Cards on the Table (SB) (Superintendent Battle 3)

“My dear girl, no need to be an oyster. I told you to tell him all he wanted to know. What did he want to know, by the way?”

“Oh, he kept harping on your knowing that man Shaitana—suggested even that he might have come here as a patient under a different name. He showed me his photograph. Such a theatrical-looking man!”

“Shaitana? Oh, yes, fond of posing as a modern Mephistopheles. It went down rather well on the whole. What else did Battle ask you?”

“Really nothing very much. Except—oh, yes, somebody had been telling him some absurd nonsense about Mrs. Graves—you know the way she used to go on.”

“Graves? Graves? Oh, yes, old Mrs. Graves. That’s rather funny!” The doctor laughed with considerable amusement. “That’s really very funny indeed.”

And in high good humour he went in to lunch.

Ten

DR. ROBERTS (CONTINUED)

Superintendent Battle was lunching with M. Hercule Poirot.

The former looked downcast, the latter sympathetic.

“Your morning, then, has not been entirely successful,” said Poirot thoughtfully.

Battle shook his head.

“It’s going to be uphill work, M. Poirot.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Of the doctor? Well, frankly, I think Shaitana was right. He’s a killer. Reminds me of Westaway. And of that lawyer chap in Norfolk. Same hearty, self-confident manner. Same popularity. Both of them were clever devils—so’s Roberts. All the same, it doesn’t follow that Roberts killed Shaitana—and as a matter of fact I don’t think he did. He’d know the risk too well—better than a layman would—that Shaitana might wake and cry out. No, I don’t think Roberts murdered him.”

“But you think he has murdered someone?”

“Possibly quite a lot of people. Westaway had. But it’s going to be hard to get at. I’ve looked over his bank account—nothing suspicious there—no large sums suddenly paid in. At any rate, in the last seven years he’s not had any legacy from a patient. That wipes out murder for direct gain. He’s never married—that’s a pity—so ideally simple for a doctor to kill his own wife. He’s well-to-do, but then he’s got a thriving practice among well-to-do people.”

“In fact he appears to lead a thoroughly blameless life—and perhaps does do so.”

“Maybe. But I prefer to believe the worst.”

He went on:

“There’s the hint of a scandal over a woman—one of his patients—name of Craddock. That’s worth looking up, I think. I’ll get someone onto that straightaway. Woman actually died out in Egypt of some local disease so I don’t think there’s anything in that—but it might throw a light on his general character and morals.”

“Was there a husband?”

“Yes. Husband died of anthrax.”

“Anthrax?”

“Yes, there were a lot of cheap shaving brushes on the market just then—some of them infected. There was a regular scandal about it.”

“Convenient,” suggested Poirot.

“That’s what I thought. If her husband were threatening to kick up a row—But there, it’s all conjecture. We haven’t a leg to stand upon.”

“Courage, my friend. I know your patience. In the end, you will have perhaps as many legs as a centipede.”

“And fall into the ditch as a result of thinking about them,” grinned Battle.

Then he asked curiously:

“What about you, M. Poirot? Going to take a hand?”

“I, too, might call on Dr. Roberts.”

“Two of us in one day. That ought to put the wind up him.”

“Oh, I shall be very discreet. I shall not inquire into his past life.”

“I’d like to know just exactly what line you’ll take,” said Battle curiously, “but don’t tell me unless you want to.”

“Du tout—du tout. I am most willing. I shall talk a little of bridge, that is all.”

“Bridge again. You harp on that, don’t you, M. Poirot?”

“I find the subject very useful.”

“Well, every man to his taste. I don’t deal much in the fancy approaches. They don’t suit my style.”

“What is your style, superintendent?”

The superintendent met the twinkle in Poirot’s eyes with an answering twinkle in his own.

“A straightforward, honest, zealous officer doing his duty in the most laborious manner—that’s my style. No frills. No fancy work. Just honest perspiration. Stolid and a bit stupid—that’s my ticket.”

Poirot raised his glass.

“To our respective methods—and may success crown our joint efforts.”

“I expect Colonel Race may get us something worth having about Despard,” said Battle. “He’s got a good many sources of information.”

“And Mrs. Oliver?”

“Bit of a toss-up there. I rather like that woman. Talks a lot of nonsense, but she’s a sport. And women get to know things about other women that men can’t get at. She may spot something useful.”

They separated. Battle went back to Scotland Yard to issue instructions for certain lines to be followed up. Poirot betook himself to 200 Gloucester Terrace.

Dr. Roberts’ eyebrows rose comically as he greeted his guest.

“Two sleuths in one day,” he asked. “Handcuffs by this evening, I suppose.”

Poirot smiled.

“I can assure you, Dr. Roberts, that my attentions are being equally divided between all four of you.”

“That’s something to be thankful for, at all events. Smoke?”

“If you permit, I prefer my own.”

Poirot lighted one of his tiny Russian cigarettes.

“Well, what can I do for you?” asked Roberts.

Poirot was silent for a minute or two puffing, then he said:

“Are you a keen observer of human nature, doctor?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I am. A doctor has to be.”

“That was exactly my reasoning. I said to myself, ‘A doctor has always to be studying his patients—their expressions, their colour, how fast they breathe, any signs of restlessness—a doctor notices these things automatically almost without noticing he notices! Dr. Roberts is the man to help me.’”

“I’m willing enough to help. What’s the trouble?”

Poirot produced from a neat little pocketcase three carefully folded bridge scores.

“These are the first three rubbers the other evening,” he explained. “Here is the first one—in Miss Meredith’s handwriting. Now can you tell me—with this to refresh your memory—exactly what the calling was and how each hand went?”

Roberts stared at him in astonishment.

“You’re joking, M. Poirot. How can I possibly remember?”

“Can’t you? I should be very grateful if you could. Take this first rubber. The first game must have resulted in a game call in hearts or spades, or else one or other side must have gone down fifty.”

“Let me see—that was the first hand. Yes, I think they went out in spades.”

“And the next hand?”

“I suppose one or other of us went down fifty—but I can’t remember which or what it was in. Really, M. Poirot, you can hardly expect me to do so.”

“Can’t you remember any of the calling or the hands?”

“I got a grand slam—I remember that. It was doubled too. And I also remember going down a nasty smack—playing three no trumps, I think it was—went down a packet. But that was later on.”

“Do you remember with whom you were playing?”

“Mrs. Lorrimer. She looked a bit grim, I remember. Didn’t like my overcalling, I expect.”

“And you can’t remember any other of the hands or the calling?”

Roberts laughed.

“My dear M. Poirot, did you really expect I could. First there was the murder—enough to drive the most spectacular hands out of one’s mind—and in addition I’ve played at least half a dozen rubbers sinc

e then.”

Poirot sat looking rather crestfallen.

“I’m sorry,” said Roberts.

“It does not matter very much,” said Poirot slowly. “I hoped that you might remember one or two, at least, of the hands, because I thought they might be valuable landmarks in remembering other things.”

“What other things?”

“Well you might have noticed, for instance, that your partner made a mess of playing a perfectly simple no trumper, or that an opponent, say, presented you with a couple of unexpected tricks by failing to lead an obvious card.”

Dr. Roberts became suddenly serious. He leaned forward in his chair.

“Ah,” he said. “Now I see what you’re driving at. Forgive me. I thought at first you were talking pure nonsense. You mean that the murder—the successful accomplishment of the murder—might have made a definite difference in the guilty party’s play?”

Poirot nodded.

“You have seized the idea correctly. It would be a clue of the first excellence if you had been four players who knew each other’s game well. A variation, a sudden lack of brilliance, a missed opportunity—that would have been immediately noticed. Unluckily, you were all strangers to each other. Variation in play would not be so noticeable. But think, M. le docteur, I beg of you to think. Do you remember any inequalities—any sudden glaring mistakes—in the play of anyone?”