“Pay my taxi for me. I don’t know how it happened but I brought out the bag I keep my going-abroad money in and the man simply won’t take francs or liras or marks!”
Poirot gallantly produced some loose change, and he and Mrs. Oliver went inside the building together.
They were taken to Superintendent Battle’s own room. The superintendent was sitting behind a table and looking more wooden than ever. “Just like a little piece of modern sculpture,” whispered Mrs. Oliver to Poirot.
Battle rose and shook hands with them both and they sat down.
“I thought it was about time for a little meeting,” said Battle. “You’d like to hear how I’ve got on, and I’d like to hear how you’ve got on. We’re just waiting for Colonel Race and then—”
But at that moment the door opened and the colonel appeared.
“Sorry I’m late, Battle. How do you do, Mrs. Oliver. Hallo, M. Poirot. Very sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. But I’m off tomorrow and had a lot of things to see to.”
“Where are you going to?” asked Mrs. Oliver.
“A little shooting trip—Baluchistan way.”
Poirot said, smiling ironically:
“A little trouble, is there not, in that part of the world? You will have to be careful.”
“I mean to be,” said Race gravely—but his eyes twinkled.
“Got anything for us, sir?” asked Battle.
“I’ve got you your information re Despard. Here it is—”
He pushed over a sheaf of papers.
“There’s a mass of dates and places there. Most of it quite irrelevant, I should imagine. Nothing against him. He’s a stout fellow. Record quite unblemished. Strict disciplinarian. Liked and trusted by the natives everywhere. One of their cumbrous names for him in Africa, where they go in for such things, is ‘The man who keeps his mouth shut and judges fairly.’ General opinion of the white races tha
t Despard is a Pukka Sahib. Fine shot. Cool head. Generally long-sighted and dependable.”
Unmoved by this eulogy, Battle asked:
“Any sudden deaths connected with him?”
“I laid special stress on that point. There’s one fine rescue to his credit. Pal of his was being mauled by a lion.”
Battle sighed.
“It’s not rescues I want.”
“You’re a persistent fellow, Battle. There’s only one incident I’ve been able to rake up that might suit your book. Trip into the interior in South America. Despard accompanied Professor Luxmore, the celebrated botanist, and his wife. The professor died of fever and was buried somewhere up the Amazon.”
“Fever—eh?”
“Fever. But I’ll play fair with you. One of the native bearers (who was sacked for stealing, incidentally) had a story that the professor didn’t die of fever, but was shot. The rumour was never taken seriously.”
“About time it was, perhaps.”
Race shook his head.
“I’ve given you the facts. You asked for them and you’re entitled to them, but I’d lay long odds against its being Despard who did the dirty work the other evening. He’s a white man, Battle.”
“Incapable of murder, you mean?”
Colonel Race hesitated.