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

“Yes.” Rhoda did not sound convinced.

Anne said rather irritably:

“In any case, I can’t see why. It’s got nothing to do with all this.”

“No, of course not.”

“I was only there about two months. He only wants these things as—well—references. Two months doesn’t count.”

“No, I know. I expect I’m being rather foolish, but it does worry me rather. I feel you ought to mention it. You see, if it came out some other way, it might look rather bad—your keeping dark about it, I mean.”

“I don’t see how it can come out. Nobody knows but you.”

“N-no?”

Anne pounced on the slight hesitation in Rhoda’s voice.

“Why, who does know?”

“Well, everyone at Combeacre,” said Rhoda after a moment’s silence.

“Oh, that!” Anne dismissed it with a shrug. “The superintendent isn’t likely to come up against anyone from there. It would be an extraordinary coincidence if he did.”

“Coincidences happen.”

“Rhoda, you’re being extraordinary about this. Fuss, fuss, fuss.”

“I’m terribly sorry, darling. Only you know what the police might be like if they thought you were—well—hiding things.”

“They won’t know. Who’s to tell them? Nobody knows but you.”

It was the second time she had said those words. At this second repetition her voice changed a little—something queer and speculative came into it.

“Oh, dear, I wish you would,” sighed Rhoda unhappily.

She looked guiltily at Anne, but Anne was not looking at her. She was sitting with a frown on her face, as though working out some calculation.

“Rather fun, Major Despard turning up,” said Rhoda.

“What? Oh, yes.”

“Anne, he is attractive. If you don’t want him, do, do, do hand him over to me!”

“Don’t be absurd, Rhoda. He doesn’t care tuppence for me.”

“Then why does he keep on turning up? Of course he’s keen on you. You’re just the sort of distressed damsel that he’d enjoy rescuing. You look so beautifully helpless, Anne.”

“He’s equally pleasant to both of us.”

“That’s only his niceness. But if you don’t want him, I could do the sympathetic friend act—console his broken heart, etc., etc., and in the end I might get him. Who knows?” Rhoda concluded inelegantly.

“I’m sure you’re quite welcome to him, my dear,” said Anne, laughing.

“He’s got such a lovely back to his neck,” sighed Rhoda. “Very brick red and muscular.”

“Darling, must you be so mawkish?”

“Do you like him, Anne?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Aren’t we prim and sedate? I think he likes me a little—not as much as you, but a little.”

“Oh, but he does like you,” said Anne.

Again there was an unusual note in her voice, but Rhoda did not hear it.

“What time is our sleuth coming?” she asked.

“Twelve,” said Anne. She was silent for a minute or two, then she said, “It’s only half past ten now. Let’s go out on the river.”

“But isn’t—didn’t—didn’t Despard say he’d come round about eleven?”

“Why should we wait in for him? We can leave a message with Mrs. Astwell which way we’ve gone, and he can follow us along the towpath.”

“In fact, don’t make yourself cheap, dear, as mother always said!” laughed Rhoda. “Come on, then.”

She went out of the room and through the garden door. Anne followed her.

Major Despard called at Wendon Cottage about ten minutes later. He was before his time, he knew, so he was a little surprised to find both girls had already gone out.

He went through the garden and across the fields, and turned to the right along the towpath.

Mrs. Astwell remained a minute or two looking after him, instead of getting on with her morning chores.

“Sweet on one or other of ’em, he is,” she observed to herself. “I think it’s Miss Anne, but I’m not certain. He don’t give much away by his face. Treats ’em both alike. I’m not sure they ain’t both sweet on him, too. If so, they won’t be such dear friends so much longer. Nothing like a gentleman for coming between two young ladies.”

Pleasurably excited by the prospect of assisting at a budding romance, Mrs. Astwell turned indoors to her task of washing up the breakfast things, when once again the doorbell rang.

“Drat that door,” said Mrs. Astwell. “Do it on purpose, they do. Parcel, I suppose. Or might be a telegram.”

She moved slowly to the front door.

Two gentlemen stood there, a small foreign gentleman and an exceedingly English, big, burly gentleman. The latter she had seen before, she remembered.

“Miss Meredith at home?” asked the big man.

Mrs. Astwell shook her head.

“Just gone out.”

“Really? Which way? We didn’t meet her.”

Mrs. Astwell, secretly studying the amazing moustache of the other gentleman, and deciding that they looked an unlikely pair to be friends, volunteered further information.

“Gone out on the river,” she explained.

The other gentleman broke in:

“And the other lady? Miss Dawes?”

“They’ve both gone.”

“Ah, thank you,” said Battle. “Let me see, which way does one get to the river?”

“First turning to the left, down the lane,” Mrs. Astwell replied promptly. “When you get to the towpath, go right. I heard them say that’s the way they were going,” she added helpfully. “Not above a quarter of an hour ago. You’ll soon catch ’em up.”

“And I wonder,” she added to herself as she unwillingly closed the front door, having stared inquisitively at their retreating backs, “who you two might be. Can’t place you, somehow.”

Mrs. Astwell returned to the kitchen sink, and Battle and Poirot duly took the first turning to the left—a straggling lane which soon ended abruptly at the towpath.

Poirot was hurrying along, and Battle eyed him curiously.

“Anything the matter, M. Poirot? You seem in a mighty hurry.”

“It is true. I am uneasy, my friend.”

“Anything particular?”

Poirot shook his head.

“No. But there are possibilities. You never know….”

“You’ve got something in your head,” said Battle. “You were urgent that we should come down here this morning without losing a moment—and, my word, you made Constable Turner step on the gas! What are you afraid of? The girl’s shot her bolt.”

Poirot was silent.

“What are you afraid of?” Battle repeated.

“What is one always afraid of in these cases?”

Battle nodded.

“You’re quite right. I wonder—”

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“You wonder what, my friend?”

Battle said slowly:

“I’m wondering if Miss Meredith knows that her friend told Mrs. Oliver a certain fact.”

Poirot nodded his head in vigorous appreciation.

“Hurry, my friend,” he said.

They hastened along the riverbank. There was no craft visible on the water’s surface, but presently they rounded a bend, and Poirot suddenly stopped dead. Battle’s quick eyes saw also.

“Major Despard,” he said.

Despard was about two hundred yards ahead of them, striding along the riverbank.

A little farther on the two girls were in view in a punt on the water, Rhoda punting—Anne lying and laughing up at her. Neither of them were looking towards the bank.

And then—it happened. Anne’s hand outstretched, Rhoda’s stagger, her plunge overboard—her desperate grasp at Anne’s sleeve—the rocking boat—then an overturned punt and two girls struggling in the water.

“See it?” cried Battle as he started to run. “Little Meredith caught her round the ankle and tipped her in. My God, that’s her fourth murder!”

They were both running hard. But someone was ahead of them. It was clear that neither girl could swim, but Despard had run quickly along the path to the nearest point, and now he plunged in and swam towards them.

“Mon Dieu, this is interesting,” cried Poirot. He caught Battle’s arm. “Which of them will he go for first?”

The two girls were not together. About twelve yards separated them.

Despard swam powerfully towards them—there was no check in his stroke. He was making straight for Rhoda.

Battle, in his turn, reached the nearest bank and went in. Despard had just brought Rhoda successfully to shore. He hauled her up, flung her down and plunged in again, swimming towards the spot where Anne had just gone under.

“Be careful,” called Battle. “Weeds.”

He and Battle got to the spot at the same time, but Anne had gone under before they reached her.

They got her at last and between them towed her to the shore.

Rhoda was being ministered to by Poirot. She was sitting up now, her breath coming unevenly.

Despard and Battle laid Anne Meredith down.

“Artificial respiration,” said Battle. “Only thing to do. But I’m afraid she’s gone.”

He set to work methodically. Poirot stood by, ready to relieve him.