Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

“I don’t know. I suppose I am. A doctor has to be.”

“That was exactly my reasoning. I said to myself, ‘A doctor has always to be studying his patients—their expressions, their colour, how fast they breathe, any signs of restlessness—a doctor notices these things automatically almost without noticing he notices! Dr. Roberts is the man to help me.’”

“I’m willing enough to help. What’s the trouble?”

Poirot produced from a neat little pocketcase three carefully folded bridge scores.

“These are the first three rubbers the other evening,” he explained. “Here is the first one—in Miss Meredith’s handwriting. Now can you tell me—with this to refresh your memory—exactly what the calling was and how each hand went?”

Roberts stared at him in astonishment.

“You’re joking, M. Poirot. How can I possibly remember?”

“Can’t you? I should be very grateful if you could. Take this first rubber. The first game must have resulted in a game call in hearts or spades, or else one or other side must have gone down fifty.”

“Let me see—that was the first hand. Yes, I think they went out in spades.”

“And the next hand?”

“I suppose one or other of us went down fifty—but I can’t remember which or what it was in. Really, M. Poirot, you can hardly expect me to do so.”

“Can’t you remember any of the calling or the hands?”

“I got a grand slam—I remember that. It was doubled too. And I also remember going down a nasty smack—playing three no trumps, I think it was—went down a packet. But that was later on.”

“Do you remember with whom you were playing?”

“Mrs. Lorrimer. She looked a bit grim, I remember. Didn’t like my overcalling, I expect.”

“And you can’t remember any other of the hands or the calling?”

Roberts laughed.

“My dear M. Poirot, did you really expect I could. First there was the murder—enough to drive the most spectacular hands out of one’s mind—and in addition I’ve played at least half a dozen rubbers sinc

e then.”

Poirot sat looking rather crestfallen.

“I’m sorry,” said Roberts.

“It does not matter very much,” said Poirot slowly. “I hoped that you might remember one or two, at least, of the hands, because I thought they might be valuable landmarks in remembering other things.”

“What other things?”

“Well you might have noticed, for instance, that your partner made a mess of playing a perfectly simple no trumper, or that an opponent, say, presented you with a couple of unexpected tricks by failing to lead an obvious card.”

Dr. Roberts became suddenly serious. He leaned forward in his chair.

“Ah,” he said. “Now I see what you’re driving at. Forgive me. I thought at first you were talking pure nonsense. You mean that the murder—the successful accomplishment of the murder—might have made a definite difference in the guilty party’s play?”

Poirot nodded.

“You have seized the idea correctly. It would be a clue of the first excellence if you had been four players who knew each other’s game well. A variation, a sudden lack of brilliance, a missed opportunity—that would have been immediately noticed. Unluckily, you were all strangers to each other. Variation in play would not be so noticeable. But think, M. le docteur, I beg of you to think. Do you remember any inequalities—any sudden glaring mistakes—in the play of anyone?”

There was silence for a minute or two, then Dr. Roberts shook his head.

“It’s no good. I can’t help you,” he said frankly. “I simply don’t remember. All I can tell you is what I told you before: Mrs. Lorrimer is a first-class player—she never made a slip that I noticed. She was brilliant from start to finish. Despard’s play was uniformly good too. Rather a conventional player—that is, his bidding is strictly conventional. He never steps outside the rules. Won’t take a long chance. Miss Meredith—” He hesitated.