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

“But a woman always knows,” prompted Poirot.

“How right you are … Yes, a woman knows … But I never showed him that I knew. We were Major Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end … We were both determined to play the game.”

She was silent, lost in admiration of that noble attitude.

“True,” murmured Poirot. “One must play the cricket. As one of your poets so finely says, ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.’”

“Honour,” corrected Mrs. Luxmore with a slight frown.

“Of course—of course—honour. ‘Loved I not honour more.’”

“Those words might have been written for us,” murmured Mrs. Luxmore. “No matter what it cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And then—”

“And then—” prompted Poirot.

“That ghastly night.” Mrs. Luxmore shuddered.

“Yes?”

“I suppose they must have quarrelled—John and Timothy, I mean. I came out of my tent … I came out of my tent….”

“Yes—yes?”

Mrs. Luxmore’s eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though it were being repeated in front of her.

“I came out of my tent,” she repeated. “John and Timothy were—Oh!” she shuddered. “I can’t remember it all clearly. I came between them … I said ‘No—no, it isn’t true!’ Timothy wouldn’t listen. He was threatening John. John had to fire—in self-defence. Ah!” she gave a cry and covered her face with her hands. “He was dead—stone dead—shot through the heart.”

“A terrible moment for you, madame.”

“I shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused to hear of it. We argued all night. ‘For my sake,’ I kept saying. He saw that in the end. Naturally he couldn’t let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Passions.

“I put it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy had been having a bout of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him there beside the Amazon.”

A deep, tortured sigh shook her form.

“And then—back to civilization—and to part forever.”

“Was it necessary, madame?”

“Yes, yes. Timothy dead stood between us just as Timothy alive had done—more so. We said good-bye to each other—forever. I meet John Despard sometimes—out in the world. We smile, we speak politely—no one would ever guess that there was anything between us. But I see in his eyes—and he in mine—that we will never forget….”

There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.

Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her nose—the spell was broken.

“What a tragedy,” said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.

“You can see, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, “that the truth must never be told.”

“It would be painful—”

“It would be impossible. This friend, this writer—surely he would not wish to blight the life of a perfectly innocent woman?”

“Or even to hang a perfectly innocent man?” murmured Poirot.

“You see it like that? I am glad. He was innocent. A crime passionnel is not really a crime. And in any case it was self-defence. He had to shoot. So you do understand, M. Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?”

Poirot murmured.

“Writers are sometimes curiously callous.”

“Your friend is a woman-hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that. I shall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say I shot Timothy.

She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.

Poirot also rose.

“Madame,” he said as he took her hand, “such splendid self-sacrifice is unnecessary. I will do my best so that the true facts shall never be known.”

A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore’s face. She raised her hand slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it.

“An unhappy woman thanks you, M. Poirot,” she said.

It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favoured courtier—clearly an exit line. Poirot duly made his exit.

Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.

Twenty-one

MAJOR DESPARD

“Quelle femme,” murmured Hercule Poirot. “Ce pauvre Despard! Ce qu’il a dû souffrir! Quel voyage épouvantable!”

Suddenly he began to laugh.

He was now walking along the Brompton Road. He paused, took out his watch, and made a calculation.

“But yes, I have the time. In any case to wait will do him no harm. I can now attend to the other little matter. What was it that my friend in the English police force used to sing—how many years—forty years ago? ‘A little piece of sugar for the bird.’”

Humming a long-forgotten tune, Hercule Poirot entered a sumptuous-looking shop mainly devoted to the clothing and general embellishment of women and made his way to the stocking counter.

Selecting a sympathetic-looking and not too haughty damsel he made known his requirements.

“Silk stockings? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure silk.”

Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent once more.

“French silk stockings? With the duty, you know, they are very expensive.”

A fresh lot of boxes was produced.

“Very nice, mademoiselle, but I had something of a finer texture in mind.”

“These are a hundred gauge. Of course, we have some extra fine, but I’m afraid they come out at about thirty-five shillings a pair. And no durability, of course. Just like cobwebs.”

“C’est ça. C’est ça, exactement.”

A prolonged absence of the young lady this time.

She returned at last.

“I’m afraid they are actually thirty-seven and sixpence a pair. But beautiful, aren’t they?”

She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelope—the finest, gauziest wisps of stockings.

“Enfin—that is it exactly!”

“Lovely, aren’t they? How many pairs, sir?”

“I want—let me see, nineteen pairs.”

The young lady very nearly fell down behind the counter, but long training in scornfulness just kept her erect.

“There would be a reduction on two dozen,” she said faintly.

“No, I want nineteen pairs. Of slightly different colours, please.”

The girl sorted them out obediently, packed them up and made out the bill.

As Poirot departed with his purchase, the next girl at the counter said:

“Wonder who the lucky girl is? Must be a nasty old man. Oh, well, she seems to be stringing him along good and proper. Stockings at thirty-seven and sixpence indeed!”

Unaware of the low estimate formed by the young ladies of Messrs Harvey Robinson’s upon his character, Poirot was trotting homewards.

He had been in for about half an hour when he heard the doorbell ring. A few minutes later Major Despard entered the room.

He was obviously keeping his temper with difficulty.

“What the devil did you want to go and see Mrs. Luxmore for?” he asked.

Poirot smiled.

“I wished, you see, for the true story of Professor Luxmore’s death.”

“True story? Do you think that woman’s capable of telling the truth about anything?” demanded Despard wrathfully.

“Eh bien, I did wonder now and then,” admitted Poirot.

“I should think you did. That woman’s crazy.”

Poirot demurred.

“Not at all. She is a romantic woman, that is all.”

“Romantic be damned. She’s an out-and-out liar. I sometimes think she even believes her own lie

s.”

“It is quite possible.”

“She’s an appalling woman. I had the hell of a time with her out there.”

“That also I can well believe.”

Despard sat down abruptly.

“Look here, M. Poirot, I’m going to tell you the truth.”

“You mean you are going to give me your version of the story?”

“My version will be the true version.”

Poirot did not reply.

Despard went on drily:

“I quite realize that I can’t claim any merit in coming out with this now. I’m telling the truth because it’s the only thing to be done at this stage. Whether you believe me or not is up to you. I’ve no kind of proof that my story is the correct one.”

He paused for a minute and then began.

“I arranged the trip for the Luxmores. He was a nice old boy quite batty about mosses and plants and things. She was a—well, she was what you’ve no doubt observed her to be! That trip was a nightmare. I didn’t care a damn for the woman—rather disliked her, as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind that always makes me feel prickly with embarrassment. Everything went all right for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. Old Luxmore was pretty bad. One night—now you’ve got to listen to this carefully—I was sitting outside my tent. Suddenly I saw Luxmore in the distance staggering off into the bush by the river. He was absolutely delirious and quite unconscious of what he was doing. In another minute he would be in the river—and at that particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance of a rescue. There wasn’t time to rush after him—only one thing to be done. My rifle was beside me as usual. I snatched it up. I’m a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring the old boy down—get him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic fool of a woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, ‘Don’t shoot. For God’s sake, don’t shoot.’ She caught my arm and jerked it ever so slightly just as the rifle went off—with the result that the bullet got him in the back and killed him dead!

“I can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that damned fool of a woman still didn’t understand what she’d done. Instead of realizing that she’d been responsible for her husband’s death, she firmly believed that I’d been trying to shoot the old boy in cold blood—for the love of her, if you please! We had the devil of a scene—she insisting that we should say he died of fever. I was sorry for her—especially as I saw she didn’t realize what she’d done. But she’d have to realize it if the truth came out! And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in love with her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she went about giving that out. In the end I agreed to do what she wanted—partly for the sake of peace, I’ll admit. After all, it didn’t seem to matter much. Fever or accident. And I didn’t want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantness—even if she was a damned fool. I gave it out next day that the professor was dead of fever and we buried him. The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all devoted to me and I knew that what I said they’d swear to if need be. We buried poor old Luxmore and got back to civilization. Since then I’ve spent a good deal of time dodging the woman.”