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

“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 to five diamonds and we doubled and got him down to 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 spades, 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 had 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 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 battle—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 magnificent! You remember, one might say, every card that was played!”

“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-of-the-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 apologize 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 vertu and bric-à-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 dans son caractère?”

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.

“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!”

Twelve

ANNE MEREDITH

Mrs. Oliver extricated herself from the driving seat of her little two-seater with some difficulty. To begin with, the makers of modern motorcars assume that only a pair of sylphlike 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 handbag, 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 off whilst composing the complicated plot of The Death in the Drain Pipe—coming to herself with a start and an incipient stomachache 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 a 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 absentmindedly 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 rang the bell and executed a cheerful little rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker—a quaint conceit 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 sun 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, th

is is Mrs. Oliver.”

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

“Oh, are you the Mrs. Oliver? Ariadne Oliver?”

“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 about me. 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.