." "It is true. I am uneasy, my friend."
"Anything particular?"
Poirot shook his head.

"No. But there are possibilities. You never know .... "

"You've something in your head," said Battle. "You were urgent that we



	490
	Agatha Christie


should come down here this morning without losing a moment--and, my word,
you made Constable Turner step on the gas! What are you afraid of?. The girl's shot
her bolt."

	Poirot was silent.

	"What are you afraid of?." Battle repeated.

	"What is one always afraid of in these cases?"

	Battle nodded.

	"You're quite right. I wonder
	"

	"You wonder what, my friend?"

	Battle said slowly:

"I'm wondering if Miss Meredith knows that her friend told Mrs. Oliver a
certain fact."

	Poirot nodded his head in vigorous appreciation.

	"Hurry, my friend," he said.

They hastened along the river bank. There was no craft visible on the water's
surface, but presently they rounded a bend, and Poirot suddenly stopped dead.
Battle's quick eyes saw also.

	"Major Despard," he said.

Despard was about two hundred yards ahead of them, striding along the river
bank.

A little farther on the two girls were in view in a punt on the water, Rhoda
punting--Anne lying and laughing up at her. Neither of them were looking
towards the bank.

And then--it happened. Anne's hand outstretched, Rhoda's stagger, her
plunge overboard her desperate grasp at Anne's sleeve--the rocking boat--then
an overturned punt and two girls struggling in the water.

"See it?" cried Battle as he started to run. "Little Meredith caught her round
the ankle and tipped her in. My God, that's her fourth murder!"

They were both running hard. But some one 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.

"Mon Dieu, this is interesting," cried Poirot. He caught at Battle's arm.
"Which of them will he go for first?"

The two girls were not together. About twelve yards separated them.

Despard swam powerfully towards them--there 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. "Be careful," called Battle. "Weeds."

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.

"Artificial respiration," said Battle. "Only thing to do. But I'm afraid she's
gone."

He set to work methodically. Poirot stood by, ready to relieve him.
Despard dropped down by Rhoda. "Are you all right?" he asked hoarsely.



	Cards on the Table
	491


	She said slowly:

	"You saved me. You saved me 	"She
held out her hands to him, and as he
took
them she burst suddenly into tears. He
said, "Rhoda .... " Their
hands clung together ....
He
had a sudden vision---of African scrub, and Rhoda, laughing and adventurous,
by his side ....

CHAPTER
30 Murder


"Do you mean to say," said Rhoda incredulously, "that Anne meant to push me in?
I
know it felt like it. And she knew I can't swim. But but was it deliberate?" "It
was quite deliberate," said Poirot.
	They
were driving through the outskirts of London.
	"But
but why?"
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.
"You'll
have to prepare yourself, Miss Dawes, for a bit of a shock. This Mrs. Benson,
your friend lived with, her death wasn't quite the accident that it
appeared--at
least, so we've reason to suppose."
	"What
do you mean?"
	"We believe," said Poirot, "that Anne Meredith changed two bottles."
	"Oh,
no--no, how horrible! It's impossible. Anne? Why should she?"
"She
had her reasons," said Superintendent Battle. "But 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 didn't tell her, I suppose, that you'd mentioned it
to Mrs. Oliver?"
	Rhoda
said slowly:
	"No. I thought she'd be annoyed with me."
	"She
would. Very annoyed," said Battle grimly. "But she thought that the
only
danger could come from you, and that's why she decided to	er--eliminate

yOU."

	"Eliminate? Me? Oh, how beastly! It can't be all true."
"Well,
she's dead now," said Superintendent Battle, "so we might as well leave
it at that; but she wasn't a nice friend for you to have, Miss Dawes-and that's
a fact."
	The
car drew up in front of a door.
"We'll
go in to M. Poirot's," said Superintendent Battle, "and have a bit of a talk
about it all."
In
Poirot's sitting-room they were welcomed by Mrs. Oliver, who was entertaining
Dr. Roberts. They were drinking sherry. Mrs. Oliver was wearing one of
the new horsy hats and a velvet dress with a bow on the chest on which reposed a large
piece of apple core.


	492
	Agatha Christie

	"Come in. Come in," said Mrs. Oliver hospitably and quite as though it were
her house and not Poirot's. "As 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 doesn't
care. They're probably getting better, really. We want to hear all about
everything."
	"Yes, indeed, I'm thoroughly fogged," said Roberts.
	"Eh bien," said Poirot. "The case is ended. The murderer of Mr. Shaitana is
found at last."
"So Mrs. Oliver told me. That pretty little thing, Anne Meredith. I can hardly
believe it. A most unbelievable murderess."
	"She was a murderess all right," said Battle. "Three murders to her credit--
and not her fault that she didn't get away with a fourth one."
	"Incredible!" murmured Roberts.
	"Not at all," said Mrs. Oliver. "Least likely person. It seems to work out in
real life just the same as in books."
"It's been an amazing day," said Roberts. "First Mrs. Lorrimer's letter. I
suppose that was a forgery, eh?"
	"Precisely. A forgery written in triplicate."
	"She wrote one to herself, too?"
"Naturally. The forgery was quite skilful--it would not deceive an expert, of
course--but, then, it was highly unlikely that an expert would have been called in.
All the evidence pointed to Mrs. Lorrimer's having committed suicide."
	"You will excuse my curiosity, M. Poirot, but what made you suspect that she
had not committed suicide?"
	"A little conversation that I had with a maidservant at Cheyne Lane."
	"She told you of Anne Meredith's visit the former evening?"
"That among other things. And then, you see, I had already come to
conclusion in my own mind as to the identity of the guilty person--that is, the
person who killed Mr. Shaitana. That person was not Mrs. Lorrimer."
"What made you suspect Miss Meredith?"
Poirot raised his hand.
	"A 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 Meredith 	"
	He
leaned forward. His voice purred, soP and catlike.
	"You see, Dr. Roberts, you were the person who killed Mr. Shaitana; and you
also killed Mrs. Lorrimer .... "

There was at least three minutes' silence. Then Roberts laughed a rather menacing
laugh.
"Are you quite mad, M. Poirot? I certainly did not murder Mr. Shaitana, and I
could not possibly have murdered Mrs. Lorrimer. My dear Battle" he turned to
the Scotland Yard man "are qou standing for this?"
"I think you'd better listen to what M. Poirot has to say,' said Battle QUIETLY.
Poirot said:
"It is true that though I have known for some time that you--and only you--could
have killed Shaitana, it would not be an easy matter to prove it. But MrS.
Lorrimer's case is quite different." He leaned forward. "It is not a case of my
knowing. It is much simpler than that for we have an eye-witness who saw you do.
it."


	Cards on the Table
	493

	Roberts grew very quiet. His eyes glittered. He said sharply:

	"You are talking rubbish!"

	"Oh, no, I am not. It was early in the morning. You bluffed your way into Mrs.

	Lorrimer's room, where she was still heavily asleep under the influence of the drug

	she had taken the night before. You bluff again--pretend to see at a glance that she

	is dead! You pack the parlourmaid off for brandy--hot water--all the rest of it. You

	are left alone in the room. The maid has only had the barest peep. And then what

	happens?

	"You may not be aware of the fact, Dr. Roberts, but certain firms of window

	cleaners specialise 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. Lorrirner's

	room. When, however, he saw what was going on, he quickly retired to another

	window, but he had seen sornethingfirst. He shall tell us his own story."

	Poirot stepped lightly across the floor, turned a door handle, called:

	"Come in, Stephens," and returned.

	A big awkward-looking man with red hair entered. In his hand he held a

	uniformed hat bearing the legend "Chelsea Window Cleaners' Association" Which

	he twirled awkwardly.

	Poirot said:

	"Is there anybody you reeognise in this room?"

	The man looked round, then gave a bashful nod of the head towards Dr.

	Roberts.

	"Him," he said.

	"Tell us when you saw him last and what he was doing."

	"This morning it was. Eight o'clock job at a lady's 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 just about here
	"he
gestured. "She just dropped back on the pillow again. I thought I'd better hop it to
another window, so I did. Hope I didn't do wrong in any way?"
"You did admirably, my friend," said Poirot.
He said quietly:
"Eh bien, Dr. Roberts?"
"A--a simple restorative---" stammered Roberts. "A last hope of bringing her
round. It's monstrous "
Poirot interrupted him.
"A simple restorative?--N-methyl-cyclo-hexenyl-methyl-malonyl urea," said
Poirot. He rolled out the syllables unctuously. "Known more simply as Evipan.
Used an as 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 Imphrey,
the Home Office Analyst."
"That about cooks your goose, I think," said Superintendent Battle. "No need
to prove the Shaitana business, though, of course, if necessary we can bring a
further charge as to the murder of Mr. Charles Craddockand possibly his Wife
dso."
The mention of those two names finished Roberts. He leaned back in his chair.


	494
	Agatha Christie

"I throw in my hand," he said. "You've got me! I suppose that sly devil
Shaitana put you wise before you came that evening. And I thought I'd settled his
hash so nicely."
"It isn't Shaitana you've got to thank," said Battle. "The honours lie with M.
Poirot here."
He went to the door and two men entered.
Superintendent Battle's 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:
"I always said he did it!"

CHAPTER 31
Cards on the Table

It was Poirot's moment, every face was turned to his in eager anticipation.
"You are very kind," he said, smiling. "You know, I think, that I enjoy my
little lecture. I am a prosy old fellow.
"This 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 sense--no. There were no tangible clues---no
fingerprints--no incriminating papers or documents. There were only--the people
themselves.
"And one tangible cluethe bridge scores.
"You 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
thing--a 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 ffthe victim did not
cry out some one of the other three might chance to look up at the psychological
moment and actually witness the deed.
"Now as to the first risk, nothing could be done about it. It was a matter of a
gambler's 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 attention--the 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 anglepsychological probability. Of the four suspects Mrs.


	Cards on Se Tab
	495


Lorrimer struck me as by far the most likely to plan and carry out a successful
murder but 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.

"I next made a second test. I got every one 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 kinds--what 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.

"Mrs. Lorrimer I found to have a marvellous card memory, and I could well
imagine that with any one 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)--and he bid it in her suit, not his own, so that she necessarily played
the hand.

"The 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 points 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 victim's 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 openly--in 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 one--sheer bold audacious bluff-exactly
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.

"Now just at the moment that I had decided quite definitely that Roberts was
the man, Mrs. Lorrimer asked me to come and see her--and quite convincingly
accused herself of the crime! I nearly believed her! For a minute or two I did believe her--and then my little grey cells reasserted their mastery. It could not
beso it was not!

"But what she told me was more difficult still.

"She assured me that she had actually seen Anne Meredith commit the crime.

"It was not till the following morning--when I stood by a dead woman's bed--that
I saw how I could still be right and Mrs. Lorrimer still have spoken the truth.

"Anne Meredith went over to the fireplace--and saw that Mr. Shaitana was
dead! She stopped over him--perhaps stretched out her hand to the gleaming head
of the jewelled pin.



	496
	Agatha Christie

	"Her lips part to call out, but she does not call out. She remembers Shaitana's

talk at dinner. Perhaps he has left some record. She, Anne Meredith, has a motive

for desiring his death. Every one will say that she has killed him. She dare not call

out. Trembling with fear and apprehension she goes back to her seat.

	"So Mrs. Lorrimer is right, since she, as she thought, saw the crime

committed but I am right too, for actually she did not see it.

	"If 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 so-by a mixture ofbluffand

various ingenious devices. I would at any rate have tried.

	"But he lost his nerve and once again overbid his hand. And this time the

cards lay wrong for him and he came down heavily.

	"No doubt he was uneasy. He knew that Battle was nosing about. He foresaw

the present situation going on indefinitely, the police still searching--and perhaps,

by some miracle--coming 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

handwriting--forges three identical letters and arrives at the house hot-foot 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 plausibleperfectly/
straightforward.
	/
	"In all this he has no idea of throwing suspicion on Anne Meredith. He d/ooes

	not even know of her visit the night before. It is suicide and security only that he is

	aiming at.

	"It is in fact an awkward moment for him when I ask if he is acquainted with

	Mrs. Lorrimer's 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.

	"From 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 in the way he has planned, the blow falls.

	Hercule Poirot springs! And so--the gambler will gather in no more tricks. He has

	thrown his cards upon the table. C'estfini."

	There was silence. Rhoda broke it with a sigh.

	"What amazing luck that window-cleaner happened to be there," she said.

	"Luck? Luck? That was not luck, mademoiselle. That was the grey cells of
Hercule Poirot. And that reminds me
	"
	He went to the door.
	"Come in-come in, my dear fellow. You acted your part i merveille."
	He returned accompanied by the window cleaner, who now held his red hair
in his hand and who looked somehow a very different person.
	"My friend Mr. Gerald Hemmingway, a very promising young actor."
	"Then there was no window-cleaner?" cried Rhoda. "Nobody saw him?"
	"I saw," said Poirot. "With the eyes of the mind one can see more than with
the eyes of thebody. One leans back and closes the eyes--
	Despard said cheerfully:
"Let's stab him, Rhoda, and see if his ghost can come back and find out Who
did it."

