Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“And yet—” She leaned forward, her waving hand stopped. “I did kill Shaitana, M. Poirot….”

Twenty-six

THE TRUTH

There was a pause—a very long pause.

The room was growing dark. The firelight leaped and flickered.

Mrs. Lorrimer and Hercule Poirot looked not at each other, but at the fire. It was as though time was momentarily in abeyance.

Then Hercule Poirot sighed and stirred.

“So it was that—all the time … Why did you kill him, madame?”

“I think you know why, M. Poirot.”

“Because he knew something about you—something that had happened long ago?”

“Yes.”

“And that something was—another death, madame?”

She bowed her head.

Poirot said gently:

“Why did you tell me? What made you send for me today?”

“You told me once that I should do so someday.”

“Yes—that is, I hoped … I knew, madame, that there was only one way of learning the truth as far as you were concerned—and that was by your own free will. If you did not choose to speak, you would not do so, and you would never give yourself away. But there was a chance—that you yourself might wish to speak.”

Mrs. Lorrimer nodded.

“It was clever of you to foresee that—the weariness—the loneliness—”

Her voice died away.

Poirot looked at her curiously.

“So it has been like that? Yes, I can understand it might be….”

“Alone—quite alone,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “No one knows what that means unless they have lived, as I have lived, with the knowledge of what one has done.”

Poirot said gently:

“Is it an impertinence, madame, or may I be permitted to offer my sympathy?”

She bent her head a little.

“Thank you, M. Poirot.”

There was another pause, then Poirot said, speaking in a slightly brisker tone:

“Am I to understand, madame, that you took the words Mr. Shaitana spoke at dinner as a direct menace aimed at you?”

She nodded.