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

“I could only say very roughly. We began to play about nine thirty, I imagine. I should say it was about an hour later that I stoked the fire, quite a short time after that I fetched the drinks (next hand but one, I think), and perhaps half past eleven when I got myself a whisky and soda—but those times are quite approximate. I couldn’t answer for their being correct.”

“The table with the drinks was beyond Mr. Shaitana’s chair?”

“Yes. That’s to say, I passed quite near him three times.”

“And each time, to the best of your belief, he was asleep?”

“That’s what I thought the first time. The second time I didn’t even look at him. Third time I rather fancy the thought just passed through my mind: ‘How the beggar does sleep.’ But I didn’t really look closely at him.”

“Very good. Now, when did your fellow players leave their seats?”

Dr. Roberts frowned.

“Difficult—very difficult. Despard went and fetched an extra ashtray, I think. And he went for a drink. That was before me, for I remember he asked me if I’d have one, and I said I wasn’t quite ready.”

“And the ladies?”

“Mrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once. Poked it, I think. I rather fancy she spoke to Shaitana, but I don’t know. I was playing a rather tricky no trump at the time.”

“And Miss Meredith?”

“She certainly left the table once. Came round and looked at my hand—I was her partner at the time. Then she looked at the other people’s hands, and then she wandered round the room. I don’t know what she was doing exactly. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Superintendent Battle said thoughtfully:

“As you were sitting at the bridge table, no one’s chair was directly facing the fireplace?”

“No, sort of sideways on, and there was a big cabinet between—Chinese piece, very handsome. I can see, of course, that it would be perfectly possible to stab the old boy. After all, when you’re playing bridge, you’re playing bridge. You’re not looking round you, and noticing what is going on. The only person who’s likely to be doing that is dummy. And in this case—”

“In this case, undoubtedly, dummy was the murderer,” said Superintendent Battle.

“All the same,” said Dr. Roberts, “it wanted nerve, you know. After all, who is to say that somebody won’t look up just at the critical moment?”

“Yes,” said Battle. “It was a big risk. The motive must have been a strong one. I wish we knew what it was,” he added with unblushing mendacity.

“You’ll find out, I expect,” said Roberts. “You’ll go through his papers, and all that sort of thing. There will probably be a clue.”

“We’ll hope so,” said Superintendent Battle gloomily.

He shot a keen glance at the other.

“I wonder if you’d oblige me, Dr. Roberts, by giving me a personal opinion—as man to man.”

“Certainly.”

“Which do you fancy yourself of the three?”

Dr. Roberts shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s easy. Offhand, I’d say Despard. The man’s got plenty of nerve; he’s used to a dangerous life where you’ve got to act quickly. He wouldn’t mind taking a risk. It doesn’t seem to me likely the women are in on this. Take a bit of strength, I should imagine.”

“Not so much as you might think. Take a look at this.”

Rather like a conjurer, Battle suddenly produced a long thin instrument of gleaming metal with a small round jewelled head.

Dr. Roberts leaned forward, took it, and examined it with rich professional appreciation. He tried the point and whistled.

“What a tool! What a tool! Absolutely made for murder, this little boy. Go in like butter—absolutely like butter. Brought it with him, I suppose.”

“No. It was Mr. Shaitana’s. It lay on the table near the door with a good many other knickknacks.”

“So the murderer helped himself. A bit of luck finding a tool like that.”

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” said Battle slowly.

“Well, of course, it wasn’t luck for Shaitana, poor fellow.”

“I didn’t mean that, Dr. Roberts. I meant that there was another angle of looking at the business. It occurs to me that it was noticing this weapon that put the idea of murder into our criminal’s mind.”

“You mean it was a sudden inspiration—that the murder wasn’t premeditated? He conceived the idea after he got here? Er—anything to suggest that idea to you?”

He glanced at him searchingly.

“It’s just an idea,” said Superintendent Battle stolidly.

“Well, it might be so, of course,” said Dr. Roberts slowly.

Superintendent Battle cleared his throat.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer, doctor. Thank you for your help. Perhaps you’ll leave your address.”

“Certainly. 200 Gloucester Terrace, W. 2. Telephone No. Bayswater 23896.”

“Thank you. I may have to call upon you shortly.”

“Delighted to see you anytime. Hope there won’t be too much in the papers. I don’t want my nervous patients upset.”

Superintendent Battle looked round at Poirot.

“Excuse me, M. Poirot. If you’d like to ask any questions, I’m sure the doctor wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not. Of course not. Great admirer of yours, M. Poirot. Little grey cells—order and method. I know all about it. I feel sure you’ll think of something most intriguing to ask me.”

Hercule Poirot spread out his hands in his most foreign manner.

“No, no. I just like to get all the details clear in my mind. For instance, how many rubbers did you play?”

“Three,” said Roberts promptly. “We’d got to one game all, in the fourth rubber, when you came in.”

“And who played with who?”

“First rubber, Despard and I against the ladies. They beat us, God bless ’em. Walk over; we never held a card.

“Second rubber, Miss Meredith and I against Despard and Mrs. Lorrimer. Third rubber, Mrs. Lorrimer and I against Miss Meredith and Despard. We cut each time, but it worked out like a pivot. Fourth rubber, Miss Meredith and I again.”

“Who won and who lost?”

“Mrs. Lorrimer won every rubber. Miss Meredith won the first and lost the next two. I was a bit up and Miss Meredith and Despard must have been down.”

Poirot said, smiling, “The good superintendent has asked you your opinion o

f your companions as candidates for murder. I now ask you for your opinion of them as bridge players.”

“Mrs. Lorrimer’s first class,” Dr. Roberts replied promptly. “I’ll bet she makes a good income a year out of bridge. Despard’s a good player, too—what I call a sound player—longheaded chap. Miss Meredith you might describe as quite a safe player. She doesn’t make mistakes, but she isn’t brilliant.”

“And you yourself, doctor?”

Roberts’ eyes twinkled.

“I overcall my hand a bit, or so they say. But I’ve always found it pays.”

Poirot smiled.

Dr. Roberts rose.

“Anything more?”

Poirot shook his head.

“Well, goodnight, then. Goodnight, Mrs. Oliver. You ought to get some copy out of this. Better than your untraceable poisons, eh?”

Dr. Roberts left the room, his bearing springy once more. Mrs. Oliver said bitterly as the door closed behind him:

“Copy! Copy indeed! People are so unintelligent. I could invent a better murder any day than anything real. I’m never at a loss for a plot. And the people who read my books like untraceable poisons!”

Five

SECOND MURDERER?

Mrs. Lorrimer came into the dining room like a gentlewoman. She looked a little pale, but composed.

“I’m sorry to have to bother you,” Superintendent Battle began.

“You must do your duty, of course,” said Mrs. Lorrimer quietly. “It is, I agree, an unpleasant position in which to be placed, but there is no good shirking it. I quite realize that one of the four people in that room must be guilty. Naturally, I can’t expect you to take my word that I am not the person.”

She accepted the chair that Colonel Race offered her and sat down opposite the superintendent. Her intelligent grey eyes met his. She waited attentively.

“You knew Mr. Shaitana well?” began the superintendent.

“Not very well. I have known him over a period of some years, but never intimately.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At a hotel in Egypt—the Winter Palace at Luxor, I think.”

“What did you think of him?”

Mrs. Lorrimer shrugged her shoulders slightly.