Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“I suppose they must have quarrelled—John and Timothy, I mean. I came out of my tent … I came out of my tent….”

“Yes—yes?”

Mrs. Luxmore’s eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though it were being repeated in front of her.

“I came out of my tent,” she repeated. “John and Timothy were—Oh!” she shuddered. “I can’t remember it all clearly. I came between them … I said ‘No—no, it isn’t true!’ Timothy wouldn’t listen. He was threatening John. John had to fire—in self-defence. Ah!” she gave a cry and covered her face with her hands. “He was dead—stone dead—shot through the heart.”

“A terrible moment for you, madame.”

“I shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused to hear of it. We argued all night. ‘For my sake,’ I kept saying. He saw that in the end. Naturally he couldn’t let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Passions.

“I put it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy had been having a bout of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him there beside the Amazon.”

A deep, tortured sigh shook her form.

“And then—back to civilization—and to part forever.”

“Was it necessary, madame?”

“Yes, yes. Timothy dead stood between us just as Timothy alive had done—more so. We said good-bye to each other—forever. I meet John Despard sometimes—out in the world. We smile, we speak politely—no one would ever guess that there was anything between us. But I see in his eyes—and he in mine—that we will never forget….”

There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.

Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her nose—the spell was broken.

“What a tragedy,” said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.

“You can see, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, “that the truth must never be told.”

“It would be painful—”

“It would be impossible. This friend, this writer—surely he would not wish to blight the life of a perfectly innocent woman?”

“Or even to hang a perfectly innocent man?” murmured Poirot.

“You see it like that? I am glad. He was innocent. A crime passionnel is not really a crime. And in any case it was self-defence. He had to shoot. So you do understand, M. Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?”

Poirot murmured.

“Writers are sometimes curiously callous.”

“Your friend is a woman-hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that. I shall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say I shot Timothy.

She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.

Poirot also rose.

“Madame,” he said as he took her hand, “such splendid self-sacrifice is unnecessary. I will do my best so that the true facts shall never be known.”

A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore’s face. She raised her hand slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it.

“An unhappy woman thanks you, M. Poirot,” she said.

It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favoured courtier—clearly an exit line. Poirot duly made his exit.

Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.

Twenty-one