Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“I have left her to the end. But I shall question her too as to what she remembers in that room.”

“It’s an odd method of approach,” said Battle thoughtfully. “Purely psychological. Suppose they’re leading you up the garden path?”

Poirot shook his head with a smile.

“No, that would be impossible. Whether they try to hinder or to help, they necessarily reveal their type of mind.”

“There’s something in it, no doubt,” said Battle thoughtfully. “I couldn’t work that way myself, though.”

Poirot said, still smiling:

“I feel I have done very little in comparison with you and with Mrs. Oliver—and with Colonel Race. My cards, that I place on the table, are very low ones.”

Battle twinkled at him.

“As to that, M. Poirot, the two of trumps is a low card but it can take any one of three aces. All the same, I’m going to ask you to do a practical job of work.”

“And that is?”

“I want you to interview Professor Luxmore’s widow.”

“Why do you not do that yourself?”

“Because, as I said just now, I’m off to Devonshire.”

“Why do you not do that yourself?” repeated Poirot.

“Won’t be put off, will you? Well, I’ll speak the truth. I think you’ll get more out of her than I shall.”

“My methods being less straightforward?”

“You can put it that way if you like,” said Battle grinning. “I’ve heard Inspector Japp say that you’ve got a tortuous mind.”

“Like the late Mr. Shaitana?”

“You think he would have been able to get things out of her?”

Poirot said slowly:

“I rather think he did get things out of her!”

“What makes you think so?” asked Battle sharply.

“A chance remark of Major Despard’s.”

“Gave himself away, did he? That sounds unlike him.”

“Oh, my dear friend, it is impossible not to give oneself away—unless one never opens one’s mouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers.”

“Even if people tell lies?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“Yes, madame, because it can be seen at once that you tell a certain kind of lie.”

“You make me feel quite uncomfortable,” said Mrs. Oliver, getting up.

Superintendent Battle accompanied her to the door and shook her by the hand.

“You’ve been the goods, Mrs. Oliver,” he said. “You’re a much better detective than that long lanky Laplander of yours.”