“Do you know anything of the relations between the other three and Mr. Shaitana?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing at all.”
“Would you care to give me an opinion as to which of them you consider the most likely person?”
Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up stiffly.
“I should not care to do anything of the kind. I consider that a most improper question.”
The superintendent looked like an abashed little boy who has been reprimanded by his grandmother.
“Address, please,” he mumbled, drawing his notebook towards him.
“111 Cheyne Lane, Chelsea.”
“Telephone number?”
“Chelsea 45632.”
Mrs. Lorrimer rose.
“Anything you want to ask, M. Poirot?” said Battle hurriedly.
Mrs. Lorrimer paused, her head slightly inclined.
“Would it be a proper question, madame, to ask you your opinion of your companions, not as potential murderers but as bridge players?”
Mrs. Lorrimer answered coldly:
“I have no objection to answering that—if it bears upon the matter at issue in any way—though I fail to see how it can.”
“I will be the judge of that. Your answer, if you please, madame.”
In the tone of a patient adult humouring an idiot child, Mrs. Lorrimer replied:
“Major Despard is a good sound player. Dr. Roberts overcalls, but plays his hand brilliantly. Miss Meredith is quite a nice little player, but a bit too cautious. Anything more?”
In his turn doing a conjuring trick, Poirot produced four crumpled bridge scores.
“These scores, madame, is one of these yours?”
She examined them.
“This is my writing. It is the score of the third rubber.”
“And this score?”
“That must be Major Despard’s. He cancels as he goes.”
“And this one?”
“Miss Meredith’s. The first rubber.”
“So this unfinished one is Dr. Roberts’?”
“Yes.”