Cards on the Table

  “Something I said?”

  “Yes. You couldn’t tell, of course. It was just unfortunate.”

  “What did I say?”

  “I don’t expect you remember, even. It was just the way you put it. You said something about an accident and poison.”

  “Did I?”

  “I knew you’d probably not remember. Yes. You see, Anne had a ghastly experience once. She was in a house where a woman took some poison—hat paint, I think it was—by mistake for something else. And she died. And, of course, it was an awful shock to Anne. She can’t bear thinking of it or speaking of it. And your saying that reminded her, of course, and she dried up and got all stiff and queer like she does. And I saw you noticed it. And I couldn’t say anything in front of her. But I did want you to know that it wasn’t what you thought. She wasn’t ungrateful.”

  Mrs. Oliver looked at Rhoda’s flushed eager face. She said slowly:

  “I see.”

  “Anne’s awfully sensitive,” said Rhoda. “And she’s bad about—well, facing things. If anything’s upset her, she’d just rather not talk about it, although that isn’t any good, really—at least, I don’t think so. Things are there just the same—whether you talk about them or not. It’s only running away from them to pretend they don’t exist. I’d rather have it all out, however painful it would be.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Oliver quietly. “But you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne isn’t.”

  Rhoda flushed.

  “Anne’s a darling.”

  Mrs. Oliver smiled.

  She said, “I didn’t say she wasn’t. I only said she hadn’t got your particular brand of courage.”

  She sighed, then said rather unexpectedly to the girl:

  “Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don’t you?”

  “Of course I believe in the truth,” said Rhoda staring.

  “Yes, you say that—but perhaps you haven’t thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes—and destroys one’s illusions.”

  “I’d rather have it, all the same,” said Rhoda.

  “So would I. But I don’t know that we’re wise.”

  Rhoda said earnestly:

  “Don’t tell Anne, will you, what I’ve told you? She wouldn’t like it.”

  “I certainly shouldn’t dream of doing any such thing. Was this long ago?

  “About four years ago. It’s odd, isn’t it, how the same things happen again and again to people. I had an aunt who was always in shipwrecks. And here’s Anne mixed up in two sudden deaths—only, of course, this one is much worse. Murder’s rather awful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The black coffee and the hot buttered toast appeared at this minute.

  Rhoda ate and drank with childish gusto. It was very exciting to her thus to be sharing an intimate meal with a celebrity.

  When they had finished she rose and said:

  “I do hope I haven’t interrupted you too terribly. Would you mind—I mean, would it bother you awfully—if I sent one of your books to you, would you sign it for me?”

  Mrs. Oliver laughed.

  “Oh, I can do better than that for you.” She opened a cupboard at the far end of the room. “Which would you like? I rather fancy The Affair of the Second Goldfish myself. It’s not quite such frightful tripe as the rest.”

  A little shocked at hearing an authoress thus describe the children of her pen, Rhoda accepted eagerly. Mrs. Oliver took the book, opened it, inscribed her name with a superlative flourish and handed it to Rhoda.

  “There you are.”

  “Thank you very much. I have enjoyed myself. Sure you didn’t mind my coming?”

  “I wanted you to,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  She added after a moment’s pause:

  “You’re a nice child. Good-bye. Take care of yourself, my dear.”

  “Now, why did I say that?” she murmured to herself as the door closed behind her guest.

  She shook her head, ruffled her hair, and returned to the masterly dealings of Sven Hjerson with the sage and onion stuffing.

  Eighteen

  TEA INTERLUDE

  Mrs. Lorrimer came out of a certain door in Harley Street.

  She stood for a minute at the top of the steps, and then she descended them slowly.

  There was a curious expression on her face—a mingling of grim determination and of strange indecision. She bent her brows a little, as though to concentrate on some all-absorbing problem.

  It was just then that she caught sight of Anne Meredith on the opposite pavement.

  Anne was standing staring up at a big block of flats just on the corner.

  Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a moment, then she crossed the road.

  “How do you do, Miss Meredith?”

  Anne started and turned.

  “Oh, how do you do?”

  “Still in London?” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

  “No. I’ve only come up for the day. To do some legal business.”

  Her eyes were still straying to the big block of flats.

  Mrs. Lorrimer said:

  “Is anything the matter?”

  Anne started guiltily.

  “The matter? Oh, no, what should be the matter?”

  “You were looking as though you had something on your mind.”

  “I haven’t—well, at least I have, but it’s nothing important, something quite silly.” She laughed a little.

  She went on:

  “It’s only that I thought I saw my friend—the girl I live with—go in there, and I wondered if she’d gone to see Mrs. Oliver.”

  “Is that where Mrs. Oliver lives? I didn’t know.”

  “Yes. She came to see us the other day and she gave us her address and asked us to come and see her. I wondered if it was Rhoda I saw or not.”

  “Do you want to go up and see?”

  “No, I’d rather not do that.”

  “Come and have tea with me,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “There is a shop quite near here that I know.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” said Anne, hesitating.

  Side by side they walked down the street and turned into a side street. In a small pastry cook’s they were served with tea and muffins.

  They did not talk much. Each of them seemed to find the other’s silence restful.

  Anne asked suddenly:

  “Has Mrs. Oliver been to see you?”

  Mrs. Lorrimer shook her head.

  “No one has been to see me except M. Poirot.”

  “I didn’t mean—” began Anne.

  “Didn’t you? I think you did,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

  The girl looked up—a quick, frightened glance. Something she saw in Mrs. Lorrimer’s face seemed to reassure her.

  “He hasn’t been to see me,” she said slowly.

  There was a pause.

  “Hasn’t Superintendent Battle been to see you?” asked Anne.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

  Anne said hesitatingly:

  “What sort of things did he ask you?”

  Mrs. Lorrimer sighed wearily.

  “The usual things, I suppose. Routine inquiries. He was very pleasant over it all.”

  “I suppose he interviewed everyone?”

  “I should think so.”

  There was another pause.

  Anne said:

  “Mrs. Lorrimer, do you think—they will ever find out who did it?”

  Her eyes were bent on her plate. She did not see the curious expression in the older woman’s eyes as she watched the downcast head.

  Mrs. Lorrimer said quietly:

  “I don’t know….”

  Anne murmured:

  “It’s not—very nice, is it?”

  There was that same curious appraising and yet sympathetic look on Mrs. Lorrimer’s face, as she asked:

  “How old are you, Anne Meredith?”

  “I—I?” the girl stammered. “I’m twenty-five.”

  “And I’m
sixty-three,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

  She went on slowly:

  “Most of your life is in front of you….”

  Anne shivered.

  “I might be run over by a bus on the way home,” she said.

  “Yes, that’s true. And I—might not.”

  She said it in an odd way. Anne looked at her in astonishment.

  “Life is a difficult business,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “You’ll know that when you come to my age. It needs infinite courage and a lot of endurance. And in the end one wonders: ‘Was it worthwhile?’”

  “Oh, don’t,” said Anne.

  Mrs. Lorrimer laughed, her old competent self again.

  “It’s rather cheap to say gloomy things about life,” she said.

  She called the waitress and settled the bill.

  As they got to the shop door a taxi crawled past, and Mrs. Lorrimer hailed it.

  “Can I give you a lift?” she asked. “I am going south of the park.”

  Anne’s face had lighted up.

  “No, thank you. I see my friend turning the corner. Thank you so much, Mrs. Lorrimer. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye. Good luck,” said the older woman.

  She drove away and Anne hurried forward.

  Rhoda’s face lit up when she saw her friend, then changed to a slightly guilty expression.

  “Rhoda, have you been to see Mrs. Oliver?” demanded Anne.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I have.”

  “And I just caught you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by caught. Let’s go down here and take a bus. You’d gone off on your own ploys with the boyfriend. I thought at least he’d give you tea.”

  Anne was silent for a minute—a voice ringing in her ears.

  “Can’t we pick up your friend somewhere and all have tea together?”

  And her own answer—hurried, without taking time to think:

  “Thanks awfully, but we’ve got to go out to tea together with some people.”

  A lie—and such a silly lie. The stupid way one said the first thing that came into one’s head instead of just taking a minute or two to think. Perfectly easy to have said “Thanks, but my friend has got to go out to tea.” That is, if you didn’t, as she hadn’t, wanted to have Rhoda too.

  Rather odd, that, the way she hadn’t wanted Rhoda. She had wanted, definitely, to keep Despard to herself. She had felt jealous. Jealous of Rhoda. Rhoda was so bright, so ready to talk, so full of enthusiasm and life. The other evening Major Despard had looked as though he thought Rhoda nice. But it was her, Anne Meredith, he had come down to see. Rhoda was like that. She didn’t mean it, but she reduced you to the background. No, definitely she hadn’t wanted Rhoda there.

  But she had managed it very stupidly, getting flurried like that. If she’d managed better, she might be sitting now having tea with Major Despard at his club or somewhere.

  She felt definitely annoyed with Rhoda. Rhoda was a nuisance. And what had she been doing going to see Mrs. Oliver?

  Out loud she said:

  “Why did you go and see Mrs. Oliver?”

  “Well, she asked us to.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t suppose she really meant it. I expect she always has to say that.”

  “She did mean it. She was awfully nice—couldn’t have been nicer. She gave me one of her books. Look.”

  Rhoda flourished her prize.

  Anne said suspiciously:

  “What did you talk about? Not me?”

  “Listen to the conceit of the girl!”

  “No, but did you? Did you talk about the—the murder?”

  “We talked about her murders. She’s writing one where there’s poison in the sage and onions. She was frightfully human—and said writing was awfully hard work and how she got into tangles with plots, and we had black coffee and hot buttered toast,” finished Rhoda in a triumphant burst.

  Then she added:

  “Oh, Anne, you want your tea.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve had it. With Mrs. Lorrimer.”

  “Mrs. Lorrimer? Isn’t that the one—the one who was there?”

  Anne nodded.

  “Where did you come across her? Did you go and see her?”

  “No. I ran across her in Harley Street.”

  “What was she like?”

  Anne said slowly:

  “I don’t know. She was—rather queer. Not at all like the other night.”

  “Do you still think she did it?” asked Rhoda.

  Anne was silent for a minute or two. Then she said:

  “I don’t know. Don’t let’s talk of it, Rhoda! You know how I hate talking of things.”

  “All right, darling. What was the solicitor like? Very dry and legal?”

  “Rather alert and Jewish.”

  “Sounds all right.” She waited a little and then said:

  “How was Major Despard?”

  “Very kind.”

  “He’s fallen for you, Anne. I’m sure he has.”

  “Rhoda, don’t talk nonsense.”

  “Well, you’ll see.”

  Rhoda began humming to herself. She thought:

  “Of course he’s fallen for her. Anne’s awfully pretty. But a bit wishy-washy … She’ll never go on treks with him. Why, she’d scream if she saw a snake … Men always do take fancies to unsuitable women.”

  Then she said aloud.

  “That bus will take us to Paddington. We’ll just catch the 4:48.”

  Nineteen

  CONSULTATION

  The telephone rang in Poirot’s room and a respectful voice spoke.

  “Sergeant O’Connor. Superintendent Battle’s compliments and would it be convenient for Mr. Hercule Poirot to come to Scotland Yard at 11:30?”

  Poirot replied in the affirmative and Sergeant O’Connor rang off.

  It was 11:30 to the minute when Poirot descended from his taxi at the door of New Scotland Yard—to be at once seized upon by Mrs. Oliver.

  “M. Poirot. How splendid! Will you come to my rescue?”

  “Enchanté, madame. What can I do?”

  “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.

  “Incapable of what I’d call murder—yes,” he said.

  “But not incapable of killing a man for what would seem to him good and sufficient reasons, is that it?”

  “If so, they would be good and sufficient reasons!”

  Battle shook his head.

  “You can’t have human beings judging other human beings and taking the law into their own hands.”

  “It happens, Battle—it happens.”

  “It shouldn’t happen—that’s my point. What do you say, M. Poirot?”

  “I agree with you, Battle. I have always disapproved of murder.”

  “What a delightfully droll way of putting it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Rather as though it were foxhunting or killing ospreys for hats. Don’t you think there are people who ought to be murdered?”

  “That, very possibly.”

  “Well then!”

  “You do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is the effect on the character of the slayer.”

  “What about war?”

  “In war you do not exercise the right of private judgement. That is what is so dangerous. Once a man is imbued with the idea that he knows who ought to be allowed to live and who ought not—then he is halfway to becoming the most dangerous killer there is—the arrogant criminal who kills not for profit—but for an idea. He has usurped the functions of le bon Dieu.”