“Incredible!” murmured Roberts.
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Least likely person. It seems to work out in real life just the same as in books.”
“It’s been an amazing day,” said Roberts. “First Mrs. Lorrimer’s letter. I suppose that was a forgery, eh?”
“Precisely. A forgery written in triplicate.”
“She wrote one to herself, too?”
“Naturally. The forgery was quite skilful—it would not deceive an expert, of course—but, then, it was highly unlikely that an expert would have been called in. All the evidence pointed to Mrs. Lorrimer’s having committed suicide.”
“You will excuse my curiosity, M. Poirot, but what made you suspect that she had not committed suicide?”
“A little conversation that I had with a maidservant at Cheyne Lane.”
“She told you of Anne Meredith’s visit the former evening?”
“That among other things. And then, you see, I had already come to a conclusion in my own mind as to the identity of the guilty person—that is, the person who killed Mr. Shaitana. That person was not Mrs. Lorrimer.”
“What made you suspect Miss Meredith?”
Poirot raised his hand.
“A little minute. Let me approach this matter in my own way. Let me, that is to say, eliminate. The murderer of Mr. Shaitana was not Mrs. Lorrimer, nor was it Major Despard, and, curiously enough, it was not Anne Meredith….”
He leaned forward. His voice purred, soft and catlike.
“You see, Dr. Roberts, you were the person who killed Mr. Shaitana; and you also killed Mrs. Lorrimer….”
II
There was at least three minutes’ silence. Then Roberts laughed a rather menacing laugh.
“Are you quite mad, M. Poirot? I certainly did not murder Mr. Shaitana, and I could not possibly have murdered Mrs. Lorrimer. My dear Battle”—he turned to the Scotland Yard man—“are you standing for this?”
“I think you’d better listen to what M. Poirot has to say,” said Battle quietly.
Poirot said:
“It is true that though I have known for some time that you—and only you—could have killed Shaitana, it would not be an easy matter to prove it. But Mrs. Lorrimer’s case is quite different.” He leaned forward. “It is not a case of my knowing. It is much simpler than that—for we have an eyewitness who saw you do it.”
Roberts grew very quiet. His eyes glittered. He said sharply:
“You are talking rubbish!”
“Oh, no, I am not. It was early in the morning. You bluffed your way into Mrs. Lorrimer’s room, where she was still heavily asleep under the influence of the drug she had taken the night before. You bluff again—pretend to see at a glance that she is dead! You pack the parlourmaid off for brandy—hot water—all the rest of it. You are left alone in the room. The maid has only had the barest peep. And then what happens?
“You may not be aware of the fact, Dr. Roberts, but certain firms of window cleaners specialize in early morning work. A window cleaner with his ladder arrived at the same time as you did. He placed his ladder against the side of the house and began his work. The first window he tackled was that of Mrs. Lorrimer’s room. When, however, he saw what was going on, he quickly retired to another window, but he had seen something first. He shall tell us his own story.”
Poirot stepped lightly across the floor, turned a door handle, called:
“Come in, Stephens,” and returned.
A big awkward-looking man with red hair entered. In his hand he held a uniformed hat bearing the legend “Chelsea Window Cleaners’ Association” which he twirled awkwardly.
Poirot said:
“Is there anybody you recognize in this room?”