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.
“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 there—wherever 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 Devonshire—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 fide 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 tomorrow 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.”
“He is a man who looks ahead,” said Poirot. “He is a man who prepares 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? This! 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. De
spard 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 harmonizes 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.”
“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.”