Cards on the Table

by Agatha Christie

  “I don’t think women would take a mountebank like that seriously.”

  “What’s your theory of who killed him, Major Despard?”

  “Well, I know I didn’t. Little Miss Meredith didn’t. I can’t imagine Mrs. Lorrimer doing so—she reminds me of one of my more God-fearing aunts. That leaves the medical gentleman.”

  “Can you describe your own and other people’s movements this evening?”

  “I got up twice—once for an ashtray, and I also poked the fire—and once for a drink—”

  “At what times?”

  “I couldn’t say. First time might have been about half past ten, the second time eleven, but that’s pure guesswork. Mrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once and said something to Shaitana. I didn’t actually hear him answer, but, then, I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t swear he didn’t. Miss Meredith wandered about the room a bit, but I don’t think she went over near the fireplace. Roberts was always jumping up and down—three or four times at least.”

  “I’ll ask you M. Poirot’s question,” said Battle with a smile. “What did you think of them as bridge players?”

  “Miss Meredith’s quite a good player. Roberts overcalls his hand disgracefully. He deserves to go down more than he does. Mrs. Lorrimer’s damned good.”

  Battle turned to Poirot.

  “Anything else, M. Poirot?”

  Poirot shook his head.

  Despard gave his address as the Albany, wished them goodnight and left the room.

  As he closed the door behind him, Poirot made a slight movement.

  “What is it?” demanded Battle.

  “Nothing,” said Poirot. “It just occurred to me that he walked like a tiger—yes, just so—lithe, easy, does the tiger move along.”

  “H’m!” said Battle. “Now, then”—his eyes glanced round at his three companions—“which of ’em did it?”

  Eight

  WHICH OF THEM?

  Battle looked from one face to another. Only one person answered his question. Mrs. Oliver, never averse to giving her views, rushed into speech.

  “The girl or the doctor,” she said.

  Battle looked questioningly at the other two. But both the men were unwilling to make a pronouncement. Race shook his head. Poirot carefully smoothed his crumpled bridge scores.

  “One of ’em did it,” said Battle musingly. “One of ’em’s lying like hell. But which? It’s not easy—no, it’s not easy.”

  He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

  “If we’re to go by what they say, the medico thinks Despard did it, Despard thinks the medico did it, the girl thinks Mrs. Lorrimer did it—and Mrs. Lorrimer won’t say! Nothing very illuminating there.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Poirot.

  Battle shot him a quick glance.

  “You think there is?”

  Poirot waved an airy hand.

  “A nuance—nothing more! Nothing to go upon.”

  Battle continued:

  “You two gentlemen won’t say what you think—”

  “No evidence,” said Race curtly.

  “Oh, you men!” sighed Mrs. Oliver, despising such reticence.

  “Let’s look at the rough possibilities,” said Battle. He considered a minute. “I put the doctor first, I think. Specious sort of customer. Would know the right spot to shove the dagger in. But there’s not much more than that to it. Then take Despard. There’s a man with any amount of nerve. A man accustomed to quick decisions and a man who’s quite at home doing dangerous things. Mrs. Lorrmier? She’s got any amount of nerve, too, and she’s the sort of woman who might have a secret in her life. She looks as though she’s known trouble. On the other hand, I’d say she’s what I call a high-principled woman—sort of woman who might be headmistress of a girls’ school. It isn’t easy to think of her sticking a knife into anyone. In fact, I don’t think she did. And lastly, there’s little Miss Meredith. We don’t know anything about her. She seems an ordinary good-looking, rather shy girl. But one doesn’t know, as I say, anything about her.”

  “We know that Shaitana believed she had committed murder,” said Poirot.

  “The angelic face masking the demon,” mused Mrs. Oliver.

  “This getting us anywhere, Battle?” asked Colonel Race.

  “Unprofitable speculation, you think, sir? Well, there’s bound to be speculation in a case like this.”

  “Isn’t it better to find out something about these people?”

  Battle smiled.

  “Oh, we shall be hard at work on that. I think you could help us there.”

  “Certainly. How?”

  “As regards Major Despard. He’s been abroad a lot—in South America, in East Africa, in South Africa—you’ve means of knowing those parts. You could get information about him.”

  Race nodded.

  “It shall be done. I’ll get all available data.”

  “Oh,” cried Mrs. Oliver. “I’ve got a plan. There are four of us—four sleuths, as you might say—and four of them! How would it be if we each took one. Backed our fancy! Colonel Race takes Major Despard, Superintendent Battle takes Dr. Roberts, I’ll take Anne Meredith, and M. Poirot takes Mrs. Lorrimer. Each of us to follow our own line!”

  Superintendent Battle shook his head decisively.

  “Couldn’t quite do that, Mrs. Oliver. That is official, you see. I’m in charge. I’ve got to investigate all lines. Besides, it’s all very well to say back your fancy. Two of us might want to back the same horse! Colonel Race hasn’t said he suspects Major Despard. And M. Poirot mayn’t be putting his money on Mrs. Lorrimer.”

  Mrs. Oliver sighed.

  “It was such a good plan,” she sighed regretfully. “So neat.” Then she cheered up a little. “But you don’t mind me doing a little investigating on my own, do you?”

  “No,” said Superintendent Battle slowly. “I can’t say I object to that. In fact, it’s out of my power to object. Having been at this party tonight, you’re naturally free to do anything your own curiosity or interest suggests. But I’d like to point out to you, Mrs. Oliver, that you’d better be a little careful.”

  “Discretion itself,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I shan’t breathe a word of—of anything—” she ended a little lamely.

  “I do not think that was quite Superintendent Battle’s meaning,” said Hercule Poirot. “He meant that you will be dealing with a person who has already, to the best of our belief, killed twice. A person, therefore, who will not hesitate to kill a third time—if he considers it necessary.”

  Mrs. Oliver looked at him thoughtfully. Then she smiled—an agreeable engaging smile, rather like that of an impudent small child.

  “YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED,” she quoted. “Thank you, M. Poirot. I’ll watch my step. But I’m not going to be out of this.”

  Poirot bowed gracefully.

  “Permit me to say—you are the sport, madame.”

  “I presume,” said Mrs. Oliver, sitting up very straight and speaking in a businesslike committee-meeting manner, “that all information we receive will be pooled—that is that we will not keep any knowledge to ourselves. Our own deductions and impressions, of course, we are entitled to keep up our sleeves.”

  Superintendent Battle sighed.

  “This isn’t a detective story, Mrs. Oliver,” he said.

  Race said:

  “Naturally, all information must be handed over to the police.”

  Having said this in his most “Orderly Room” voice, he added with a slight twinkle in his eye: “I’m sure you’ll play fair, Mrs. Oliver—the stained glove, the fingerprint on the tooth glass, the fragment of burnt paper—you’ll turn them over to Battle here.”

  “You may laugh,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But a woman’s intuition—”

  She nodded her head with decision.

  Race rose to his feet.

  “I’ll have Despard looked up for you. It may take a little time. Anything else I can do?”

  “I don’t
think so, thank you, sir. You’ve no hints? I’d value anything of that kind.”

  “H’m. Well—I’d keep a special lookout for shooting or poison or accidents, but I expect you’re onto that already.”

  “I’d made a note of that—yes, sir.”

  “Good man, Battle. You don’t need me to teach you your job. Goodnight, Mrs. Oliver. Goodnight, M. Poirot.”

  And with a final nod to Battle, Colonel Race left the room.

  “Who is he?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

  “Very fine Army record,” said Battle. “Travelled a lot, too. Not many parts of the world he doesn’t know about.”

  “Secret Service, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You can’t tell me so—I know; but he wouldn’t have been asked otherwise this evening. The four murderers and the four sleuths—Scotland Yard. Secret Service. Private. Fiction. A clever idea.”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “You are in error, madame. It was a very stupid idea. The tiger was alarmed—and the tiger sprang.”

  “The tiger? Why the tiger?”

  “By the tiger I mean the murderer,” said Poirot.

  Battle said bluntly:

  “What’s your idea of the right line to take, M. Poirot? That’s one question. And I’d also like to know what you think of the psychology of these four people. You’re rather hot on that.”

  Still smoothing his bridge scores, Poirot said:

  “You are right—psychology is very important. We know the kind of murder that has been committed, the way it was committed. If we have a person who from the psychological point of view could not have committed that particular type of murder, then we can dismiss that person from our calculations. We know something about these people. We have our own impression of them, we know the line that each has elected to take, and we know something about their minds and their characters from what we have learned about them as card players and from the study of their handwriting and of these scores. But alas! it is not too easy to give a definite pronouncement. This murder required audacity and nerve—a person who was willing to take a risk. Well, we have Dr. Roberts—a bluffer—an overcaller of his hand—a man with complete confidence in his own powers to pull off a risky thing. His psychology fits very well with the crime. One might say, then, that that automatically wipes out Miss Meredith. She is timid, frightened of overcalling her hand, careful, economical, prudent and lacking in self-confidence. The last type of person to carry out a bold and risky coup. But a timid person will murder out of fear. A frightened nervous person can be made desperate, can turn like a rat at bay if driven into a corner. If Miss Meredith had committed a crime in the past, and if she believed that Mr. Shaitana knew the circumstances of that crime and was about to deliver her up to justice she would be wild with terror—she would stick at nothing to save herself. It would be the same result, though brought about through a different reaction—not cool nerve and daring, but desperate panic. Then take Major Despard—a cool, resourceful man willing to try a long shot if he believed it absolutely necessary. He would weigh the pros and cons and might decide that there was a sporting chance in his favour—and he is the type of man to prefer action to inaction, and a man who would never shrink from taking the dangerous way if he believed there was a reasonable chance of success. Finally, there is Mrs. Lorrimer, an elderly woman, but a woman in full possession of her wits and faculties. A cool woman. A woman with a mathematical brain. She has probably the best brain of the four. I confess that if Mrs. Lorrimer committed a crime, I should expect it to be a premeditated crime. I can see her planning a crime slowly and carefully, making sure that there were no flaws in her scheme. For that reason she seems to me slightly more unlikely than the other three. She is, however, the most dominating personality, and whatever she undertook she would probably carry through without a flaw. She is a thoroughly efficient woman.”

  He paused:

  “So you see, that does not help us much. No—there is only one way in this crime. We must go back into the past.”

  Battle sighed.

  “You’ve said it,” he murmured.

  “In the opinion of Mr. Shaitana, each of those four people had committed murder. Had he evidence? Or was it a guess? We cannot tell. It is unlikely, I think, that he could have had actual evidence in all four cases—”

  “I agree with you there,” said Battle, nodding his head. “That would be a bit too much of a coincidence.”

  “I suggest that it might come about this way—murder or a certain form of murder is mentioned, and Mr. Shaitana surprised a look on someone’s face. He was very quick—very sensitive to expression. It amuses him to experiment—to probe gently in the course of apparently aimless conversation—he is alert to notice a wince, a reservation, a desire to turn the conversation. Oh, it is easily done. If you suspect a certain secret, nothing is easier than to confirm your suspicion. Every time a word goes home you notice it—if you are watching for such a thing.”

  “It’s the sort of game that would have amused our late friend,” said Battle, nodding.

  “We may assume, then, that such was the procedure in one or more cases. He may have come across a piece of actual evidence in another case and followed it up. I doubt whether, in any of the cases, he had sufficient actual knowledge with which, for instance, to have gone to the police.”

  “Or it mayn’t have been the kind of case,” said Battle. “Often enough there’s a fishy business—we suspect foul play, but we can’t ever prove it. Anyway, the course is clear. We’ve got to go through the records of all these people—and note any deaths that may be significant. I expect you noticed, just as the Colonel did, what Shaitana said at dinner.”

  “The black angel,” murmured Mrs. Oliver.

  “A neat little reference to poison, to accident, to a doctor’s opportunities, to shooting accidents. I shouldn’t be surprised if he signed his death warrant when he said those words.”

  “It was a nasty sort of pause,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  “Yes,” said Poirot. “Those words went home to one person at least—that person probably thought that Shaitana knew far more than he really did. That listener thought that they were the prelude to the end—that the party was a dramatic entertainment arranged by Shaitana leading up to arrest for murder as its climax! Yes, as you say, he signed his death warrant when he baited his guests with those words.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “This will be a long business,” said Battle with a sigh. “We can’t find out all we want in a moment—and we’ve got to be careful. We don’t want any of the four to suspect what we’re doing. All our questioning and so on must seem to have to do with this murder. There mustn’t be a suspicion that we’ve got any idea of the motive for the crime. And the devil of it is we’ve got to check up on four possible murders in the past, not one.”

  Poirot demurred.

  “Our friend Mr. Shaitana was not infallible,” he said. “He may—it is just possible—have made a mistake.”

  “About all four?”

  “No—he was more intelligent than that.”

  “Call it fifty-fifty?”

  “Not even that. For me, I say one in four.”

  “One innocent and three guilty? That’s bad enough. And the devil of it is, even if we get at the truth it mayn’t help us. Even if somebody did push their great-aunts down the stairs in 1912, it won’t be much use to us in 1937.”

  “Yes, yes, it will be of use to us.” Poirot encouraged him. “You know that. You know it as well as I do.”

  Battle nodded slowly.

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “Same hallmark.”

  “Do you mean,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that the former victim will have been stabbed with a dagger too?”

  “Not quite as crude as that, Mrs. Oliver,” said Battle turning to her. “But I don’t doubt it will be essentially the same type of crime. The details may be different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. It’s odd, but a criminal gives h
imself away every time by that.”

  “Man is an unoriginal animal,” said Hercule Poirot.

  “Women,” said Mrs. Oliver, “are capable of infinite variation. I should never commit the same type of murder twice running.”

  “Don’t you ever write the same plot twice running?” asked Battle.

  “The Lotus Murder,” murmured Poirot. “The Clue of the Candle Wax.”

  Mrs. Oliver turned on him, her eyes beaming appreciation.

  “That’s clever of you—that’s really very clever of you. Because, of course, those two are exactly the same plot—but nobody else has seen it. One is stolen papers at an informal weekend party of the Cabinet, and the other’s a murder in Borneo in a rubber planter’s bungalow.”

  “But the essential point on which the story turns is the same,” said Poirot. “One of your neatest tricks. The rubber planter arranges his own murder—the Cabinet Minister arranges the robbery of his own papers. At the last minute the third person steps in and turns deception into reality.”

  “I enjoyed your last, Mrs. Oliver,” said Superintendent Battle kindly. “The one where all the Chief Constables were shot simultaneously. You just slipped up once or twice on official details. I know you’re keen on accuracy, so I wondered if—”

  Mrs. Oliver interrupted him.

  “As a matter of fact I don’t care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nobody nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful girl of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favourite labrador, Bob, good-bye, does anybody make a fuss because the girl was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyham terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing, I don’t see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic, and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more. What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thing’s getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell something—and then they’re killed first. That always goes down well. It comes in all my books—camouflaged different ways, of course. And people like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and girls tied up in cellars with sewer gas or water pouring in (such a troublesome way of killing anyone really) and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villains single-handed. I’ve written thirty-two books by now—and of course they’re all exactly the same really, as M. Poirot seems to have noticed—but nobody else has—and I only regret one thing—making my detective a Finn. I don’t really know anything about Finns and I’m always getting letters from Finland pointing out something impossible that he’s said or done. They seem to read detective stories a good deal in Finland. I suppose it’s the long winters with no daylight. In Bulgaria and Romania they don’t seem to read at all. I’d have done better to have made him a Bulgar.”