Cards on the Table hp-15

by Agatha Christie

  "According to Mr. Shaitana, that is impossible," remarked Poirot.

  "It is in Roberts's 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, Monsieur 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 Doctor Roberts, with Mrs. Lorrimer, with Major Despard, I have still to talk to Miss Meredith and what have I learned? This. That Doctor 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. Despard 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, Monsieur Poirot, the two of trumps is a low card, but it can take anyone 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."

  "And 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."

  "My methods being less straightforward?"

  "You can put it that way if you like," said Battle, grinning. "I've heard Inspector Japp say that you've got a tortuous mind."

  "Like the late Mr. Shaitana?"

  "You think he would have been able to get things out of her?"

  Poirot said slowly, "I rather think he did get things out of her!"

  "What makes you think so?" asked Battle sharply.

  "A chance remark of Major Despard's."

  "Gave himself away, did he? That sounds unlike him."

  "Oh, my dear friend, it is impossible not to give oneself away – unless one never opens one's mouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers."

  "Even if people tell lies?" asked Mrs. Oliver.

  "Yes, madame, because it can be seen at once that you tell a certain kind of lie."

  "You make me feel quite uncomfortable," said Mrs. Oliver, getting up.

  Superintendent Battle accompanied her to the door and shook her warmly by the hand.

  "You've been the goods, Mrs. Oliver," he said. "You're a much better detective than that long lanky Laplander of yours."

  "Finn," corrected Mrs. Oliver. "Of course he's idiotic. But people like him. Good-by."

  "I, too, must depart," said Poirot.

  Battle scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it into Poirot's hand.

  "There you are. Go and tackle her."

  Poirot smiled.

  "And what do you want me to find out?"

  "The truth about Professor Luxmore's death."

  "Mon cher Battle! Does anybody know the truth about anything?"

  "I'm going to about this business in Devonshire," said the superintendent with decision.

  Poirot murmured, "I wonder."

  Chapter 20

  THE EVIDENCE OF MRS. LUXMORE

  The maid who opened the door at Mrs. Luxmore's South Kensington addressed looked at Hercule Poirot with deep disapproval. She showed no disposition to admit him into the house. Unperturbed Poirot gave her a card.

  "Give that to your mistress. I think she will see me."

  It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words Private Detective were printed in one corner. He had had them especially engraved for the purpose of obtaining interviews with the so-called fair sex. Nearly every woman, whether conscious of innocence or not, was anxious to have a look at a private detective and find out what he wanted.

  Left ignominiously on the mat, Poirot studied the door knocker with intense disgust at its unpolished condition.

  "Ah! for some brasso and a rag," he murmured to himself. Breathing excitedly, the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.

  He was shown into a room on the first floor – a rather dark room smelling of stale flowers and unemptied ash trays. There were large quantities of silk cushions of exotic colors, all in need of cleaning. The walls were emerald green and the ceiling was of pseudo copper.

  A tall, rather handsome woman was standing by the mantelpiece. She came forward and spoke in a deep husky voice. "Monsieur Hercule Poirot?"

  Poirot bowed. His manner was not quite his own. He was not only foreign but ornately foreign. His gestures were positively baroque. Faintly, very faintly, it was the manner of the late Mr. Shaitana.

  "What did you want to see me about?"

  Again Poirot bowed.

  "If I might be seated? It will take a little time -"

  She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a sofa.

  "Yes? Well?"

  "It is, madame, that I make the inquiries – the private inquiries, you understand?"

  The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness. "Yes – yes?"

  "I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore."

  She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.

  "But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?"

  Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.

  "There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent husband. The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact. As to your husband's death, for instance -"

  She broke in at once.

  "My husband died of fever – on the Amazon -"


  Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to and fro – a maddening, monotonous motion.

  "Madame, madame -" he protested.

  "But I know! I was there at the time."

  "Ah, yes, certainly. You were there. Yes, my information says so."

  She cried out, "What information?"

  Eyeing her closely, Poirot said, "Information supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana."

  She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.

  "Shaitana?" she muttered.

  "A man," said Poirot, "possessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable man. That man knew many secrets."

  "I suppose he did," she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.

  Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee. "He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever."

  She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate. He leaned back and watched the effect of his words. She pulled herself together with an effort.

  "I don't – I don't know what you mean."

  It was very unconvincingly said.

  "Madame," said Poirot, "I will come out into the open. I will," he smiled, "place my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of a fever. He died of a bullet!"

  "Oh!" she cried.

  She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in terrible distress. But somewhere, in some remote fiber of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions. Poirot was quite sure of that.

  "And therefore," said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, "you might just as well tell me the whole story."

  She uncovered her face and said, "It wasn't in the least the way you think."

  Again Poirot leaned forward; again he tapped her knee.

  "You misunderstand me; you misunderstand me utterly," he said. "I know very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were the cause."

  "I don't know. I don't know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a sort of fatality that pursues me."

  "Ah, how true that is," cried Poirot. "How often have I not seen it? There are some women like that. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not their fault. These things happen in spite of themselves."

  Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath. "You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally."

  "You traveled together into the interior, did you not?"

  "Yes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard was introduced to us as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition. My husband liked him very much. We started."

  There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and then murmured as though to himself, "Yes, one can picture it. The winding river – the tropical night – the hum or the insects – the strong soldierly man – the beautiful woman -"

  Mrs. Luxmore sighed. "My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child before I knew what I was doing."

  Poirot shook his head sadly.

  "I know. I know. How often does that not occur?"

  "Neither of us would admit what was happening," went on Mrs. Luxmore. "John Despard never said anything. He was the soul of honor."

  "But a woman always knows," prompted Poirot.

  "How right you are. Yes, a woman knows. But I never showed him that I knew. We were Major Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end. We were both determined to play the game." She was silent, lost in admiration of that noble attitude.

  "True," murmured Poirot. "One must play the cricket. As one of your poets so finely says, 'I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not cricket more.'"

  "Honor," corrected Mrs. Luxmore with a slight frown.

  "Of course – of course – honor. 'Loved I not honor more.'"

  "Those words might have been written for us," murmured Mrs. Luxmore. "No matter what it cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And then -"

  "And then -" prompted Poirot.

  "That ghastly night." Mrs. Luxmore shuddered.

  "Yes?"

  "I suppose they must have quarreled – John and Timothy, I mean. I came out of my tent – I came out of my tent -"

  "Yes – yes?"

  Mrs. Luxmore's eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though it were being repeated in front of her.

  "I came out of my tent," she repeated. "John and Timothy were – Oh!" she shuddered. "I can't remember it all clearly. I came between them. I said, 'No – no, it isn't true!' Timothy wouldn't listen. He was threatening John. John had to fire – in self-defense. Ah!" She gave a cry and covered her face with her hands. "He was dead – stone dead – shot through the heart."

  "A terrible moment for you, madame."

  "I shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused to hear of it. We argued all night. 'For my sake,' I kept saying. He saw that in the end. Naturally he couldn't let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Passions.

  "I put it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy had been having a bout of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him there beside the Amazon."

  A deep tortured sigh shook her form.

  "And then – back to civilization – and to part forever."

  "Was it necessary, madame?"

  "Yes, yes. Timothy dead stood between us just as Timothy alive had done – more so. We said good-by to each other – forever. I meet John Despard sometimes, out in the world. We smile, we speak politely; no one would ever guess that there was anything between us. But I see in his eyes – and he in mine – that we will never forget."

  There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.

  Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her nose. The spell was broken.

  "What a tragedy," said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.

  "You can see, Monsieur Poirot," said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, "that the truth must never be told."

  "It would be painful -"

  "It would be impossible. This friend, this writer – surely he would not wish to blight the life of a perfectly innocent woman?"

  "Or even to hang a perfectly innocent man?" murmured Poirot.

  "You see it like that? I am so glad. He was innocent. A crime passionnel is not really a crime. And in any case it was in self-defense. He had to shoot. So you do understand Monsieur Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?"

  Poirot murmured, "Writers are sometimes curiously callous."

  "Your friend is a woman hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that. I shall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say I shot Timothy."

  She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.

  Poirot also rose. "Madame," he said as he took her hand "such splendid self-sacrifice, is unnecessary. I will do my best so that the true facts shall never be known."

  A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore's face. She raised her hand slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it. "An unhappy woman thanks you, Monsieur Poirot," she said.

  It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favored courtier – clearly an exit line. Poirot duly made his exit. Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.

  Chapter 21

  MAJOR DESPARD

  "Quelle femme!" murmured Hercule Poirot. "Ce pauvre Despard! Ce qu'il a du 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 hosiery counter. Selecting a sympathetic-looking and not too haughty damsel he made known his requirements.

  "Silk hose? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure silk."

  Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent once more.

  "French silk hose? 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 still in mind."

  "Of course, we have some extra fine, but they're very, very expensive. 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.

  "Beautiful, aren't they?" She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelope – the finest, gauziest wisps of hose.

  "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 colors, please."

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

  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. Hose at such a price, indeed!"

  Unaware of the low estimate formed by the young ladies upon his character, Poirot was trotting homeward.

  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.