Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“Nothing of the kind,” she said. “He was always most polite and—and—formal. It was just his elaborate manners that made me uncomfortable.”

“And little things he said or hinted?”

“Yes—at least—no. He never hinted things.”

“Sorry. These lady-killers do sometimes. Well, goodnight, Miss Meredith. Thank you very much. Excellent coffee. Goodnight, Miss Dawes.”

“There,” said Rhoda as Anne came back into the room after shutting the door after Battle. “That’s over, and not so very terrible. He’s a nice fatherly man, and he evidently doesn’t suspect you in the least. It was all ever so much better than I expected.”

Anne sank down with a sigh.

“It was really quite easy,” she said. “It was silly of me to work myself up so. I thought he’d try to browbeat me—like K.C.s on the stage.”

“He looks sensible,” said Rhoda. “He’d know well enough you’re not a murdering kind of female.”

She hesitated and then said:

“I say, Anne, you didn’t mention being at Croftways. Did you forget?”

Anne said slowly:

“I didn’t think it counted. I was only there a few months. And there’s no one to ask about me there. I can write and tell him if you think it matters; but I’m sure it doesn’t. Let’s leave it.”

“Right, if you say so.”

Rhoda rose and turned on the wireless.

A raucous voice said:

“You have just heard the Black Nubians play ‘Why do you tell me lies, Baby?’”

Fifteen

MAJOR DESPARD

Major Despard came out of the Albany, turned sharply into Regent Street and jumped on a bus.

It was the quiet time of day—the top of the bus had very few seats occupied. Despard made his way forward and sat down on the front seat.

He had jumped on the bus while it was going. Now it came to a halt, took up passengers and made its way once more up Regent Street.

A second traveller climbed the steps, made his way forward and sat down in the front seat on the other side.

Despard did not notice the newcomer, but after a few minutes a tentative voice murmured:

“It is a good view of London, is it not, that one gets from the top of a bus?”

Despard turned his head. He looked puzzled for a moment, then his face cleared.

“I beg your pardon, M. Poirot. I didn’t see it was you. Yes as you say, one has a good bird’s eye view of the world from here. It was better, though, in the old days, when there wasn’t all this caged-in glass business.”

Poirot sighed.

“Tout de même, it was not always agreeable in the wet weather when the inside was full. And there is much wet weather in this country.”

“Rain? Rain never did any harm to anyone.”

“You are in error,” said Poirot. “It leads often to a fluxion de poitrine.”