Cards on the Table (SB)

  “Yes, I thought you would. I had been to see a specialist there. He told me what I already half suspected.”

  Her smile widened. It was no longer twisted and bitter. It was suddenly sweet.

  “I shall not play very much more bridge, M. Poirot. Oh, he didn’t say so in so many words. He wrapped up the truth a little. With great care, etc., etc., I might live several years. But I shall not take any great care. I am not that kind of a woman.”

  “Yes, yes, I begin to understand,” said Poirot.

  “It made a difference, you see. A month—two months, perhaps—not more. And then, just as I left the specialist, I met Miss Meredith. I asked her to have tea with me.”

  She paused, then went on:

  “I am not, after all, a wholly wicked woman. All the time we were having tea I was thinking. By my action the other evening I had not only deprived the man Shaitana of life (that was done, and could not be undone), I had also, to a varying degree, affected unfavourably the lives of three other people. Because of what I had done, Dr. Roberts, Major Despard and Anne Meredith, none of whom had injured me in any way, were passing through a very grave ordeal, and might even be in danger. That, at least, I could undo. I don’t know that I felt particularly moved by the plight of either Dr. Roberts or Major Despard—although both of them had presumably a much longer span of life in front of them than I had. They were men, and could, to a certain extent, look after themselves. But when I looked at Anne Meredith—”

  She hesitated, then continued slowly:

  “Anne Meredith was only a girl. She had the whole of her life in front of her. This miserable business might ruin that life….

  “I didn’t like the thought of that….

  “And then, M. Poirot, with these ideas growing in my mind, I realized that what you had hinted had come true. I was not going to be able to keep silence. This afternoon I rang you up….”

  Minutes passed.

  Hercule Poirot leaned forward. He stared, deliberately stared through the gathering gloom, at Mrs. Lorrimer. She returned that intent gaze quietly and without any nervousness.

  He said at last:

  “Mrs. Lorrimer, are you sure—are you positive (you will tell me the truth, will you not?)—that the murder of Mr. Shaitana was not premeditated? Is it not a fact that you planned the crime beforehand—that you went to that dinner with the murder already mapped out in your mind?”

  Mrs. Lorrimer stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head sharply.

  “No,” she said.

  “You did not plan the murder beforehand?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then—then … Oh, you are lying to me—you must be lying! … ”

  Mrs. Lorrimer’s voice cut into the air like ice.

  “Really, M. Poirot, you forget yourself.”

  The little man sprang to his feet. He paced up and down the room, muttering to himself, uttering ejaculations.

  Suddenly he said:

  “Permit me.”

  And, going to the switch, he turned on the electric lights.

  He came back, sat down in his chair, placed both hands on his knees and stared straight at his hostess.

  “The question is,” he said, “can Hercule Poirot possibly be wrong?”

  “No one can always be right,” said Mrs. Lorrimer coldly.

  “I am,” said Poirot. “Always I am right. It is so invariable that it startles me. But now it looks, it very much looks, as though I am wrong. And that upsets me. Presumably, you know what you are saying. It is your murder! Fantastic, then, that Hercule Poirot should know better than you do how you committed it.”

  “Fantastic and very absurd,” said Mrs. Lorrimer still more coldly.

  “I am, then, mad. Decidedly I am mad: No—sacré nom d’un petit bonhomme—I am not mad! I am right. I must be right. I am willing to believe that you killed Mr. Shaitana—but you cannot have killed him in the way you say you did. No one can do a thing that is not dans son charactère!”

  He paused. Mrs. Lorrimer drew in an angry breath and bit her lips. She was about to speak, but Poirot forestalled her.

  “Either the killing of Shaitana was planned beforehand—or you did not kill him at all!”

  Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:

  “I really believe you are mad, M. Poirot. If I am willing to admit I committed the crime, I should not be likely to lie about the way I did it. What would be the point of such a thing?”

  Poirot got up again and took one turn round the room. When he came back to his seat his manner had changed. He was gentle and kindly.

  “You did not kill Shaitana,” he said softly. “I see that now. I see everything. Harley Street. And little Anne Meredith standing forlorn on the pavement. I see, too, another girl—a very long time ago, a girl who has gone through life always alone—terribly alone. Yes, I see all that. But one thing I do not see—why are you so certain that Anne Meredith did it?”

  “Really, M. Poirot—”

  “Absolutely useless to protest—to lie further to me, madame. I tell you, I know the truth. I know the very emotions that swept over you that day in Harley Street. You would not have done it for Dr. Roberts—oh, no! You would not have done it for Major Despard, non plus. But Anne Meredith is different. You have compassion for her, because she has done what you once did. You do not know even—or so I imagine—what reason she had for the crime. But you are quite sure she did it. You were sure that first evening—the evening it happened—when Superintendent Battle invited you to give your views on the case. Yes, I know it all, you see. It is quite useless to lie further to me. You see that, do you not?”

  He paused for an answer, but none came. He nodded his head in satisfaction.

  “Yes, you are sensible. That is good. It is a very noble action that you perform there, madame, to take the blame on yourself and to let this child escape.”

  “You forget,” said Mrs. Lorrimer in a dry voice, “I am not an innocent woman. Years ago, M. Poirot, I killed my husband….”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “I see,” said Poirot. “It is justice. After all, only justice. You have the logical mind. You are willing to suffer for the act you committed. Murder is murder—it does not matter who the victim is. Madame, you have courage, and you have clearsightedness. But I ask of you once more: How can you be so sure? How do you know that it was Anne Meredith who killed Mr. Shaitana?”

  A deep sigh broke from Mrs. Lorrimer. Her last resistance had gone down before Poirot’s insistence. She answered his question quite simply like a child.

  “Because,” she said, “I saw her.”

  Twenty-seven

  THE EYEWITNESS

  Suddenly Poirot laughed. He could not help it. His head went back, and his high Gallic laugh filled the room.

  “Pardon, madame,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I could not help it. Here we argue and we reason! We ask questions! We invoke the psychology—and all the time there was an eyewitness of the crime. Tell me, I pray of you.”

  “It was fairly late in the evening. Anne Meredith was dummy. She got up and looked over her partner’s hand, and then she moved about the room. The hand wasn’t very interesting—the conclusion was inevitable. I didn’t need to concentrate on the cards. Just as we got to the last three tricks I looked over towards the fireplace. Anne Meredith was bent over Mr. Shaitana. As I watched, she straightened herself—her hand had been actually on his breast—a gesture which awakened my surprise. She straightened herself, and I saw her face and her quick look over towards us. Guilt and fear—that is what I saw on her face. Of course, I didn’t know what had happened then. I only wondered what on earth the girl could have been doing. Later—I knew.”

  Poirot nodded.

  “But she did not know that you knew. She did not know that you had seen her?”

  “Poor child,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “Young, frightened—her way to make in the world. Do you wonder that I—well, held my tongue?”

  “No,
no, I do not wonder.”

  “Especially knowing that I—that I myself—” She finished the sentence with a shrug. “It was certainly not my place to stand accuser. It was up to the police.”

  “Quite so—but today you have gone further than that.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer said grimly:

  “I’ve never been a very softhearted or compassionate woman, but I suppose these qualities grow upon one in one’s old age. I assure you, I’m not often actuated by pity.”

  “It is not always a very safe guide, madame. Mademoiselle Anne is young, she is fragile, she looks timid and frightened—oh, yes, she seems a very worthy subject for compassion. But I, I do not agree. Shall I tell you, madame, why Miss Anne Meredith killed Mr. Shaitana. It was because he knew that she had previously killed an elderly lady to whom she was companion—because that lady had found her out in a petty theft.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer looked a little startled.

  “Is that true, M. Poirot?”

  “I have no doubt of it, whatsoever. She is so soft—so gentle—one would say. Pah! She is dangerous, madame, that little Mademoiselle Anne! Where her own safety, her own comfort, is concerned, she will strike wildly—treacherously. With Mademoiselle Anne those two crimes will not be the end. She will gain confidence from them….”

  Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:

  “What you say is horrible, M. Poirot. Horrible!”

  Poirot rose.

  “Madame, I will now take my leave. Reflect on what I have said.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer was looking a little uncertain of herself. She said with an attempt at her old manner:

  “If it suits me, M. Poirot, I shall deny this whole conversation. You have no witnesses, remember. What I have just told you that I saw on that fatal evening is—well, private between ourselves.”

  Poirot said gravely:

  “Nothing shall be done without your consent, madame. And be at peace; I have my own methods. Now that I know what I am driving at—”

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “Permit me to tell you, madame, that you are a most remarkable woman. All my homage and respect. Yes, indeed, a woman in a thousand. Why, you have not even done what nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand could not have resisted doing.”

  “What is that?”

  “Told me just why you killed your husband—and how entirely justified such a proceeding really was.”

  Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up.

  “Really, M. Poirot,” she said stiffly. “My reasons were entirely my own business.”

  “Magnifique!” said Poirot, and, once more raising her hand to his lips, he left the room.

  It was cold outside the house, and he looked up and down for a taxi, but there was none in sight.

  He began to walk in the direction of King’s Road.

  As he walked he was thinking hard. Occasionally he nodded his head; once he shook it.

  He looked back over his shoulder. Someone was going up the steps of Mrs. Lorrimer’s house. In figure it looked very like Anne Meredith. He hesitated for a minute, wondering whether to turn back or not, but in the end he went on.

  On arrival at home, he found that Battle had gone without leaving any message.

  He proceeded to ring the superintendent up.

  “Hallo.” Battle’s voice came through. “Got anything?”

  “Je crois bien. Mon ami, we must get after the Meredith girl—and quickly.”

  “I’m getting after her—but why quickly?”

  “Because, my friend, she may be dangerous.”

  Battle was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

  “I know what you mean. But there’s no one … Oh, well, we mustn’t take chances. As a matter of fact, I’ve written her. Official note, saying I’m calling to see her tomorrow. I thought it might be a good thing to get her rattled.”

  “It is a possibility, at least. I may accompany you?”

  “Naturally. Honoured to have your company, M. Poirot.”

  Poirot hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.

  His mind was not quite at rest. He sat for a long time in front of his fire, frowning to himself. At last, putting his fears and doubts aside, he went to bed.

  “We will see in the morning,” he murmured.

  But of what the morning would bring he had no idea.

  Twenty-eight

  SUICIDE

  The summons came by telephone at the moment when Poirot was sitting down to his morning coffee and rolls.

  He lifted the telephone receiver, and Battle’s voice spoke:

  “That M. Poirot?”

  “Yes, it is. Qu’est ce qu’il y a?”

  The mere inflection of the superintendent’s voice had told him that something had happened. His own vague misgivings came back to him.

  “But quickly, my friend, tell me.”

  “It’s Mrs. Lorrimer.”

  “Lorrimer—yes?”

  “What the devil did you say to her—or did she say to you—yesterday? You never told me anything; in fact, you let me think that the Meredith girl was the one we were after.”

  Poirot said quietly:

  “What has happened?”

  “Suicide.”

  “Mrs. Lorrimer has committed suicide?”

  “That’s right. It seems she has been very depressed and unlike herself lately. Her doctor had ordered her some sleeping stuff. Last night she took an overdose.”

  Poirot drew a deep breath.

  “There is no question of—accident?”

  “Not the least. It’s all cut and dried. She wrote to the three of them.”

  “Which three?”

  “The other three. Roberts, Despard and Miss Meredith. All fair and square—no beating about the bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she was taking a shortcut out of all the mess—that it was she who had killed Shaitana—and that she apologized—apologized—to all three of them for the inconvenience and annoyance they had suffered. Perfectly calm, businesslike letter. Absolutely typical of the woman. She was a cool customer all right.”

  For a minute or two Poirot did not answer.

  So this was Mrs. Lorrimer’s final word. She had determined, after all, to shield Anne Meredith. A quick painless death instead of a protracted painful one, and her last action an altruistic one—the saving of the girl with whom she felt a secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned and carried out with quite ruthless efficiency—a suicide carefully announced to the three interested parties. What a woman! His admiration quickened. It was like her—like her clearcut determination, her insistence on what she had decided being carried out.

  He had thought to have convinced her—but evidently she had preferred her own judgement. A woman of very strong will.

  Battle’s voice cut into his meditations.

  “What the devil did you say to her yesterday? You must have put the wind up her, and this is the result. But you implied that the result of your interview was definite suspicion of the Meredith girl.”

  Poirot was silent a minute or two. He felt that, dead, Mrs. Lorrimer constrained him to her will, as she could not have done if she were living.

  He said at last slowly:

  “I was in error….”

  They were unaccustomed words on his tongue, and he did not like them.

  “You made a mistake, eh?” said Battle. “All the same, she must have thought you were onto her. It’s a bad business—letting her slip through our fingers like this.”

  “You could not have proved anything against her,” said Poirot.

  “No—I suppose that’s true … Perhaps it’s all for the best. You—er—didn’t mean this to happen, M. Poirot?”

  Poirot’s disclaimer was indignant. Then he said:

  “Tell me exactly what has occurred.”

  “Roberts opened his letter just before eight o’clock. He lost no time, dashed off at once in his car, leaving his parlourmaid to communicate with us, which she d
id. He got to the house to find that Mrs. Lorrimer hadn’t been called yet, rushed up to her bedroom—but it was too late. He tried artificial respiration, but there was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after and confirmed his treatment.”

  “What was the sleeping stuff?”

  “Veronal, I think. One of the barbituric group, at any rate. There was a bottle of tablets by her bed.”

  “What about the other two? Did they not try to communicate with you?”

  “Despard is out of town. He hasn’t had this morning’s post.”

  “And—Miss Meredith?”

  “I’ve just rung her up.”

  “Eh bien?”

  “She had just opened the letter a few moments before my call came through. Post is later there.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  “A perfectly proper attitude. Intense relief decently veiled. Shocked and grieved—that sort of thing.”

  Poirot paused a moment, then he said:

  “Where are you now, my friend?”

  “At Cheyne Lane.”

  “Bien. I will come round immediately.”

  In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Dr. Roberts on the point of departure. The doctor’s usual florid manner was rather in abeyance this morning. He looked pale and shaken.

  “Nasty business this, M. Poirot. I can’t say I’m not relieved—from my own point of view—but, to tell you the truth, it’s a bit of a shock. I never really thought for a minute that it was Mrs. Lorrimer who stabbed Shaitana. It’s been the greatest surprise to me.”

  “I, too, am surprised.”

  “Quiet, well-bred, self-contained woman. Can’t imagine her doing a violent thing like that. What was the motive, I wonder? Oh, well, we shall never know now. I confess I’m curious, though.”

  “It must take a load off your mind—this occurrence.”

  “Oh, it does, undoubtedly. It would be hypocrisy not to admit it. It’s not very pleasant to have a suspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman herself—well, it was undoubtedly the best way out.”

  “So she thought herself.”

  Roberts nodded.

  “Conscience, I suppose,” he said as he let himself out of the house.