“I believe that is so. But I meant the actual name of the street. Anne Meredith met me in Harley Street.”
“Ah!” He looked at her attentively. “I begin to see.”
“Yes, I thought you would. I had been to see a specialist there. He told me what I already half suspected.”
Her smile widened. It was no longer twisted and bitter. It was suddenly sweet.
“I shall not play very much more bridge, M. Poirot. Oh, he didn’t say so in so many words. He wrapped up the truth a little. With great care, etc., etc., I might live several years. But I shall not take any great care. I am not that kind of a woman.”
“Yes, yes, I begin to understand,” said Poirot.
“It made a difference, you see. A month—two months, perhaps—not more. And then, just as I left the specialist, I met Miss Meredith. I asked her to have tea with me.”
She paused, then went on:
“I am not, after all, a wholly wicked woman. All the time we were having tea I was thinking. By my action the other evening I had not only deprived the man Shaitana of life (that was done, and could not be undone), I had also, to a varying degree, affected unfavourably the lives of three other people. Because of what I had done, Dr. Roberts, Major Despard and Anne Meredith, none of whom had injured me in any way, were passing through a very grave ordeal, and might even be in danger. That, at least, I could undo. I don’t know that I felt particularly moved by the plight of either Dr. Roberts or Major Despard—although both of them had presumably a much longer span of life in front of them than I had. They were men, and could, to a certain extent, look after themselves. But when I looked at Anne Meredith—”
She hesitated, then continued slowly:
“Anne Meredith was only a girl. She had the whole of her life in front of her. This miserable business might ruin that life….
“I didn’t like the thought of that….
“And then, M. Poirot, with these ideas growing in my mind, I realized that what you had hinted had come true. I was not going to be able to keep silence. This afternoon I rang you up….”
Minutes passed.
Hercule Poirot leaned forward. He stared, deliberately stared through the gathering gloom, at Mrs. Lorrimer. She returned that intent gaze quietly and without any nervousness.
He said at last:
“Mrs. Lorrimer, are you sure—are you positive (you will tell me the truth, will you not?)—that the murder of Mr. Shaitana was not premeditated? Is it not a fact that you planned the crime beforehand—that you went to that dinner with the murder already mapped out in your mind?”
Mrs. Lorrimer stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head sharply.
“No,” she said.
“You did not plan the murder beforehand?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then—then … Oh, you are lying to me—you must be lying! … ”
Mrs. Lorrimer’s voice cut into the air like ice.
“Really, M. Poirot, you forget yourself.”
The little man sprang to his feet. He paced up and down the room, muttering to himself, uttering ejaculations.
Suddenly he said:
“Permit me.”
And, going to the switch, he turned on the electric lights.
He came back, sat down in his chair, placed both hands on his knees and stared straight at his hostess.
“The question is,” he said, “can Hercule Poirot possibly be wrong?”