Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“I really don’t think it has,” said Miss Burgess, considering. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

“From the statistical point of view, it would be interesting to know how many deaths occur among a doctor’s practice per year. For instance now, you’ve been with Dr. Roberts some years—”

“Seven.”

“Seven. Well, how many deaths have there been in that time offhand?”

“Really, it’s difficult to say.” Miss Burgess gave herself up to calculation. She was by now quite thawed and unsuspicious. “Seven, eight—of course, I can’t remember exactly—I shouldn’t say more than thirty in the time.”

“Then I fancy Dr. Roberts must be a better doctor than most,” said Battle genially. “I suppose, too, most of his patients are upper class. They can afford to take care of themselves.”

“He’s a very popular doctor. He’s so good at diagnosis.”

Battle sighed and rose to his feet.

“I’m afraid I’ve been wandering from my duty, which is to find out a connection between the doctor and this Mr. Shaitana. You’re quite sure he wasn’t a patient of the doctor’s?”

“Quite sure.”

“Under another name, perhaps?” Battle handed her a photograph. “Recognize him at all?”

“What a very theatrical-looking person. No, I’ve never seen him here at any time.”

“Well, that’s that.” Battle sighed. “I’m much obliged to the doctor, I’m sure, for being so pleasant about everything. Tell him from me, will you? Tell him I’m passing on to No. 2. Good-bye, Miss Burgess

, and thank you for your help.”

He shook hands and departed. Walking along the street he took a small notebook from his pocket and made a couple of entries in it under the letter R.

Mrs. Graves? Unlikely.

Mrs. Craddock?

No legacies.

No wife. (Pity.)

Investigate deaths of patients. Difficult.

He closed the book and turned into the Lancaster Gate branch of the London and Wessex Bank.

The display of his official card brought him to a private interview with the manager.

“Good morning, sir. One of your clients is a Dr. Geoffrey Roberts, I understand.”

“Quite correct, superintendent.”

“I shall want some information about that gentleman’s account going back over a period of years.”

“I will see what I can do for you.”

A complicated half hour followed. Finally Battle, with a sigh, tucked away a sheet of pencilled figures.

“Got what you want?” inquired the bank manager curiously.

“No, I haven’t. Not one suggestive lead. Thank you all the same.”

At that same moment, Dr. Roberts, washing his hands in his consulting room, said over his shoulder to Miss Burgess: