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

It was cold outside the house, and he looked up and down for a taxi, but there was none in sight.

He began to walk in the direction of King’s Road.

As he walked he was thinking hard. Occasionally he nodded his head; once he shook it.

He looked back over his shoulder. Someone was going up the steps of Mrs. Lorrimer’s house. In figure it looked very like Anne Meredith. He hesitated for a minute, wondering whether to turn back or not, but in the end he went on.

On arrival at home, he found that Battle had gone without leaving any message.

He proceeded to ring the superintendent up.

“Hallo.” Battle’s voice came through. “Got anything?”

“Je crois bien. Mon ami, we must get after the Meredith girl—and quickly.”

“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?”

“The other three. Roberts, Despard and Miss Meredith. All fair and square—no beating about the bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she was taking a shortcut out of all the mess—that it was she who had killed Shaitana—and that she apologized—apologized—to all three of them for the inconvenience and annoyance they had suffered. Perfectly calm, businesslike letter. Absolutely typical of the woman. She was a cool customer all right.”

For a minute or two Poirot did not answer.

So this was Mrs. Lorrimer’s final word. She had determined, after all, to shield Anne Meredith. A quick painless death instead of a protracted painful one, and her last action an altruistic one—the saving of the girl with whom she felt a secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned and carried out with quite ruthless efficiency—a suicide carefully announced to the three interested parties. What a woman! His admiration quickened. It was like her—like her clearcut determination, her insistence on what she had decided being carried out.

He had thought to have convinced her—but evidently she had preferred her own judgement. A woman of very strong will.

Battle’s voice cut into his meditations.

“What the devil did you say to her yesterday? You must have put the wind up her, and this is the result. But you implied that the result of your interview was definite suspicion of the Meredith girl.”

Poirot was silent a minute or two. He felt that, dead, Mrs. Lorrimer constrained him to her will, as she could not have done if she were living.

He said at last slowly:

“I was in error….”

They were unaccustomed words on his tongue, and he did not like them.

“You made a mistake, eh?” said Battle. “All the same, she must have thought you were onto her. It’s a bad business—letting her slip through our fingers like this.”

“You could not have proved anything against her,” said Poirot.

“No—I suppose that’s true … Perhaps it’s all for the best. You—er—didn’t mean this to happen, M. Poirot?”

Poirot’s disclaimer was indignant. Then he said:

“Tell me exactly what has occurred.”

“Roberts opened his letter just before eight o’clock. He lost no time, dashed off at once in his car, leaving his parlourmaid to communicate with us, which she d

id. He got to the house to find that Mrs. Lorrimer hadn’t been called yet, rushed up to her bedroom—but it was too late. He tried artificial respiration, but there was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after and confirmed his treatment.”

“What was the sleeping stuff?”

“Veronal, I think. One of the barbituric group, at any rate. There was a bottle of tablets by her bed.”

“What about the other two? Did they not try to communicate with you?”

“Despard is out of town. He hasn’t had this morning’s post.”

“And—Miss Meredith?”

“I’ve just rung her up.”

“Eh bien?”

“She had just opened the letter a few moments before my call came through. Post is later there.”

“What was her reaction?”

“A perfectly proper attitude. Intense relief decently veiled. Shocked and grieved—that sort of thing.”

Poirot paused a moment, then he said:

“Where are you now, my friend?”

“At Cheyne Lane.”

“Bien. I will come round immediately.”

In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Dr. Roberts on the point of departure. The doctor’s usual florid manner was rather in abeyance this morning. He looked pale and shaken.

“Nasty business this, M. Poirot. I can’t say I’m not relieved—from my own point of view—but, to tell you the truth, it’s a bit of a shock. I never really thought for a minute that it was Mrs. Lorrimer who stabbed Shaitana. It’s been the greatest surprise to me.”

“I, too, am surprised.”

“Quiet, well-bred, self-contained woman. Can’t imagine her doing a violent thing like that. What was the motive, I wonder? Oh, well, we shall never know now. I confess I’m curious, though.”

“It must take a load off your mind—this occurrence.”

“Oh, it does, undoubtedly. It would be hypocrisy not to admit it. It’s not very pleasant to have a suspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman herself—well, it was undoubtedly the best way out.”

“So she thought herself.”

Roberts nodded.

“Conscience, I suppose,” he said as he let himself out of the house.