Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“And that?”

“A low-down game.”

Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

“Is it that you know that? Or do you just think it?”

Despard went brick red.

“Meaning one oughtn’t to say things without giving chapter and verse? I suppose that’s true. Well, it’s accurate enough. I happen to know. On the other hand, I’m not prepared to give chapter and verse. Such information as I’ve got came to me privately.?

??

“Meaning a woman or women are concerned?”

“Yes. Shaitana, like the dirty dog he was, preferred to deal with women.”

“You think he was a blackmailer? That is interesting.”

Despard shook his head.

“No, no, you’ve misunderstood me. In a way, Shaitana was a blackmailer, but not the common or garden sort. He wasn’t after money. He was a spiritual blackmailer, if there can be such a thing.”

“And he got out of it—what?”

“He got a kick out of it. That’s the only way I can put it. He got a thrill out of seeing people quail and flinch. I suppose it made him feel less of a louse and more of a man. And it’s a very effective pose with women. He’d only got to hint that he knew everything—and they’d start telling him a lot of things that perhaps he didn’t know. That would tickle his sense of humour. Then he’d strut about in his Mephistophelian attitude of ‘I know everything! I am the great Shaitana!’ The man was an ape!”

“So you think that he frightened Miss Meredith that way,” said Poirot slowly.

“Miss Meredith?” Despard stared. “I wasn’t thinking of her. She isn’t the kind to be afraid of a man like Shaitana.”

“Pardon. You meant Mrs. Lorrimer.”

“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I was speaking generally. It wouldn’t be easy to frighten Mrs. Lorrimer. And she’s not the kind of woman who you can imagine having a guilty secret. No, I was not thinking of anyone in particular.”

“It was the general method to which you referred?”

“Exactly.”

“There is no doubt,” said Poirot slowly, “that what you call a Dago often has a very clever understanding of women. He knows how to approach them. He worms secrets out of them—”

He paused.

Despard broke in impatiently:

“It’s absurd. The man was a mountebank—nothing really dangerous about him. And yet women were afraid of him. Ridiculously so.”

He started up suddenly.

“Hallo, I’ve overshot the mark. Got too interested in what we were discussing. Good-bye, M. Poirot. Look down and you’ll see my faithful shadow leave the bus when I do.”

He hurried to the back and down the steps. The conductor’s bell jangled. But a double pull sounded before it had time to stop.

Looking down to the street below, Poirot noticed Despard striding back along the pavement. He did not trouble to pick out the following figure. Something else was interesting him.

“No one in particular,” he murmured to himself. “Now, I wonder.”

Sixteen