Cards on the Table. Агата Кристи
‘Every motive.’
‘Eh?’ The superintendent sounded startled.
‘For disliking him—not for killing him,’ said Despard. ‘I hadn’t the least wish to kill him, but I would thoroughly have enjoyed kicking him. A pity. It’s too late now.’
‘Why did you want to kick him, Major Despard?’
‘Because he was the sort of Dago who needed kicking badly. He used to make the toe of my boot fairly itch.’
‘Know anything about him—to his discredit, I mean?’
‘He was too well dressed—he wore his hair too long—and he smelt of scent.’
‘Yet you accepted his invitation to dinner,’ Battle pointed out.
‘If I were only to dine in houses where I thoroughly approved of my host I’m afraid I shouldn’t dine out very much, Superintendent Battle,’ said Despard drily.
‘You like society, but you don’t approve of it?’ suggested the other.
‘I like it for very short periods. To come back from the wilds to lighted rooms and women in lovely clothes, to dancing and good food and laughter—yes, I enjoy that—for a time. And then the insincerity of it all sickens me, and I want to be off again.’
‘It must be a dangerous sort of life that you lead, Major Despard, wandering about in these wild places.’
Despard shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly.
‘Mr Shaitana didn’t lead a dangerous life—but he is dead, and I am alive!’
‘He may have led a more dangerous life than you think,’ said Battle meaningly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The late Mr Shaitana was a bit of a Nosey Parker,’ said Battle.
The other leaned forward.
‘You mean that he meddled with other people’s lives—that he discovered—what?’
‘I really meant that perhaps he was the sort of man who meddled—er—well, with women.’
Major Despard leant back in his chair. He laughed, an amused but indifferent laugh.
‘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 ash-tray, 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?’
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 Lorrimer? 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?’