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

Poirot sighed.

“Tout de même, it was not always agreeable in the wet weather when the inside was full. And there is much wet weather in this country.”

“Rain? Rain never did any harm to anyone.”

“You are in error,” said Poirot. “It leads often to a fluxion de poitrine.”

Despard smiled.

“I see you belong to the well-wrapped-up school, M. Poirot.”

Poirot was indeed well equipped against any treachery of an autumn day. He wore a greatcoat and a muffler.

“Rather odd, running into you like this,” said Despard.

He did not see the smile that the muffler concealed. There was nothing odd in this encounter. Having ascertained a likely hour for Despard to leave his rooms, Poirot had been waiting for him. He had prudently not risked leaping on the bus, but he had trotted after it to its next stopping place and boarded it there.

“True. We have not seen each other since the evening at Mr. Shaitana’s,” he replied.

“Aren’t you taking a hand in the business?” asked Despard.

Poirot scratched his ear delicately.

“I reflect,” he said. “I reflect a good deal. To run to and fro, to make the investigations, that, no. It does not suit my age, my temperament, or my figure.”

Despard said unexpectedly:

“Reflect, eh? Well, you might do worse. There’s too much rushing about nowadays. If people sat tight and thought about a thing before they tackled it, there’d be less mess-ups than there are.”

“Is that your procedure in life, Major Despard?”

“Usually,” said the other simply. “Get your bearings, figure out your route, weigh up the pros and cons, make your decision—stick to it.”

His mouth set grimly.

“And, after that, nothing will turn you from your path, eh?” asked Poirot.

“Oh, I don’t say that. No use in being pigheaded over things. If you’ve made a mistake, admit it.”

“But I imagine that you do not often make a mistake, Major Despard.”

“We all make mistakes, M. Poirot.”

“Some of us,” said Poirot with a certain coldness, possibly due to the pronoun the other had used, “make less than others.”

Despard looked at him, smiled slightly and said:

“Don’t you ever have a failure, M. Poirot?”

“The last time was twenty-eight years ago,” said Poirot with dignity. “And even then, there were circumstances—but no matter.”

“That seems a pretty good record,” said Despard.

He added: “What about Shaitana’s death? That doesn’t count, I suppose, since it isn’t officially your business.”

“It is not my business—no. But, all the same, it offends my amour propre. I consider it an impertinence, you comprehend, for a murder to be committed under my very nose—by someone who mocks himself at my ability to solve it!”

“Not under your nose only,” said Despard drily. “Under the nose of the Criminal Investigation Department also.”

“That was probably a bad mistake,” said Poirot gravely. “The good Superintendent Battle, he may look wooden, but he is not wooden in the head—not at all.”

“I agree,” said Despard. “That stolidity is a pose. He’s a very clever and able officer.”

“And I think he is very active in the case.”

“Oh, he’s active enough. See a nice quiet soldierly-looking fellow on one of the back seats?”

Poirot looked over his shoulder.

“There is no one here now but ourselves.”

“Oh, well, he’s inside, then. He never loses me. Very efficient fellow. Varies his appearance, too, from time to time. Quite artistic about it.”

“Ah, but that would not deceive you. You have the very quick and accurate eye.”

“I never forget a face—even a black one—and that’s a lot more than most people can say.”

“You are just the person I need,” said Poirot. “What a chance, meeting you today! I need someone with a good eye and a good memory. Malheureusement the two seldom go together. I have asked the Dr. Roberts a question, without result, and the same with Madame Lorrimer. Now, I will try you and see if I get what I want. Cast your mind back to the room in which you played cards at Mr. Shaitana’s, and tell me what you remember of it.”

Despard looked puzzled.

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Give me a description of the room—the furnishings—the objects in it.”

“I don’t know that I’m much of a hand at that sort of thing,” said Despard slowly. “It was a rotten sort of room—to my mind. Not a man’s room at all. A lot of brocade and silk and stuff. Sort of room a fellow like Shaitana would have.”

“But to particularize—”

Despard shook his head.

“Afraid I didn’t notice … He’d got some good rugs. Two Bokharas and three or four really good Persian ones, including a Hamadan and a Tabriz. Rather a good eland head—no, that was in the hall. From Rowland Ward’s, I expect.”

“You do not think that the late Mr. Shaitana was one to go out and shoot wild beasts?”

“Not he. Never potted anything but sitting game, I’ll bet. What else was there? I’m sorry to fail you, but I really can’t help much. Any amount of knickknacks lying about. Tables were thick with them. Only thing I noticed was a rather jolly idol. Easter Island, I should say. Highly polished wood. You don’t see many of them. There was some Malay stuff, too. No, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“No matter,” said Poirot, looking slightly crestfallen.

He went on:

“Do you know, Mrs. Lorrimer, she has the most amazing card memory! She could tell me the bidding and play of nearly every hand. It was astonishing.”

Despard shrugged his shoulders.

“Some women are like that. Because they play pretty well all day long, I suppose.”

“You could not do it, eh?”

The other shook his head.

“I just remember a couple of hands. One where I could have got game in diamonds—and Roberts bluffed me out of it. Went down himself, but we didn’t double him, worse luck. I remember a no trumper, too. Tricky business—every card wrong. We went down a couple—lucky not to have gone down more.”

“Do you play much bridge, Major Despard?”

“No, I’m not a regular player. It’s a good game, though.”

“You prefer it to poker?”

“I do personally. Poker’s too much of a gamble.”

Poirot said thoughtfully:

“I do not think Mr. Shaitana played any game—any card game, that is.”

“There’s only one game that Shaitana played consistently,” said Despard grimly.

“And that?”

“A low-down game.”

Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

“Is it that you know that? Or do you just think it?”

Despard went brick red.

“Meaning one oughtn’t to say things without giving chapter and verse? I suppose that’s true. Well, it’s accurate enough. I happen to know. On the other hand, I’m not prepared to give chapter and verse. Such information as I’ve got came to me privately.?

??

“Meaning a woman or women are concerned?”

“Yes. Shaitana, like the dirty dog he was, preferred to deal with women.”

“You think he was a blackmailer? That is interesting.”

Despard shook his head.

“No, no, you’ve misunderstood me. In a way, Shaitana was a blackmailer, but not the common or garden sort. He wasn’t after money. He was a spiritual blackmailer, if there can be such a thing.”

“And he got out of it—what?”

“He got a kick out of it. That’s the only way I can put it. He got a thrill out of seeing people quail and flinch. I suppose it made him feel less of a louse and more of a man. And it’s a very effective pose with women. He’d only got to hint that he knew everything—and they’d start telling him a lot of things that perhaps he didn’t know. That would tickle his sense of humour. Then he’d strut about in his Mephistophelian attitude of ‘I know everything! I am the great Shaitana!’ The man was an ape!”

“So you think that he frightened Miss Meredith that way,” said Poirot slowly.

“Miss Meredith?” Despard stared. “I wasn’t thinking of her. She isn’t the kind to be afraid of a man like Shaitana.”

“Pardon. You meant Mrs. Lorrimer.”

“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I was speaking generally. It wouldn’t be easy to frighten Mrs. Lorrimer. And she’s not the kind of woman who you can imagine having a guilty secret. No, I was not thinking of anyone in particular.”

“It was the general method to which you referred?”

“Exactly.”

“There is no doubt,” said Poirot slowly, “that what you call a Dago often has a very clever understanding of women. He knows how to approach them. He worms secrets out of them—”

He paused.

Despard broke in impatiently:

“It’s absurd. The man was a mountebank—nothing really dangerous about him. And yet women were afraid of him. Ridiculously so.”

He started up suddenly.

“Hallo, I’ve overshot the mark. Got too interested in what we were discussing. Good-bye, M. Poirot. Look down and you’ll see my faithful shadow leave the bus when I do.”

He hurried to the back and down the steps. The conductor’s bell jangled. But a double pull sounded before it had time to stop.