Cards on the Table (16 page)

T
here was a pause—a very long pause.

The room was growing dark. The firelight leaped and flickered.

Mrs. Lorrimer and Hercule Poirot looked not at each other, but at the fire. It was as though time was momentarily in abeyance.

Then Hercule Poirot sighed and stirred.

“So it was that—all the time …
Why
did you kill him, madame?”

“I think you know why, M. Poirot.”

“Because he knew something about you—something that had happened long ago?”

“Yes.”

“And that something was—another death, madame?”

She bowed her head.

Poirot said gently:

“Why did you tell me? What made you send for me today?”

“You told me once that I should do so someday.”

“Yes—that is, I hoped … I knew, madame, that there was only one way of learning the truth as far as you were concerned—and that was by your own free will. If you did not choose to speak, you would not do so, and you would never give yourself away. But there was a chance—that you yourself might
wish
to speak.”

Mrs. Lorrimer nodded.

“It was clever of you to foresee that—the weariness—the loneliness—”

Her voice died away.

Poirot looked at her curiously.

“So it has been like that? Yes, I can understand it might be….”

“Alone—quite alone,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “No one knows what that means unless they have lived, as I have lived, with the knowledge of what one has done.”

Poirot said gently:

“Is it an impertinence, madame, or may I be permitted to offer my sympathy?”

She bent her head a little.

“Thank you, M. Poirot.”

There was another pause, then Poirot said, speaking in a slightly brisker tone:

“Am I to understand, madame, that you took the words Mr. Shaitana spoke at dinner as a direct menace aimed at you?”

She nodded.

“I realized at once that he was speaking so that one person should understand him. That person was myself. The reference to a woman's weapon being poison was meant for me. He
knew
. I had suspected it once before. He had brought the conversation round to
a certain famous trial, and I saw his eyes watching me. There was a kind of uncanny knowledge in them. But, of course, that night I was quite sure.”

“And you were sure, too, of his future intentions?”

Mrs. Lorrimer said drily:

“It was hardly likely that the presence of Superintendent Battle and yourself was an accident. I took it that Shaitana was going to advertise his own cleverness by pointing out to you both that he had discovered something that no one else had suspected.”

“How soon did you make up your mind to act, madame?”

Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a little.

“It is difficult to remember exactly when the idea came into my mind,” she said. “I had noticed the dagger before going into dinner. When we returned to the drawing room I picked it up and slipped it into my sleeve. No one saw me do it. I made sure of that.”

“It would be dexterously done, I have no doubt, madame.”

“I made up my mind then exactly what I was going to do. I had only to carry it out. It was risky, perhaps, but I considered that it was worth trying.”

“That is your coolness, your successful weighing of chances, coming into play. Yes, I see that.”

“We started to play bridge,” continued Mrs. Lorrimer. Her voice cool and unemotional. “At last an opportunity arose. I was dummy. I strolled across the room to the fireplace. Shaitana had dozed off to sleep. I looked over at the others. They were all intent on the game. I leant over and—and did it—”

Her voice shook just a little, but instantly it regained its cool aloofness.

“I spoke to him. It came into my head that that would make a kind of alibi for me. I made some remark about the fire, and then pretended he had answered me and went on again, saying something like: ‘I agree with you. I do not like radiators, either.'”

“He did not cry out at all?”

“No. I think he made a little grunt—that was all. It might have been taken for words from a distance.”

“And then?”

“And then I went back to the bridge table. The last trick was just being played.”

“And you sat down and resumed play?”

“Yes.”

“With sufficient interest in the game to be able to tell me nearly all the calling and the hands two days later?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lorrimer simply.

“
Epatant!
” said Hercule Poirot.

He leaned back in his chair. He nodded his head several times. Then, by way of a change, he shook it.

“But there is still something, madame, that I do not understand.”

“Yes?”

“It seems to me that there is some factor that I have missed. You are a woman who considers and weighs everything carefully. You decide that, for a certain reason, you will run an enormous risk. You do run it—successfully. And then, not two weeks later, you change your mind. Frankly, madame, that does not seem to me to ring true.”

A queer little smile twisted her lips.

“You are quite right, M. Poirot, there is one factor that you
do not know. Did Miss Meredith tell you where she met me the other day?”

“It was, I think she said, near Mrs. Oliver's flat.”

“I believe that is so. But I meant the actual name of the street. Anne Meredith met me in Harley Street.”

“Ah!” He looked at her attentively. “I begin to see.”

“Yes, I thought you would. I had been to see a specialist there. He told me what I already half suspected.”

Her smile widened. It was no longer twisted and bitter. It was suddenly sweet.

“I shall not play very much more bridge, M. Poirot. Oh, he didn't say so in so many words. He wrapped up the truth a little. With great care, etc., etc., I might live several years. But I shall not take any great care. I am not that kind of a woman.”

“Yes, yes, I begin to understand,” said Poirot.

“It made a difference, you see. A month—two months, perhaps—not more. And then, just as I left the specialist, I met Miss Meredith. I asked her to have tea with me.”

She paused, then went on:

“I am not, after all, a wholly wicked woman. All the time we were having tea I was thinking. By my action the other evening I had not only deprived the man Shaitana of life (that was done, and could not be undone), I had also, to a varying degree, affected unfavourably the lives of three other people. Because of what I had done, Dr. Roberts, Major Despard and Anne Meredith, none of whom had injured me in any way, were passing through a very grave ordeal, and might even be in danger. That, at least, I could undo. I don't know that I felt particularly moved by the plight of either Dr. Roberts or Major Despard—although both of them had
presumably a much longer span of life in front of them than I had. They were men, and could, to a certain extent, look after themselves. But when I looked at Anne Meredith—”

She hesitated, then continued slowly:

“Anne Meredith was only a girl. She had the whole of her life in front of her. This miserable business might ruin that life….

“I didn't like the thought of that….

“And then, M. Poirot, with these ideas growing in my mind, I realized that what you had hinted had come true. I was not going to be able to keep silence. This afternoon I rang you up….”

Minutes passed.

Hercule Poirot leaned forward. He stared, deliberately stared through the gathering gloom, at Mrs. Lorrimer. She returned that intent gaze quietly and without any nervousness.

He said at last:

“Mrs. Lorrimer, are you sure—are you
positive
(you will tell me the truth, will you not?)—
that the murder of Mr. Shaitana was not premeditated?
Is it not a fact that you planned the crime
beforehand
—that you went to that dinner with the murder already mapped out in your mind?”

Mrs. Lorrimer stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head sharply.

“No,” she said.

“You did not plan the murder beforehand?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then—then … Oh, you are lying to me—you must be lying! … ”

Mrs. Lorrimer's voice cut into the air like ice.

“Really, M. Poirot, you forget yourself.”

The little man sprang to his feet. He paced up and down the room, muttering to himself, uttering ejaculations.

Suddenly he said:

“Permit me.”

And, going to the switch, he turned on the electric lights.

He came back, sat down in his chair, placed both hands on his knees and stared straight at his hostess.

“The question is,” he said, “can Hercule Poirot possibly be wrong?”

“No one can always be right,” said Mrs. Lorrimer coldly.

“I am,” said Poirot. “Always I am right. It is so invariable that it startles me. But now it looks, it very much looks, as though I am wrong. And that upsets me. Presumably, you know what you are saying. It is your murder! Fantastic, then, that Hercule Poirot should know better than you do how you committed it.”

“Fantastic and very absurd,” said Mrs. Lorrimer still more coldly.

“I am, then, mad. Decidedly I am mad: No—
sacré nom d'un petit bonhomme
—I am
not
mad! I am right. I
must
be right. I am willing to believe that you killed Mr. Shaitana—
but you cannot have killed him in the way you say you did
. No one can do a thing that is not
dans son charactère!
”

He paused. Mrs. Lorrimer drew in an angry breath and bit her lips. She was about to speak, but Poirot forestalled her.

“Either the killing of Shaitana was planned beforehand—
or you did not kill him at all!
”

Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:

“I really believe you
are
mad, M. Poirot. If I am willing to admit I committed the crime, I should not be likely to lie about the way I did it. What would be the point of such a thing?”

Poirot got up again and took one turn round the room. When he came back to his seat his manner had changed. He was gentle and kindly.

“You did not kill Shaitana,” he said softly. “I see that now. I see everything. Harley Street. And little Anne Meredith standing forlorn on the pavement. I see, too, another girl—a very long time ago, a girl who has gone through life always alone—terribly alone. Yes, I see all that. But one thing I do not see—why are you so certain that Anne Meredith did it?”

“Really, M. Poirot—”

“Absolutely useless to protest—to lie further to me, madame.
I tell you, I know the truth
. I know the very emotions that swept over you that day in Harley Street. You would not have done it for Dr. Roberts—oh, no! You would not have done it for Major Despard,
non plus
. But Anne Meredith is different. You have compassion for her,
because she has done what you once did
. You do not know even—or so I imagine—what
reason
she had for the crime. But you are quite sure she did it. You were sure that first evening—the evening it happened—when Superintendent Battle invited you to give your views on the case. Yes, I know it all, you see. It is quite useless to lie further to me. You see that, do you not?”

He paused for an answer, but none came. He nodded his head in satisfaction.

“Yes, you are sensible. That is good. It is a very noble action that you perform there, madame, to take the blame on yourself and to let this child escape.”

“You forget,” said Mrs. Lorrimer in a dry voice, “I am not an innocent woman. Years ago, M. Poirot, I killed my husband….”

There was a moment's silence.

“I see,” said Poirot. “It is justice. After all, only justice. You have the logical mind. You are willing to suffer for the act you committed. Murder is murder—it does not matter who the victim is. Madame, you have courage, and you have clearsightedness. But I ask of you once more:
How can you be so sure?
How do you
know
that it was Anne Meredith who killed Mr. Shaitana?”

A deep sigh broke from Mrs. Lorrimer. Her last resistance had gone down before Poirot's insistence. She answered his question quite simply like a child.

“Because,” she said, “I saw her.”

S
uddenly Poirot laughed. He could not help it. His head went back, and his high Gallic laugh filled the room.

“
Pardon, madame,
” he said, wiping his eyes. “I could not help it. Here we argue and we reason! We ask questions! We invoke the psychology—and all the time
there was an eyewitness of the crime
. Tell me, I pray of you.”

“It was fairly late in the evening. Anne Meredith was dummy. She got up and looked over her partner's hand, and then she moved about the room. The hand wasn't very interesting—the conclusion was inevitable. I didn't need to concentrate on the cards. Just as we got to the last three tricks I looked over towards the fireplace. Anne Meredith was bent over Mr. Shaitana. As I watched, she straightened herself—her hand had been actually on his breast—a gesture which awakened my surprise. She straightened herself, and I saw her face and her quick look over towards us. Guilt and fear—that is what I saw on her face. Of course, I didn't know what had hap
pened then. I only wondered what on earth the girl could have been doing. Later—I knew.”

Poirot nodded.

“But
she
did not know that you knew.
She
did not know that you had seen her?”

“Poor child,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “Young, frightened—her way to make in the world. Do you wonder that I—well, held my tongue?”

“No, no, I do not wonder.”

“Especially knowing that I—that I myself—” She finished the sentence with a shrug. “It was certainly not my place to stand accuser. It was up to the police.”

“Quite so—but today you have gone further than that.”

Mrs. Lorrimer said grimly:

“I've never been a very softhearted or compassionate woman, but I suppose these qualities grow upon one in one's old age. I assure you, I'm not often actuated by pity.”

“It is not always a very safe guide, madame. Mademoiselle Anne is young, she is fragile, she looks timid and frightened—oh, yes, she seems a very worthy subject for compassion. But I,
I do not agree
. Shall I tell you, madame, why Miss Anne Meredith killed Mr. Shaitana. It was because he knew that she had previously killed an elderly lady to whom she was companion—because that lady had found her out in a petty theft.”

Mrs. Lorrimer looked a little startled.

“Is that true, M. Poirot?”

“I have no doubt of it, whatsoever. She is so soft—so gentle—one would say. Pah! She is dangerous, madame, that little Mademoiselle Anne! Where her own safety, her own comfort, is concerned,
she will strike wildly—treacherously. With Mademoiselle Anne
those two crimes will not be the end
. She will gain confidence from them….”

Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:

“What you say is horrible, M. Poirot. Horrible!”

Poirot rose.

“Madame, I will now take my leave. Reflect on what I have said.”

Mrs. Lorrimer was looking a little uncertain of herself. She said with an attempt at her old manner:

“If it suits me, M. Poirot, I shall deny this whole conversation. You have no witnesses, remember. What I have just told you that I saw on that fatal evening is—well, private between ourselves.”

Poirot said gravely:

“Nothing shall be done without your consent, madame. And be at peace; I have my own methods. Now that I know what I am driving at—”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

“Permit me to tell you, madame, that you are a most remarkable woman. All my homage and respect. Yes, indeed, a woman in a thousand. Why, you have not even done what nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand could not have resisted doing.”

“What is that?”

“Told me just why you killed your husband—and how entirely justified such a proceeding really was.”

Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up.

“Really, M. Poirot,” she said stiffly. “My reasons were entirely my own business.”

“
Magnifique!
” said Poirot, and, once more raising her hand to his lips, he left the room.

It was cold outside the house, and he looked up and down for a taxi, but there was none in sight.

He began to walk in the direction of King's Road.

As he walked he was thinking hard. Occasionally he nodded his head; once he shook it.

He looked back over his shoulder. Someone was going up the steps of Mrs. Lorrimer's house. In figure it looked very like Anne Meredith. He hesitated for a minute, wondering whether to turn back or not, but in the end he went on.

On arrival at home, he found that Battle had gone without leaving any message.

He proceeded to ring the superintendent up.

“Hallo.” Battle's voice came through. “Got anything?”

“
Je crois bien. Mon ami,
we must get after the Meredith girl—and quickly.”

“I'm getting after her—but why quickly?”

“Because, my friend, she may be dangerous.”

Battle was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

“I know what you mean. But there's no one … Oh, well, we mustn't take chances. As a matter of fact, I've written her. Official note, saying I'm calling to see her tomorrow. I thought it might be a good thing to get her rattled.”

“It is a possibility, at least. I may accompany you?”

“Naturally. Honoured to have your company, M. Poirot.”

Poirot hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.

His mind was not quite at rest. He sat for a long time in front of his fire, frowning to himself. At last, putting his fears and doubts aside, he went to bed.

“We will see in the morning,” he murmured.

But of what the morning would bring he had no idea.