Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“Well, you won’t have my impudence much longer,” said Sergeant O’Connor. “I’ve got to go away on business for my firm.”

“You going for long?”

“May be going abroad,” said the Sergeant.

Elsie’s face fell.

Though unacquainted with Lord Byron’s famous poem, “I never loved a dear gazelle,” etc., its sentiments were at that moment hers. She thought to herself:

“Funny how all the really attractive ones never come to anything. Oh, well, there’s always Fred.”

Which is gratifying, since it shows that the sudden incursion of Sergeant O’Connor into Elsie’s life did not affect it permanently. “Fred” may even have been the gainer!

Seventeen

THE EVIDENCE OF RHODA DAWES

Rhoda Dawes came out of Debenham’s and stood meditatively upon the pavement. Indecision was written all over her face. It was an expressive face; each fleeting emotion showed itself in a quickly varying expression.

Quite plainly at this moment Rhoda’s face said: “Shall I or shan’t I? I’d like to … But perhaps I’d better not….”

The commissionaire said, “Taxi, Miss?” to her hopefully.

Rhoda shook her head.

A stout woman carrying parcels with an eager “shopping early for Christmas” expression on her face, cannoned into her severely, but still Rhoda stood stock-still, trying to make up her mind.

Chaotic odds and ends of thoughts flashed through her mind.

“After all, why shouldn’t I? She asked me to—but perhaps it’s just a thing she says to everyone … She doesn’t mean it to be taken seriously … Well, after all, Anne didn’t want me. She made it quite clear she’d rather go with Major Despard to the solicitor man alone … And why shouldn’t she? I mean, three is a crowd … And it isn’t really any business of mine … It isn’t as though I particularly wanted to see Major Despard … He is nice, though … I think he must have fallen for Anne. Men don’t take a lot of trouble unless they have … I mean, it’s never just kindness….”

A messenger boy bumped into Rhoda and said, “Beg pardon, Miss,” in a reproachful tone.

“Oh, dear,” thought Rhoda. “I can’t go on standing here all day. Just because I’m such an idiot that I can’t make up my mind … I think that coat and skirt’s going to be awfully nice. I wonder if brown would have been more useful than green? No, I don’t think so. Well, come on, shall I go or shan’t I? Half past three, it’s quite a good time—I mean, it doesn’t look as though I’m cadging a meal or anything. I might just go and look, anyway.”

She plunged across the road, turned to the right, and then to the left, up Harley Street, finally pausing by the block of flats always airily described by Mrs. Oliver as “all among the nursing homes.”

“Well, she can’t eat me,” thought Rhoda, and plunged boldly into the building.

Mrs. Oliver’s flat was on the top floor. A uniformed attendant whisked her up in a lift and decanted her on a smart new mat outside a bright green door.

“This is awful,” thought Rhoda. “Worse than dentists. I must go through with it now, though.”

Pink with embarrassment, she pushed the bell.

The door was opened by an elderly maid.

“Is—could I—is Mrs. Oliver at home?” asked Rhoda.

The maid drew back, Rhoda entered, she was shown into a very untidy drawing room. The maid said:

“What name shall I say, please?”

“Oh—eh—Miss Dawes—Miss Rhoda Dawes.”

The maid withdrew. After what seemed to Rhoda about a hundred years, but was really exactly a minute and forty-five seconds, the maid returned.

“Will you step this way, Miss?”