“I’m getting after her—but why quickly?”
“Because, my friend, she may be dangerous.”
Battle was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
“I know what you mean. But there’s no one … Oh, well, we mustn’t take chances. As a matter of fact, I’ve written her. Official note, saying I’m calling to see her tomorrow. I thought it might be a good thing to get her rattled.”
“It is a possibility, at least. I may accompany you?”
“Naturally. Honoured to have your company, M. Poirot.”
Poirot hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.
His mind was not quite at rest. He sat for a long time in front of his fire, frowning to himself. At last, putting his fears and doubts aside, he went to bed.
“We will see in the morning,” he murmured.
But of what the morning would bring he had no idea.
Twenty-eight
SUICIDE
The summons came by telephone at the moment when Poirot was sitting down to his morning coffee and rolls.
He lifted the telephone receiver, and Battle’s voice spoke:
“That M. Poirot?”
“Yes, it is. Qu’est ce qu’il y a?”
The mere inflection of the superintendent’s voice had told him that something had happened. His own vague misgivings came back to him.
“But quickly, my friend, tell me.”
“It’s Mrs. Lorrimer.”
“Lorrimer—yes?”
“What the devil did you say to her—or did she say to you—yesterday? You never told me anything; in fact, you let me think that the Meredith girl was the one we were after.”
Poirot said quietly:
“What has happened?”
“Suicide.”
“Mrs. Lorrimer has committed suicide?”
“That’s right. It seems she has been very depressed and unlike herself lately. Her doctor had ordered her some sleeping stuff. Last night she took an overdose.”
Poirot drew a deep breath.
“There is no question of—accident?”
“Not the least. It’s all cut and dried. She wrote to the three of them.”
“Which three?”