Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

WHICH OF THEM?

Battle looked from one face to another. Only one person answered his question. Mrs. Oliver, never averse to giving her views, rushed into speech.

“The girl or the doctor,” she said.

Battle looked questioningly at the other two. But both the men were unwilling to make a pronouncement. Race shook his head. Poirot carefully smoothed his crumpled bridge scores.

“One of ’em did it,” said Battle musingly. “One of ’em’s lying like hell. But which? It’s not easy—no, it’s not easy.”

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

“If we’re to go by what they say, the medico thinks Despard did it, Despard thinks the medico did it, the girl thinks Mrs. Lorrimer did it—and Mrs. Lorrimer won’t say! Nothing very illuminating there.”

“Perhaps not,” said Poirot.

Battle shot him a quick glance.

“You think there is?”

Poirot waved an airy hand.

“A nuance—nothing more! Nothing to go upon.”

Battle continued:

“You two gentlemen won’t say what you think—”

“No evidence,” said Race curtly.

“Oh, you men!” sighed Mrs. Oliver, despising such reticence.

“Let’s look at the rough possibilities,” said Battle. He considered a minute. “I put the doctor first, I think. Specious sort of customer. Would know the right spot to shove the dagger in. But there’s not much more than that to it. Then take Despard. There’s a man with any amount of nerve. A man accustomed to quick decisions and a man who’s quite at home doing dangerous things. Mrs. Lorrmier? She’s got any amount of nerve, too, and she’s the sort of woman who might have a secret in her life. She looks as though she’s known trouble. On the other hand, I’d say she’s what I call a high-principled woman—sort of woman who might be headmistress of a girls’ school. It isn’t easy to think of her sticking a knife into anyone. In fact, I don’t think she did. And lastly, there’s little Miss Meredith. We don’t know anything about her. She seems an ordinary good-looking, rather shy girl. But one doesn’t know, as I say, anything about her.”

“We know that Shaitana believed she had committed murder,” said Poirot.

“The angelic face masking the demon,” mused Mrs. Oliver.

“This getting us anywhere, Battle?” asked Colonel Race.

“Unprofitable speculation, you think, sir? Well, there’s bound to be speculation in a case like this.”

“Isn’t it better to find out something about these people?”

Battle smiled.

“Oh, we shall be hard at work on that. I think you could help us there.”

“Certainly. How?”

“As regards Major Despard. He’s been abroad a lot—in South America, in East Africa, in South Africa—you’ve means of knowing those parts. You could get information about him.”

Race nodded.

“It shall be done. I’ll get all available data.”

“Oh,” cried Mrs. Oliver. “I’ve got a plan. There are four of us—four sleuths, as you might say—and four of them! How would it be if we each took one. Backed our fancy! Colonel Race takes Major Despard, Superintendent Battle takes Dr. Roberts, I’ll take Anne Meredith, and M. Poirot takes Mrs. Lorrimer. Each of us to follow our own line!”

Superintendent Battle shook his head decisively.