Colonel Race rose:
“I’m sorry I can’t stop with you. Too much to do. I’d like to see the end of this business. Shouldn’t be surprised if there never was an end. Even if you find out who did it, it’s going to be next to impossible to prove. I’ve given you the facts you wanted, but in my opinion Despard’s not the man. I don’t believe he’s ever committed murder. Shaitana may have heard some garbled rumour of Professor Luxmore’s death, but I don’t believe there’s more to it than that. Despard’s a white man, and I don’t believe he’s ever been a murderer. That’s my opinion. And I know something of men.”
“What’s Mrs. Luxmore like?” asked Battle.
“She lives in London, so you can see for yourself. You’ll find the address among those papers. Somewhere in South Kensington. But I repeat, Despard isn’t the man.”
Colonel Race left the room, stepping with the springy noiseless tread of a hunter.
Battle nodded his head thoughtfully as the door closed behind him.
“He’s probably right,” he said. “He knows men, Colonel Race does. But all the same, one can’t take anything for granted.”
He looked through the mass of documents Race had deposited on the table, occasionally making a pencil note on the pad beside him.
“Well, Superintendent Battle,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Aren’t you going to tell us what you have been doing?”
He looked up and smiled, a slow smile that creased his wooden face from side to side.
“This is all very irregular, Mrs. Oliver. I hope you realize that.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t suppose for a moment you’ll tell us anything you don’t want to.”
Battle shook his head.
“No,” he said decidedly. “Cards on the table. That’s the motto for this business. I mean to play fair.”
Mrs. Oliver hitched her chair nearer.
“Tell us,” she begged.
Superintendent Battle said slowly:
“First of all, I’ll say this. As far as the actual murder of Mr. Shaitana goes, I’m not a penny the wiser. There’s no hint or clue of any kind to be found in his papers. As for the four others, I’ve had them shadowed, naturally, but without any tangible result. No, as M. Poirot said, there’s only one hope—the past. Find out what crime exactly (if any, that is to say—after all, Shaitana may have been talking through his hat to make an impression on M. Poirot) these people have committed—and it may tell you who committed this crime.”
“Well, have you found out anything?”
“I’ve got a line on one of them.”
“Which?”
“Dr. Roberts.”
Mrs. Oliver looked at him with thrilled expectation. “As M. Poirot here knows, I tried out all kinds of theories. I established the fact pretty clearly that none of his immediate family had met with a sudden death. I’ve explored every alley as well as I could, and the whole thing boils down to one possibility—and rather an outside possibility at that. A few years ago Roberts must have been guilty of indiscretion, at least, with one of his lady patients. There may have been nothing in it—probably wasn’t. But the woman was the hysterical, emotional kind who likes to make a scene, and either the husband got wind of what was going on, or his wife ‘confessed.’ Anyway, the fat was in the fire as far as the doctor was concerned. Enraged husband threatening to report him to the General Medical Council—which would probably have meant the ruin of his professional career.”
“What happened?” demanded Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.
“Apparently Roberts managed to calm down the irate gentleman temporarily—and he died of anthrax almost immediately afterwards.”
“Anthrax? But that’s a cattle disease?”
The superintendent grinned.
“Quite right, Mrs. Oliver. It isn’t the untraceable arrow poison of the South American Indians! You may remember that there was rather a scare about infected shaving brushes of cheap make about that time. Craddock’s shaving brush was proved to have been the cause of infection.”
“Did Dr. Roberts attend him?”
“Oh, no. Too canny for that. Daresay Craddock wouldn’t have wanted him in any case. The only evidence I’ve got—and that’s precious little—is that among the doctor’s patients there was a case of anthrax at the time.”
“You mean the doctor infected the shaving brush?”
“That’s the big idea. And mind you, it’s only an idea. Nothing whatever to go on. Pure conjecture. But it could be.”
“He didn’t marry Mrs. Craddock afterwards?”
“Oh, dear me, no, I imagine the affection was always on the lady’s side. She tended to cut up rough, I hear, but suddenly went off to Egypt quite happily for the winter. She died there. A case of some obscure blood poisoning. It’s got a long name, but I don’t expect it would convey much to you. Most uncommon in this country, fairly common among the natives in Egypt.”
“So the doctor couldn’t have poisoned her?”
“I don’t know,” said Battle slowly. “I’ve been chatting to a bacteriologist friend of mine—awfully difficult to get straight answers out of these people. They never can say yes or no. It’s always ‘that might be possible under certain conditions’—‘it would depend on the pathological condition of the recipient’—‘such cases have been known’—‘a lot depends on individual idiosyncrasy’—all that sort of stuff. But as far as I could pin my friend down I got at this—the germ, or germs, I suppose, might have been introduced into the blood before leaving England. The symptoms would not make their appearance for sometime to come.”
Poirot asked:
“Was Mrs. Craddock inoculated for typhoid before going to Egypt? Most people are, I fancy.”
“Good for you, M. Poirot.”
“And Dr. Roberts did the inoculation?”
“That’s right. There you are again—we can’t prove anything. She had the usual two inoculations—and they may have been typhoid inoculations for all we know. Or one of them may have been typhoid inoculation and the other—something else. We don’t know. We never shall know. The whole thing is pure hypothesis. All we can say is: it might be.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“It agrees very well with some remarks made to me by Mr. Shaitana. He was exalting the successful murderer—the man against whom his crime could never be brought home.”
“How did Mr. Shaitana know about it, then?” asked Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“That we shall never learn. He himself was in Egypt at one time. We know that, because he met Mrs. Lorrimer there. He may have heard some local doctor comment on curious features of Mrs. Craddock’s case—a wonder as to how the infection arose. At some other time he may have heard gossip about Roberts and Mrs. Craddock. He might have amused himself by making some cryptic remark to the doctor and noted the startled awareness in his eye—all that one can never know. Some people have an uncanny gift of divining secrets. Mr. Shaitana was one of those people. All that does not concern us. We have only to say—he guessed. Did he guess right?”
“Well, I think he did,” said Battle. “I’ve a feeling that our cheerful, genial doctor wouldn’t be too scrupulous. I’ve known one or two like him—wonderful how certain types resemble each other. In my opinion he’s a killer all right. He killed Craddock. He may have killed Mrs. Craddock if she was beginning to be a nuisance and cause a scandal. But did he kill Shaitana? That’s the real question. And comparing the crimes, I rather doubt it. In the case of the Craddocks he used medical methods each time. The deaths appeared to be due to natural causes. In my opinion if he had killed Shaitana, he would have done so in a medical way. He’d have used the germ and not the knife.”
“I never thought it was him,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Not for a minute. He’s too obvious, somehow.”
“Exit Roberts,” murmured Poirot. “And the others?”
Battle made a gesture of impatience.
“I’ve pretty well
drawn blank. Mrs. Lorrimer’s been a widow for twenty years now. She’s lived in London most of the time, occasionally going abroad in the winter. Civilized places—the Riviera, Egypt, that sort of thing. Can’t find any mysterious death associated with her. She seems to have led a perfectly normal, respectable life—the life of a woman of the world. Everyone seems to respect her and to have the highest opinion of her character. The worst that they can say about her is that she doesn’t suffer fools gladly! I don’t mind admitting I’ve been beaten all along the line there. And yet there must be something! Shaitana thought there was.”
He sighed in a dispirited manner.
“Then there’s Miss Meredith. I’ve got her history taped out quite clearly. Usual sort of story. Army officer’s daughter. Left with very little money. Had to earn her living. Not properly trained for anything. I’ve checked up on her early days at Cheltenham. All quite straightforward. Everyone very sorry for the poor little thing. She went first to some people in the Isle of Wight—kind of nursery-governess and mother’s help. The woman she was with is out in Palestine but I’ve talked with her sister and she says Mrs. Eldon liked the girl very much. Certainly no mysterious deaths nor anything of that kind.
“When Mrs. Eldon went abroad, Miss Meredith went to Devonshire and took a post as companion to an aunt of a school friend. The school friend is the girl she is living with now—Miss Rhoda Dawes. She was there over two years until Miss Dawes got too ill and she had to have a regular trained nurse. Cancer, I gather. She’s alive still, but very vague. Kept under morphia a good deal, I imagine. I had an interview with her. She remembered ‘Anne,’ said she was a nice child. I also talked to a neighbour of hers who would be better able to remember the happenings of the last few years. No deaths in the parish except one or two of the older villagers, with whom, as far as I can make out, Anne Meredith never came into contact.
“Since then there’s been Switzerland. Thought I might get on the track of some fatal accident there, but nothing doing. And there’s nothing in Wallingford either.”
“So Anne Meredith is acquitted?” asked Poirot.
Battle hesitated.
“I wouldn’t say that. There’s something … There’s a scared look about her that can’t quite be accounted for by panic over Shaitana. She’s too watchful. Too much on the alert. I’d swear there was something. But there it is—she’s led a perfectly blameless life.”
Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath—a breath of pure enjoyment.
“And yet,” she said, “Anne Meredith was in the house when a woman took poison by mistake and died.”
She had nothing to complain of in the effect her words produced.
Superintendent Battle spun round in his chair and stared at her in amazement.
“Is this true, Mrs. Oliver? How do you know?”
“I’ve been sleuthing,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I get on with girls. I went down to see those two and told them a cock-and-bull story about suspecting Dr. Roberts. The Rhoda girl was friendly—oh, and rather impressed by thinking I was a celebrity. The little Meredith hated my coming and showed it quite plainly. She was suspicious. Why should she be if she hadn’t got anything to hide? I asked either of them to come and see me in London. The Rhoda girl did. And she blurted the whole thing out. How Anne had been rude to me the other day because something I’d said had reminded her of a painful incident, and then she went on to describe the incident.”
“Did she say when and where it happened?”
“Three years ago in Devonshire.”
The superintendent muttered something under his breath and scribbled on his pad. His wooden calm was shaken.
Mrs. Oliver sat enjoying her triumph. It was a moment of great sweetness to her.
“I take off my hat to you, Mrs. Oliver,” he said. “You’ve put one over on us this time. That is very valuable information. And it just shows how easily you can miss a thing.”
He frowned a little.
“She can’t have been there—wherever it was—long. A couple of months at most. It must have been between the Isle of Wight and going to Miss Dawes. Yes, that could be it right enough. Naturally Mrs. Eldon’s sister only remembers she went off to a place in Devonshire—she doesn’t remember exactly who or where.”
“Tell me,” said Poirot, “was this Mrs. Eldon an untidy woman?”
Battle bent a curious gaze upon him.
“It’s odd your saying that, M. Poirot. I don’t see how you could have known. The sister was rather a precise party. In talking I remember her saying ‘My sister is so dreadfully untidy and slapdash.’ But how did you know?”
“Because she needed a mother’s help,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot shook his head.
“No, no, it was not that. It is of no moment. I was only curious. Continue, Superintendent Battle.”
“In the same way,” went on Battle, “I took it for granted that she went to Miss Dawes straight from the Isle of Wight. She’s sly, that girl. She deceived me all right. Lying the whole time.”
“Lying is not always a sign of guilt,” said Poirot.
“I know that, M. Poirot. There’s the natural liar. I should say she was one, as a matter of fact. Always says the thing that sounds best. But all the same it’s a pretty grave risk to take, suppressing facts like that.”
“She wouldn’t know you had any idea of past crimes,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“That’s all the more reason for not suppressing that little piece of information. It must have been accepted as a bona fide case of accidental death, so she’d nothing to fear—unless she were guilty.”
“Unless she were guilty of the Devonshire death, yes,” said Poirot.
Battle turned to him.
“Oh, I know. Even if that accidental death turns out to be not so accidental, it doesn’t follow that she killed Shaitana. But these other murders are murders too. I want to be able to bring home a crime to the person responsible for it.”
“According to Mr. Shaitana, that is impossible,” remarked Poirot.
“It is in Roberts’ case. It remains to be seen if it is in Miss Meredith’s. I shall go down to Devon tomorrow.”
“Will you know where to go?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “I didn’t like to ask Rhoda for more details.”
“No, that was wise of you. I shan’t have much difficulty. There must have been an inquest. I shall find it in the coroner’s records. That’s routine police work. They’ll have it all taped out for me by tomorrow morning.”
“What about Major Despard?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “Have you found out anything about him?”
“I’ve been waiting for Colonel Race’s report. I’ve had him shadowed, of course. One rather interesting thing, he went down to see Miss Meredith at Wallingford. You remember he said he’d never met her until the other night.”
“But she is a very pretty girl,” murmured Poirot.
Battle laughed.
“Yes, I expect that’s all there is to it. By the way, Despard’s taking no chances. He’s already consulted a solicitor. That looks as though he’s expecting trouble.”
“He is a man who looks ahead,” said Poirot. “He is a man who prepares for every contingency.”
“And therefore not the kind of man to stick a knife into a man in a hurry,” said Battle with a sigh.
“Not unless it was the only way,” said Poirot. “He can act quickly, remember.”
Battle looked across the table at him.
“Now, M. Poirot, what about your cards? Haven’t seen your hand down on the table yet.”
Poirot smiled.
“There is so little in it. You think I conceal facts from you? It is not so. I have not learned many facts. I have talked with Dr. Roberts, with Mrs. Lorrimer, with Major Despard (I have still to talk to Miss Meredith) and what have I learnt? This! That Dr. Roberts is a keen observer, that Mrs. Lorrimer on the other hand has a most remarkable power of concentration but is, in consequence, almost blind to her surroundings. But she is fond of flowers. De
spard notices only those things which appeal to him—rugs, trophies of sport. He has neither what I call the outward vision (seeing details all around you—what is called an observant person) nor the inner vision—concentration, the focusing of the mind on one object. He has a purposefully limited vision. He sees only what blends and harmonizes with the bent of his mind.”
“So those are what you call facts—eh?” said Battle curiously.
“They are facts—very small fry—perhaps.”
“What about Miss Meredith?”
“I have left her to the end. But I shall question her too as to what she remembers in that room.”
“It’s an odd method of approach,” said Battle thoughtfully. “Purely psychological. Suppose they’re leading you up the garden path?”
Poirot shook his head with a smile.
“No, that would be impossible. Whether they try to hinder or to help, they necessarily reveal their type of mind.”
“There’s something in it, no doubt,” said Battle thoughtfully. “I couldn’t work that way myself, though.”
Poirot said, still smiling:
“I feel I have done very little in comparison with you and with Mrs. Oliver—and with Colonel Race. My cards, that I place on the table, are very low ones.”
Battle twinkled at him.
“As to that, M. Poirot, the two of trumps is a low card but it can take any one of three aces. All the same, I’m going to ask you to do a practical job of work.”
“And that is?”
“I want you to interview Professor Luxmore’s widow.”
“Why do you not do that yourself?”
“Because, as I said just now, I’m off to Devonshire.”
“Why do you not do that yourself?” repeated Poirot.
“Won’t be put off, will you? Well, I’ll speak the truth. I think you’ll get more out of her than I shall.”