Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“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 apologize. I understand.”

He sat down and looked inquiringly 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?”

Battle once more produced the stiletto.

Major Despard’s lip twisted slightly.

r /> “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 drily.