Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“Couldn’t quite do that, Mrs. Oliver. That is official, you see. I’m in charge. I’ve got to investigate all lines. Besides, it’s all very well to say back your fancy. Two of us might want to back the same horse! Colonel Race hasn’t said he suspects Major Despard. And M. Poirot mayn’t be putting his money on Mrs. Lorrimer.”

Mrs. Oliver sighed.

“It was such a good plan,” she sighed regretfully. “So neat.” Then she cheered up a little. “But you don’t mind me doing a little investigating on my own, do you?”

“No,” said Superintendent Battle slowly. “I can’t say I object to that. In fact, it’s out of my power to object. Having been at this party tonight, you’re naturally free to do anything your own curiosity or interest suggests. But I’d like to point out to you, Mrs. Oliver, that you’d better be a little careful.”

“Discretion itself,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I shan’t breathe a word of—of anything—” she ended a little lamely.

“I do not think that was quite Superintendent Battle’s meaning,” said Hercule Poirot. “He meant that you will be dealing with a person who has already, to the best of our belief, killed twice. A person, therefore, who will not hesitate to kill a third time—if he considers it necessary.”

Mrs. Oliver looked at him thoughtfully. Then she smiled—an agreeable engaging smile, rather like that of an impudent small child.

“YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED,” she quoted. “Thank you, M. Poirot. I’ll watch my step. But I’m not going to be out of this.”

Poirot bowed gracefully.

“Permit me to say—you are the sport, madame.”

“I presume,” said Mrs. Oliver, sitting up very straight and speaking in a businesslike committee-meeting manner, “that all information we receive will be pooled—that is that we will not keep any knowledge to ourselves. Our own deductions and impressions, of course, we are entitled to keep up our sleeves.”

Superintendent Battle sighed.

“This isn’t a detective story, Mrs. Oliver,” he said.

Race said:

“Naturally, all information must be handed over to the police.”

Having said this in his most “Orderly Room” voice, he added with a slight twinkle in his eye: “I’m sure you’ll play fair, Mrs. Oliver—the stained glove, the fingerprint on the tooth glass, the fragment of burnt paper—you’ll turn them over to Battle here.”

“You may laugh,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But a woman’s intuition—”

She nodded her head with decision.

Race rose to his feet.

“I’ll have Despard looked up for you. It may take a little time. Anything else I can do?”

“I don’t

think so, thank you, sir. You’ve no hints? I’d value anything of that kind.”

“H’m. Well—I’d keep a special lookout for shooting or poison or accidents, but I expect you’re onto that already.”

“I’d made a note of that—yes, sir.”

“Good man, Battle. You don’t need me to teach you your job. Goodnight, Mrs. Oliver. Goodnight, M. Poirot.”

And with a final nod to Battle, Colonel Race left the room.

“Who is he?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“Very fine Army record,” said Battle. “Travelled a lot, too. Not many parts of the world he doesn’t know about.”

“Secret Service, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You can’t tell me so—I know; but he wouldn’t have been asked otherwise this evening. The four murderers and the four sleuths—Scotland Yard. Secret Service. Private. Fiction. A clever idea.”

Poirot shook his head.