Cards on the Table (14 page)

“Q
uelle femme,”
murmured Hercule Poirot.
“Ce pauvre Despard! Ce qu'il a dû souffrir! Quel voyage épouvantable!”

Suddenly he began to laugh.

He was now walking along the Brompton Road. He paused, took out his watch, and made a calculation.

“But yes, I have the time. In any case to wait will do him no harm. I can now attend to the other little matter. What was it that my friend in the English police force used to sing—how many years—forty years ago? ‘A little piece of sugar for the bird.'”

Humming a long-forgotten tune, Hercule Poirot entered a sumptuous-looking shop mainly devoted to the clothing and general embellishment of women and made his way to the stocking counter.

Selecting a sympathetic-looking and not too haughty damsel he made known his requirements.

“Silk stockings? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure silk.”

Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent once more.

“French silk stockings? With the duty, you know, they are very expensive.”

A fresh lot of boxes was produced.

“Very nice, mademoiselle, but I had something of a finer texture in mind.”

“These are a hundred gauge. Of course, we have some extra fine, but I'm afraid they come out at about thirty-five shillings a pair. And no durability, of course. Just like cobwebs.”

“C'est ça. C'est ça, exactement.”

A prolonged absence of the young lady this time.

She returned at last.

“I'm afraid they are actually thirty-seven and sixpence a pair. But beautiful, aren't they?”

She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelope—the finest, gauziest wisps of stockings.

“
Enfin
—that is it exactly!”

“Lovely, aren't they? How many pairs, sir?”

“I want—let me see, nineteen pairs.”

The young lady very nearly fell down behind the counter, but long training in scornfulness just kept her erect.

“There would be a reduction on two dozen,” she said faintly.

“No, I want nineteen pairs. Of slightly different colours, please.”

The girl sorted them out obediently, packed them up and made out the bill.

As Poirot departed with his purchase, the next girl at the counter said:

“Wonder who the lucky girl is? Must be a nasty old man. Oh,
well, she seems to be stringing him along good and proper. Stockings at thirty-seven and sixpence indeed!”

Unaware of the low estimate formed by the young ladies of Messrs Harvey Robinson's upon his character, Poirot was trotting homewards.

He had been in for about half an hour when he heard the doorbell ring. A few minutes later Major Despard entered the room.

He was obviously keeping his temper with difficulty.

“What the devil did you want to go and see Mrs. Luxmore for?” he asked.

Poirot smiled.

“I wished, you see, for the true story of Professor Luxmore's death.”

“True story? Do you think that woman's capable of telling the truth about anything?” demanded Despard wrathfully.

“
Eh bien,
I did wonder now and then,” admitted Poirot.

“I should think you did. That woman's crazy.”

Poirot demurred.

“Not at all. She is a romantic woman, that is all.”

“Romantic be damned. She's an out-and-out liar. I sometimes think she even believes her own lies.”

“It is quite possible.”

“She's an appalling woman. I had the hell of a time with her out there.”

“That also I can well believe.”

Despard sat down abruptly.

“Look here, M. Poirot, I'm going to tell you the truth.”

“You mean you are going to give me your version of the story?”

“My version will be the true version.”

Poirot did not reply.

Despard went on drily:

“I quite realize that I can't claim any merit in coming out with this now. I'm telling the truth because it's the only thing to be done at this stage. Whether you believe me or not is up to you. I've no kind of proof that my story is the correct one.”

He paused for a minute and then began.

“I arranged the trip for the Luxmores. He was a nice old boy quite batty about mosses and plants and things. She was a—well, she was what you've no doubt observed her to be! That trip was a nightmare. I didn't care a damn for the woman—rather disliked her, as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind that always makes me feel prickly with embarrassment. Everything went all right for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. Old Luxmore was pretty bad. One night—now you've got to listen to this carefully—I was sitting outside my tent. Suddenly I saw Luxmore in the distance staggering off into the bush by the river. He was absolutely delirious and quite unconscious of what he was doing. In another minute he would be in the river—and at that particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance of a rescue. There wasn't time to rush after him—only one thing to be done. My rifle was beside me as usual. I snatched it up. I'm a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring the old boy down—get him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic fool of a woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, ‘Don't shoot. For God's sake, don't shoot.' She caught my arm and jerked it ever so slightly just as the rifle went off—with the result that the bullet got him in the back and killed him dead!

“I can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that
damned fool of a woman still didn't understand what she'd done. Instead of realizing that she'd been responsible for her husband's death, she firmly believed that I'd been trying to shoot the old boy in cold blood—for the love of her, if you please! We had the devil of a scene—she insisting that we should say he died of fever. I was sorry for her—especially as I saw she didn't realize what she'd done. But she'd have to realize it if the truth came out! And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in love with her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she went about giving that out. In the end I agreed to do what she wanted—partly for the sake of peace, I'll admit. After all, it didn't seem to matter much. Fever or accident. And I didn't want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantness—even if she was a damned fool. I gave it out next day that the professor was dead of fever and we buried him. The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all devoted to me and I knew that what I said they'd swear to if need be. We buried poor old Luxmore and got back to civilization. Since then I've spent a good deal of time dodging the woman.”

He paused, then said quietly:

“That's my story, M. Poirot.”

Poirot said slowly:

“It was to that incident that Mr. Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at dinner that night?”

Despard nodded.

“He must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out of her. That sort of thing would have amused him.”

“It might have been a dangerous story—to you—in the hands of a man like Shaitana.”

Despard shrugged his shoulders.

“I wasn't afraid of Shaitana.”

Poirot didn't answer.

Despard said quietly:

“That again you have to take my word for. It's true enough, I suppose, that I had a kind of motive for Shaitana's death. Well, the truth's out now—take it or leave it.”

Poirot held out a hand.

“I will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South America happened exactly as you have described.”

Despard's face lit up.

“Thanks,” he said laconically.

And he clasped Poirot's hand warmly.

S
uperintendent Battle was in the police station of Combeacre.

Inspector Harper, rather red in the face, talked in a slow, pleasing Devonshire voice.

“That's how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The doctor was satisfied. Everyone was satisfied. Why not?”

“Just give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite clear.”

“Syrup of Figs—that's what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then there was this hat paint she'd been using—or rather the young lady, her companion, had been using for her. Brightening up a garden hat. There was a good deal left over, and the bottle broke, and Mrs. Benson herself said, ‘Put it in that old bottle—the Syrup of Figs bottle.' That's all right. The servants heard her. The young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlourmaid—they all agree on that. The paint was put into the old Syrup of Figs bottle and it was put up on the top shelf in the bathroom with other odds and ends.”

“Not relabelled?”

“No. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that.”

“Go on.”

“On this particular night the deceased went into the bathroom, took down a Syrup of Figs bottle, poured herself out a good dose and drank it. Realized what she'd done and they sent off at once for the doctor. He was out on a case, and it was some time before they could get at him. They did all they could, but she died.”

“She herself believed it to be an accident?”

“Oh, yes—everyone thought so. It seems clear the bottles must have got mixed-up somehow. It was suggested the housemaid did it when she dusted, but she swears she didn't.”

Superintendent Battle was silent—thinking. Such an easy business. A bottle taken down from an upper shelf, put in place of the other. So difficult to trace a mistake like that to its source. Handled with gloves, possibly, and anyway, the last prints would be those of Mrs. Benson herself. Yes, so easy—so simple. But, all the same, murder! The perfect crime.

But why? That still puzzled him—why?

“This young lady-companion, this Miss Meredith, she didn't come into money at Mrs. Benson's death?” he asked.

Inspector Harper shook his head.

“No. She'd only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine. Young ladies didn't stay long as a rule.”

Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didn't stay long. A difficult woman, evidently. But if Anne Meredith had been unhappy, she could have left as her predecessors had done. No need to kill—unless it were sheer unreasoning vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true.

“Who did get Mrs. Benson's money?”

“I couldn't say, sir, nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldn't be very much—not when it was divided up, and I heard as how most of her income was one of these annuities.”

Nothing there then. But Mrs. Benson had died. And Anne Meredith had not told him that she had been at Combeacre.

It was all profoundly unsatisfactory.

He made diligent and painstaking inquiries. The doctor was quite clear and emphatic. No reason to believe it was anything but an accident. Miss—couldn't remember her name—nice girl but rather helpless—had been very upset and distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs. Benson's last companion—a nice modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson had been—not difficult—but a trifle severe towards young people. She was the rigid type of Christian.

Battle tried one or two other people but learned nothing of value. Anne Meredith was hardly remembered. She had lived among them a few months—that was all—and her personality was not sufficiently vivid to make a lasting impression. A nice little thing seemed to be the accepted description.

Mrs. Benson loomed out a little more clearly. A self-righteous grenadier of a woman, working her companions hard and changing her servants often. A disagreeable woman—but that was all.

Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression that, for some reason unknown, Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered her employer.

A
s Superintendent Battle's train rushed eastwards through England, Anne Meredith and Rhoda Dawes were in Hercule Poirot's sitting room.

Anne had been unwilling to accept the invitation that had reached her by the morning's post, but Rhoda's counsel had prevailed.

“Anne—you're a coward—yes, a coward. It's no good going on being an ostrich, burying your head in the sand. There's been a murder and you're one of the suspects—the least likely one perhaps—”

“That would be the worst,” said Anne with a touch of humour. “It's always the least likely person who did it.”

“But you are one,” continued Rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. “And it's no use putting your nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and nothing to do with you.”

“It
is
nothing to do with me,” Anne persisted. “I mean, I'm
quite willing to answer any questions the police want to ask me, but this man, this Hercule Poirot, he's an outsider.”

“And what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? He'll think you're bursting with guilt.”

“I'm certainly not bursting with guilt,” said Anne coldly.

“Darling, I know that. You couldn't murder anybody if you tried. But horrible suspicious foreigners don't know that. I think we ought to go nicely to his house. Otherwise he'll come down here and try to worm things out of the servants.”

“We haven't got any servants.”

“We've got Mother Astwell. She can wag a tongue with anybody! Come on, Anne, let's go. It will be rather fun really.”

“I don't see why he wants to see me.” Anne was obstinate.

“To put one over on the official police, of course,” said Rhoda impatiently. “They always do—the amateurs, I mean. They make out that Scotland Yard are all boots and brainlessness.”

“Do you think this man Poirot is clever?”

“He doesn't look a Sherlock,” said Rhoda. “I expect he has been quite good in his day. He's gaga now, of course. He must be at least sixty. Oh, come on, Anne, let's go and see the old boy. He may tell us dreadful things about the others.”

“All right,” said Anne, and added, “You do
enjoy
all this so, Rhoda.”

“I suppose because it isn't my funeral,” said Rhoda. “You were a noddle, Anne, not just to have looked up at the right minute. If only you had, you could live like a duchess for the rest of your life on blackmail.”

So it came about that at three o'clock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes and Anne Meredith sat primly on their chairs in
Poirot's neat room and sipped blackberry
sirop
(which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse) from old-fashioned glasses.

“It was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle,” Poirot was saying.

“I'm sure I shall be glad to help in any way I can,” murmured Anne vaguely.

“It is a little matter of memory.”

“Memory?”

“Yes, I have already put these questions to Mrs. Lorrimer, to Dr. Roberts and to Major Despard. None of them, alas, have given me the response that I hoped for.”

Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

“I want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the drawing room of Mr. Shaitana.”

A weary shadow passed over Anne's face. Was she never to be free of that nightmare?”

Poirot noticed the expression.

“
C'est pénible, n'est ce pas?
That is very natural. You, so young as you are, to be brought in contact with horror for the first time. Probably you have never known or seen a violent death.”

Rhoda's feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor.

“Well?” said Anne.

“Cast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that room?”

Anne stared at him suspiciously.

“I don't understand?”

“But yes. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments, the wallpaper, the curtains, the fire irons. You saw them all. Can you not then describe them?”

“Oh, I see.” Anne hesitated, frowning. “It's difficult. I don't really think I remember. I couldn't say what the wallpaper was like. I think the walls were painted—some inconspicuous colour. There were rugs on the floor. There was a piano.” She shook her head. “I really couldn't tell you any more.”

“But you are not trying, mademoiselle. You must remember some object, some ornament, some piece of bric-à-brac?”

“There was a case of Egyptian jewellery, I remember,” said Anne slowly. “Over by the window.”

“Oh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay the little dagger.”

Anne looked at him.

“I never heard which table that was on.”

“
Pas si bête,
” commented Poirot to himself. “But then, no more is Hercule Poirot! If she knew me better she would realize I would never lay a
piège
as gross as that!”

Aloud he said:

“A case of Egyptian jewellery, you say?”

Anne answered with some enthusiasm.

“Yes—some of it was lovely. Blues and red. Enamel. One or two lovely rings. And scarabs—but I don't like them so much.”

“He was a great collector, Mr. Shaitana,” murmured Poirot.

“Yes, he must have been,” Anne agreed. “The room was full of stuff. One couldn't begin to look at it all.”

“So that you cannot mention anything else that particularly struck your notice?”

Anne smiled a little as she said:

“Only a vase of chrysanthemums that badly wanted their water changed.”

“Ah, yes, servants are not always too particular about that.”

Poirot was silent for a moment or two.

Anne asked timidly:

“I'm afraid I didn't notice—whatever it is you wanted me to notice.”

Poirot smiled kindly.

“It does not matter,
mon enfant
. It was, indeed, an outside chance. Tell me, have you seen the good Major Despard lately?”

He saw the delicate pink colour come up in the girl's face. She replied:

“He said he would come and see us again quite soon.”

Rhoda said impetuously:

“
He
didn't do it, anyway! Anne and I are quite sure of that.”

Poirot twinkled at them.

“How fortunate—to have convinced two such charming young ladies of one's innocence.”

“Oh, dear,” thought Rhoda. “He's going to be French, and it does embarrass me so.”

She got up and began examining some etchings on the wall.

“These are awfully good,” she said.

“They are not bad,” said Poirot.

He hesitated, looking at Anne.

“Mademoiselle,” he said at last. “I wonder if I might ask you to do me a great favour—oh, nothing to do with the murder. This is an entirely private and personal matter.”

Anne looked a little surprised. Poirot went on speaking in a slightly embarrassed manner.

“It is, you understand, that Christmas is coming on. I have to buy presents for many nieces and grandnieces. And it is a little
difficult to choose what young ladies like in this present time. My tastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned.”

“Yes?” said Anne kindly.

“Silk stockings, now—are silk stockings a welcome present to receive?”

“Yes, indeed. It's always nice to be given stockings.”

“You relieve my mind. I will ask my favour. I have obtained some different colours. There are, I think, about fifteen or sixteen pairs. Would you be so amiable as to look through them and set aside half a dozen pairs that seem to you the most desirable?”

“Certainly I will,” said Anne, rising, with a laugh.

Poirot directed her towards a table in an alcove—a table whose contents were strangely at variance, had she but known it, with the well-known order and neatness of Hercule Poirot. There were stockings piled up in untidy heaps—some fur-lined gloves—calendars and boxes of bonbons.

“I send off my parcels very much
à l'avance,
” Poirot explained. “See, mademoiselle, here are the stockings. Select me, I pray of you, six pairs.”

He turned, intercepting Rhoda, who was following him.

“As for mademoiselle here, I have a little treat for her—a treat that would be no treat to you, I fancy, Mademoiselle Meredith.”

“What is it?” cried Rhoda.

He lowered his voice.

“A knife, mademoiselle, with which twelve people once stabbed a man. It was given to me as a souvenir by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits.”

“Horrible,” cried Anne.

“Ooh! Let me see,” said Rhoda.

Poirot led her through into the other room, talking as he went.

“It was given me by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits because—”

They passed out of the room.

They returned three minutes later. Anne came towards them.

“I think these six are the nicest, M. Poirot. Both these are very good evening shades, and this lighter colour would be nice when summer comes and it's daylight in the evening.”

“Mille remercîments, mademoiselle.”

He offered them more
sirop,
which they refused, and finally accompanied them to the door, still talking genially.

When they had finally departed he returned to the room and went straight to the littered table. The pile of stockings still lay in a confused heap. Poirot counted the six selected pairs and then went on to count the others.

He had bought nineteen pairs. There were now only seventeen.

He nodded his head slowly.