Cards on the Table (SB) (Superintendent Battle 3)

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’d 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.

Four

FIRST MURDERER?

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

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

Superintendent Battle looked at Poirot.

“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 very nearly whistled.

“Exhibits—eh? Murderers all alive oh! And you think he meant it? You don’t think he was pulling your leg?”

Poirot shook his head.

“Oh, no, he meant it. Shaitana was a man who prided himself on his Mephistophelian attitude to life. He was a man of great vanity. He was also a stupid 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.

Race shrugged his shoulders. He took the question as referring to Poirot’s statment 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 police—you! He (or she) must have thought that Shaitana had definite evidence.”

“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 daresay 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 on duty in the hall.

“Go to the little smoking room. You’ll find Anderson there with 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 first time tonight. I knew of Despard before—read 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 remember my 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?”