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

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 so—I am prepared to go inside the tiger’s cage….”

Nine

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.

Superintendent Battle glanced round the comfortable consulting room before answering.

“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 home. 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 off on 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.”

“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 parlour maid 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 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 onto the next, the better it is for everyone 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 to 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:

“Dear me, what sort of an animal is this?”

“I should be glad, Miss Burgess, if you will answer any questions Superintendent 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.

“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 realize that a search would be bound to come and he would make provisions accordingly. There was, however, a faint chance that Battle might come across a hint of the information he was really after, since Roberts would not know the real object of his search.

Superintendent Battle opened and shut drawers, rifled pigeonholes, glanced through a chequebook, estimated the unpaid bills—noted what those same bills were for, scrutinized Roberts’ passbook, ran throu

gh 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.