Agatha Christie - Cards on the Table

"How many were there?"

"Two or three – I'm not quite sure, sir. Three, I think."

"You – or cook – whoever posted them – did not happen to notice to whom they were addressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost importance."

"I went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top one; it was to Fortnum and Mason's. I couldn't say as to the others."

The woman's tone was earnest and sincere.

"Are you sure there were not more than three letters?"

"Yes, sir, I'm quite certain of that."

Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then he said, "You knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?"

"Oh, yes, sir, it was the doctor's orders. Doctor Lang."

"Where was the sleeping medicine kept?"

"In the little cupboard in the mistress's room."

Poirot did not ask any further questions. He went upstairs. His face was very grave.

On the upper landing Battle greeted him. The superintendent looked worried and harassed.

"I'm glad you've come, Monsieur Poirot. Let me introduce you to Doctor Davidson."

The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall melancholy man.

"The luck was against us," he said. "An hour or two earlier and we might have saved her."

"H'm," said Battle. "I mustn't say so officially, but I'm not sorry. She was a – well, she was a lady. I don't know what her reasons were for killing Shaitana, but she may just conceivably have been justified."

"In any case," said Poirot, "it is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her trial. She was a very ill woman."

The surgeon nodded in agreement.

"I should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best."

He started down the stairs. Battle moved after him.

"One minute, Doctor."

Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, "I may enter – yes?"

Battle nodded over his shoulder. "Quite all right. We're through." Poirot passed into the room, closing the door behind him.

He went over to the bed and stood looking down at the quiet dead face. He was very disturbed. Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a young girl from death and disgrace – or was there a different, a more sinister explanation?

There were certain facts.

Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark discolored bruise on the dead woman's arm. He straightened himself up again. There was a strange catlike gleam in his eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognized. He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said, "He hasn't come back, sir."

Battle said, "Despard. I've been trying to get him. There's a letter for him with the Chelsea postmark all right."

Poirot asked an irrelevant question. "Had Doctor Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?"

Battle stared. "No," he said, "I remember he mentioned that he'd come out without it."

"Then he will be at his house now. We can get him."

"But why?"

But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke.

"Doctor Roberts? It is Doctor Roberts speaking? Mais oui, it is Poirot here. Just one question. Are you well acquainted with the handwriting of Mrs. Lorrimer?"

"Mrs. Lorrimer's handwriting? I – no, I don't know that I'd ever seen it before."

"Je vous remercie."

Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.

Battle was staring at him.

"What's the big idea, Monsieur Poirot?" he asked quietly.

Poirot took him by the arm.

"Listen, my friend. A few minutes after I left this house yesterday, Anne Meredith arrived. I actually saw her going up the steps, though I was not quite sure of her identity at the time. Immediately after Anne Meredith left Mrs. Lorrimer went to bed. As far as the maid knows, she did not write any letters then, and, for reasons which you will understand when I recount to you our interview, I do not believe that she wrote those three letters before my visit. When did she write them, then?"

"After the servants had gone to bed?" suggested Battle.

"That is possible, yes, but there is another possibility – that she did not write them at all."

Battle whistled. "My God, you mean -"

The telephone trilled. The sergeant picked up the receiver. He listened a minute, then turned to Battle.

"Sergeant O'Connor speaking from Despard's flat, sir. There's reason to believe that Despard's down at Wallingford-on-Thames."

Poirot caught Battle by the arm. "Quickly, my friend. We, too, must go to Wallingford. I tell you I am not easy in my mind. This may not be the end. I tell you again, my friend, this young lady, she is dangerous."

"Anne," said Rhoda.

"Mmm?"

"No, really, Anne, don't answer with half your mind on a crossword puzzle. I want you to attend to me."

"I am attending."

Anne sat bolt upright and put down the paper.

"That's better. Look here, Anne." Rhoda hesitated. "About this man coming."

"Superintendent Battle?"

"Yes. Anne, I wish you'd tell him – about being at the Bensons'."

Anne's voice grew rather cold.

"Nonsense, why should I?"

"Because – well, it might look as though you'd been keeping something back. I'm sure it would be better to mention it."

"I can't very well now," said Anne coldly.

"I wish you had in the first place."

"Well, it's too late to bother about that now."

"Yes." Rhoda did not sound convinced.

Anne said rather irritably, "In any case I can't see why. It's got nothing to do with all this."

"No, of course not."

"I was only there about two months. He only wants these things as – well – references. Two months doesn't count."

"No, I know. I expect I'm being foolish, but it does worry me rather. I feel you ought to mention it. You see, if it came out some other way, it might look rather bad – your keeping dark about it, I mean."

"I don't see how it can come out. Nobody knows but you."

"N-No?"

Anne pounced on the slight hesitation in Rhoda's voice.

"Why, who does know?"

"Well, everyone at Combeacre," said Rhoda after a moment's pause.

"Oh, that!" Anne dismissed it with a shrug. "The superintendent isn't likely to come up against anyone from there. It would be an extraordinary coincidence if he did."

"Coincidences happen."

"Rhoda, you're being extraordinary about this. Fuss, fuss, fuss."

"I'm terribly sorry, darling. Only you know what the police might be like if they thought you were – well – hiding things."

"They won't know. Who's to tell them? Nobody knows but you."

It was the second time she had said those words. At this second repetition her voice changed a little – something queer and speculative came into it.

"Oh, dear, I wish you would," sighed Rhoda unhappily. She looked guiltily at Anne but Anne was not looking at her. She was sitting with a frown on her face, as though working out some calculation.

"Rather fun Major Despard turning up," said Rhoda.

"What? Oh, yes."

"Anne, he is attractive. If you don't want him, do, do, do hand him over to me!"

"Don't be absurd, Rhoda. He doesn't care tuppence for me."

"Then why does he keep on turning up? Of course, he's keen on you. You're just the sort of distressed damsel that he'd enjoy rescuing. You look so beautifully helpless, Anne."

"He's equally pleasant to both of us."

"That's only his niceness. But if you don't want him, I could do the sympathetic friend act – console his broken heart, and in the end I might get him, who knows?" Rhoda concluded inelegantly.

"I'm sure you're quite welcome to him, my dear," said Anne, laughing.

"He's got such a lovely back to his neck," sighed Rhoda. "Very brick red and muscular."