Cards on the Table (2 page)

T
he door of Mr. Shaitana's flat opened noiselessly. A grey-haired butler drew it back to let Poirot enter. He closed it equally noiselessly and deftly relieved the guest of his overcoat and hat.

He murmured in a low expressionless voice:

“What name shall I say?”

“M. Hercule Poirot.”

There was a little hum of talk that eddied out into the hall as the butler opened a door and announced:

“M. Hercule Poirot.”

Sherry glass in hand, Shaitana came forward to meet him. He was, as usual, immaculately dressed. The Mephistophelian suggestion was heightened tonight, the eyebrows seemed accentuated in their mocking twist.

“Let me introduce you—do you know Mrs. Oliver?”

The showman in him enjoyed the little start of surprise that Poirot gave.

Mrs. Ariadne Oliver was extremely well-known as one of
the foremost writers of detective and other sensational stories. She wrote chatty (if not particularly grammatical) articles on
The Tendency of the Criminal; Famous Crimes Passionnels; Murder for Love v. Murder for Gain
. She was also a hotheaded feminist, and when any murder of importance was occupying space in the Press there was sure to be an interview with Mrs. Oliver, and it was mentioned that Mrs. Oliver had said, “Now if a
woman
were the head of Scotland Yard!” She was an earnest believer in woman's intuition.

For the rest she was an agreeable woman of middle age, handsome in a rather untidy fashion with fine eyes, substantial shoulders and a large quantity of rebellious grey hair with which she was continually experimenting. One day her appearance would be highly intellectual—a brow with the hair scraped back from it and coiled in a large bun in the neck—on another Mrs. Oliver would suddenly appear with Madonna loops, or large masses of slightly untidy curls. On this particular evening Mrs. Oliver was trying out a fringe.

She greeted Poirot, whom she had met before at a literary dinner, in an agreeable bass voice.

“And Superintendent Battle you doubtless know,” said Mr. Shaitana.

A big, square, wooden-faced man moved forward. Not only did an onlooker feel that Superintendent Battle was carved out of wood—he also managed to convey the impression that the wood in question was the timber out of a battleship.

Superintendent Battle was supposed to be Scotland Yard's best representative. He always looked stolid and rather stupid.

“I know M. Poirot,” said Superintendent Battle.

And his wooden face creased into a smile and then returned to its former unexpressiveness.

“Colonel Race,” went on Mr. Shaitana.

Poirot had not previously met Colonel Race, but he knew something about him. A dark, handsome, deeply bronzed man of fifty, he was usually to be found in some outpost of empire—especially if there were trouble brewing. Secret Service is a melodramatic term, but it described pretty accurately to the lay mind the nature and scope of Colonel Race's activities.

Poirot had by now taken in and appreciated the particular essence of his host's humorous intentions.

“Our other guests are late,” said Mr. Shaitana. “My fault, perhaps. I believe I told them 8:15.”

But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced:

“Dr. Roberts.”

The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes, a touch of baldness, a tendency to
embonpoint
and a general air of well-scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. You felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practical—“a little champagne in convalescence perhaps.” A man of the world!

“Not late, I hope?” said Dr. Roberts genially.

He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Battle.

“Why, you're one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren't you? This
is
interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, perhaps. Mustn't say so to my nervous patients—ha ha!”

Again the door opened.

“Mrs. Lorrimer.”

Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had finely cut features, beautifully arranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive voice.

“I hope I'm not late,” she said, advancing to her host.

She turned from him to greet Dr. Roberts, with whom she was acquainted.

The butler announced:

“Major Despard.”

Major Despard was a tall, lean, handsome man, his face slightly marred by a scar on the temple. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Race—and the two men were soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on
safari
.

For the last time the door opened and the butler announced:

“Miss Meredith.”

A girl in the early twenties entered. She was of medium height and pretty. Brown curls clustered in her neck, her grey eyes were large and wide apart. Her face was powdered but not made-up. Her voice was slow and rather shy.

She said:

“Oh dear, am I the last?”

Mr. Shaitana descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious.

Miss Meredith was left sipping her sherry by Poirot's side.

“Our friend is very punctilious,” said Poirot with a smile.

The girl agreed.

“I know. People rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say ‘I expect you know everybody' and leave it at that.”

“Whether you do or you don't?”

“Whether you do or don't. Sometimes it makes it awkward—but I think this is more awe-inspiring.”

She hesitated and then said:

“Is that Mrs. Oliver, the novelist?”

Mrs. Oliver's bass voice rose powerfully at that minute, speaking to Dr. Roberts.

“You can't get away from a woman's instinct, doctor. Women know these things.”

Forgetting that she no longer had a brow she endeavoured to sweep her hair back from it but was foiled by the fringe.

“That is Mrs. Oliver,” said Poirot.

“The one who wrote
The Body in the Library?
”

“That identical one.”

Miss Meredith frowned a little.

“And that wooden-looking man—a
superintendent
did Mr. Shaitana say?”

“From Scotland Yard.”

“And you?”

“And me?”

“I know all about you, M. Poirot. It was you who really solved the A.B.C. crimes.”

“Madamoiselle, you cover me with confusion.”

Miss Meredith drew her brows together.

“Mr. Shaitana,” she began and then stopped. “Mr. Shaitana—”

Poirot said quietly:

“One might say he was ‘crime-minded.' It seems so. Doubt
less he wishes to hear us dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Oliver and Dr. Roberts. They are now discussing untraceable poisons.”

Miss Meredith gave a little gasp as she said:

“What a queer man he is!”

“Dr. Roberts?”

“No, Mr. Shaitana.”

She shivered a little and said:

“There's always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never know what would strike him as amusing. It might—it might be something
cruel
.”

“Such as foxhunting, eh?”

Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.

“I meant—oh! something
Oriental!
”

“He has perhaps the tortuous mind,” admitted Poirot.

“Torturer's?”

“No, no tortuous, I said.”

“I don't think I like him frightfully,” confided Miss Meredith, her voice dropping.

“You will like his dinner, though,” Poirot assured her. “He has a marvellous cook.”

She looked at him doubtfully and then laughed.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “I believe you are quite human.”

“But certainly I am human!”

“You see,” said Miss Meredith, “all these celebrities are rather intimidating.”

“Mademoiselle, you should not be intimidated—you should be thrilled! You should have all ready your autograph book and your fountain pen.”

“Well, you see, I'm not really terribly interested in crime. I don't think women are: it's always men who read detective stories.”

Hercule Poirot sighed affectedly.

“Alas!” he murmured. “What would I not give at this minute to be even the most minor of film stars!”

The butler threw the door open.

“Dinner is served,” he murmured.

Poirot's prognostication was amply justified. The dinner was delicious and its serving perfection. Subdued light, polished wood, the blue gleam of Irish glass. In the dimness, at the head of the table, Mr. Shaitana looked more than ever diabolical.

He apologized gracefully for the uneven number of the sexes.

Mrs. Lorrimer was on his right hand, Mrs. Oliver on his left. Miss Meredith was between Superintendent Battle and Major Despard. Poirot was between Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts.

The latter murmured facetiously to him.

“You're not going to be allowed to monopolize the only pretty girl all the evening. You French fellows, you don't waste your time, do you?”

“I happen to be Belgian,” murmured Poirot.

“Same thing where the ladies are concerned, I expect, my boy,” said the doctor cheerfully.

Then, dropping the facetiousness, and adopting a professional tone, he began to talk to Colonel Race on his other side about the latest developments in the treatment of sleeping sickness.

Mrs. Lorrimer turned to Poirot and began to talk of the latest plays. Her judgements were sound and her criticisms apt. They
drifted on to books and then to world politics. He found her a well-informed and thoroughly intelligent woman.

On the opposite side of the table Mrs. Oliver was asking Major Despard if he knew of any unheard-of-out-of-the-way poisons.

“Well, there's
curare
.”

“My
dear
man,
vieux jeu!
That's been done hundreds of times. I mean something
new!
”

Major Despard said drily:

“Primitive tribes are rather old-fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them.”

“Very tiresome of them,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I should have thought they were always experimenting with pounding up herbs and things. Such a chance for explorers, I always think. They could come home and kill off all their rich old uncles with some new drug that no one's ever heard of.”

“You should go to civilization, not to the wilds for that,” said Despard. “In the modern laboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent-looking germs that will produce bona fide diseases.”

“That wouldn't do for
my
public,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Besides one is so apt to get the names wrong—staphylococcus and streptococcus and all those things—so difficult for my secretary and anyway rather dull, don't you think so? What do
you
think, Superintendent Battle?”

“In real life people don't bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Oliver,” said the superintendent. “They usually stick to arsenic because it's nice and handy to get hold of.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That's simply because there are
lots of crimes you people at Scotland Yard never find out. Now if you had a woman there—”

“As a matter of fact we have—”

“Yes, those dreadful policewomen in funny hats who bother people in parks! I mean a woman at the head of things. Women
know
about crime.”

“They're usually very successful criminals,” said Superintendent Battle. “Keep their heads well. It's amazing how they'll brazen things out.”

Mr. Shaitana laughed gently.

“Poison is a woman's weapon,” he said. “There must be many secret women poisoners—never found out.”

“Of course there are,” said Mrs. Oliver happily, helping herself lavishly to a
mousse
of
foie gras
.

“A doctor, too, has opportunities,” went on Mr. Shaitana thoughtfully.

“I protest,” cried Dr. Roberts. “When we poison our patients it's entirely by accident.” He laughed heartily.

“But if I were to commit a crime,” went on Mr. Shaitana.

He stopped, and something in that pause compelled attention.

All faces were turned to him.

“I should make it very simple, I think. There's always an accident—a shooting accident, for instance—or the domestic kind of accident.”

Then he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his wineglass.

“But who am I to pronounce—with so many experts present….”

He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine
onto his face with its waxed moustache, its little imperial, its fantastic eyebrows….

There was a momentary silence.

Mrs. Oliver said:

“Is it twenty-to or twenty past? An angel passing … My feet aren't crossed—it must be a black angel!”

W
hen the company returned to the drawing room a bridge table had been set out. Coffee was handed round.

“Who plays bridge?” asked Mr. Shaitana. “Mrs. Lorrimer, I know. And Dr. Roberts. Do you play, Miss Meredith?”

“Yes. I'm not frightfully good, though.”

“Excellent. And Major Despard? Good. Supposing you four play here.”

“Thank goodness there's to be bridge,” said Mrs. Lorrimer in an aside to Poirot. “I'm one of the worst bridge fiends that ever lived. It's growing on me. I simply will
not
go out to dinner now if there's no bridge afterwards! I just fall asleep. I'm ashamed of myself, but there it is.”

They cut for partners. Mrs. Lorrimer was partnered with Anne Meredith against Major Despard and Dr. Roberts.

“Women against men,” said Mrs. Lorrimer as she took her seat
and began shuffling the cards in an expert manner. “The blue cards, don't you think, partner? I'm a forcing two.”

“Mind you win,” said Mrs. Oliver, her feminist feelings rising. “Show the men they can't have it all their own way.”

“They haven't got a hope, the poor dears,” said Dr. Roberts cheerfully as he started shuffling the other pack. “Your deal, I think, Mrs. Lorrimer.”

Major Despard sat down rather slowly. He was looking at Anne Meredith as though he had just made the discovery that she was remarkably pretty.

“Cut, please,” said Mrs. Lorrimer impatiently. And with a start of apology he cut the pack she was presenting to him.

Mrs. Lorrimer began to deal with a practised hand.

“There is another bridge table in the other room,” said Mr. Shaitana.

He crossed to a second door and the other four followed him into a small comfortably furnished smoking room where a second bridge table was set ready.

“We must cut out,” said Colonel Race.

Mr. Shaitana shook his head.

“I do not play,” he said. “Bridge is not one of the games that amuse me.”

The others protested that they would much rather not play, but he overruled them firmly and in the end they sat down. Poirot and Mrs. Oliver against Battle and Race.

Mr. Shaitana watched them for a little while, smiled in a Mephistophelian manner as he observed on what hand Mrs. Oliver declared Two No Trumps, and then went noiselessly through into the other room.

There they were well down to it, their faces serious, the bids coming quickly. “One heart.” “Pass.” “Three clubs.” “Three spades.” “Four diamonds.” “Double.” “Four hearts.”

Mr. Shaitana stood watching a moment, smiling to himself.

Then he crossed the room and sat down in a big chair by the fireplace. A tray of drinks had been brought in and placed on an adjacent table. The firelight gleamed on the crystal stoppers.

Always an artist in lighting, Mr. Shaitana had simulated the appearance of a merely firelit room. A small shaded lamp at his elbow gave him light to read by if he so desired. Discreet floodlighting gave the room a subdued look. A slightly stronger light shone over the bridge table, from whence the monotonous ejaculations continued.

“One no trump”—clear and decisive—Mrs. Lorrimer.

“Three hearts”—an aggressive note in the voice—Dr. Roberts.

“No bid”—a quiet voice—Anne Meredith's.

A slight pause always before Despard's voice came. Not so much a slow thinker as a man who liked to be sure before he spoke.

“Four hearts.”

“Double.”

His face lit up by the flickering firelight, Mr. Shaitana smiled.

He smiled and he went on smiling. His eyelids flickered a little….

His party was amusing him.

II

“Five diamonds. Game and rubber,” said Colonel Race.

“Good for you, partner,” he said to Poirot. “I didn't think you'd do it. Lucky they didn't lead a spade.”

“Wouldn't have made much difference, I expect,” said Superintendent Battle, a man of gentle magnanimity.

He had called spades. His partner, Mrs. Oliver, had had a spade, but “something had told her” to lead a club—with disastrous results.

Colonel Race looked at his watch.

“Ten past twelve. Time for another?”

“You'll excuse me,” said Superintendent Battle. “But I'm by way of being an ‘early-to-bed' man.”

“I, too,” said Hercule Poirot.

“We'd better add up,” said Race.

The result of the evening's five rubbers was an overwhelming victory for the male sex. Mrs. Oliver had lost three pounds and seven shillings to the other three. The biggest winner was Colonel Race.

Mrs. Oliver, though a bad bridge player, was a sporting loser. She paid up cheerfully.

“Everything went wrong for me tonight,” she said. “It is like that sometimes. I held the most beautiful cards yesterday. A hundred and fifty honours three times running.”

She rose and gathered up her embroidered evening bag, just refraining in time from stroking her hair off her brow.

“I suppose our host is next door,” she said.

She went through the communicating door, the others behind her.

Mr. Shaitana was in his chair by the fire. The bridge players were absorbed in their game.

“Double five clubs,” Mrs. Lorrimer was saying in her cool, incisive voice.

“Five No Trumps.”

“Double five No Trumps.”

Mrs. Oliver came up to the bridge table. This was likely to be an exciting hand.

Superintendent Battle came with her.

Colonel Race went towards Mr. Shaitana, Poirot behind him.

“Got to be going, Shaitana,” said Race.

Mr. Shaitana did not answer. His head had fallen forward, and he seemed to be asleep. Race gave a momentary whimsical glance at Poirot and went a little nearer. Suddenly he uttered a muffled exclamation, bent forward. Poirot was beside him in a minute, he, too, looking where Colonel Race was pointing—something that might have been a particularly ornate shirt stud—but was not….

Poirot bent, raised one of Mr. Shaitana's hands, then let it fall. He met Race's inquiring glance and nodded. The latter raised his voice.

“Superintendent Battle, just a minute.”

The superintendent came over to them. Mrs. Oliver continued to watch the play of Five No Trumps doubled.

Superintendent Battle, despite his appearance of stolidity, was a very quick man. His eyebrows went up and he said in a low voice as he joined them:

“Something wrong?”

With a nod Colonel Race indicated the silent figure in the chair.

As Battle bent over it, Poirot looked thoughtfully at what he could see of Mr. Shaitana's face. Rather a silly face it looked now, the mouth drooping open—the devilish expression lacking….

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

Superintendent Battle straightened himself. He had examined,
without touching, the thing which looked like an extra stud in Mr. Shaitana's shirt—and it was not an extra stud. He had raised the limp hand and let it fall.

Now he stood up, unemotional, capable, soldierly—prepared to take charge efficiently of the situation.

“Just a minute, please,” he said.

And the raised voice was his official voice, so different that all the heads at the bridge table turned to him, and Anne Meredith's hand remained poised over an ace of spades in dummy.

“I'm sorry to tell you all,” he said, “that our host, Mr. Shaitana, is dead.”

Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts rose to their feet. Despard stared and frowned. Anne Meredith gave a little gasp.

“Are you sure, man?”

Dr. Roberts, his professional instincts aroused, came briskly across the floor with a bounding medical “in-at-the-death” step.

Without seeming to, the bulk of Superintendent Battle impeded his progress.

“Just a minute, Dr. Roberts. Can you tell me first who's been in and out of this room this evening?”

Roberts stared at him.

“In and out? I don't understand you. Nobody has.”

The superintendent transferred his gaze.

“Is that right, Mrs. Lorrimer?”

“Quite right.”

“Not the butler nor any of the servants?”

“No. The butler brought in that tray as we sat down to bridge. He has not been in since.”

Superintendent Battle looked at Despard.

Despard nodded in agreement.

Anne said rather breathlessly, “Yes—yes, that's right.”

“What's all this, man,” said Roberts impatiently. “Just let me examine him; maybe just a fainting fit.”

“It isn't a fainting fit, and I'm sorry—
but nobody's going to touch him until the divisional surgeon comes. Mr. Shaitana's been murdered, ladies and gentlemen
.”

“Murdered?” A horrified incredulous sigh from Anne.

A stare—a very blank stare—from Despard.

A sharp incisive “Murdered?” from Mrs. Lorrimer.

A “Good God!” from Dr. Roberts.

Superintendent Battle nodded his head slowly. He looked rather like a Chinese porcelain mandarin. His expression was quite blank.

“Stabbed,” he said. “That's the way of it. Stabbed.”

Then he shot out a question:

“Any of you leave the bridge table during the evening?”

He saw four expressions break up—waver. He saw fear—comprehension—indignation—dismay—horror; but he saw nothing definitely helpful.

“Well?”

There was a pause, and then Major Despard said quietly (he had risen now and was standing like a soldier on parade, his narrow, intelligent face turned to Battle):

“I think every one of us, at one time or another, moved from the bridge table—either to get drinks or to put wood on the fire. I did both. When I went to the fire Shaitana was asleep in the chair.”

“Asleep?”

“I thought so—yes.”

“He may have been,” said Battle. “Or he may have been dead
then. We'll go into that presently. I'll ask you now to go into the room next door.” He turned to the quiet figure at his elbow: “Colonel Race, perhaps you'll go with them?”

Race gave a quick nod of comprehension.

“Right, Superintendent.”

The four bridge players went slowly through the doorway.

Mrs. Oliver sat down in a chair at the far end of the room and began to sob quietly.

Battle took up the telephone receiver and spoke. Then he said:

“The local police will be round immediately. Orders from headquarters are that I'm to take on the case. Divisional surgeon will be here almost at once. How long should you say he'd been dead, M. Poirot? I'd say well over an hour myself.”

“I agree. Alas, that one cannot be more exact—that one cannot say, ‘This man has been dead one hour, twenty-five minutes and forty seconds.'”

Battle nodded absently.

“He was sitting right in front of the fire. That makes a slight difference. Over an hour—not more than two and a half: that's what our doctor will say, I'll be bound. And nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Amazing! What a desperate chance to take. He might have cried out.”

“But he did not. The murderer's luck held. As you say,
mon ami,
it was a very desperate business.”

“Any idea, M. Poirot, as to motive? Anything of that kind?”

Poirot said slowly:

“Yes, I have something to say on that score. Tell me, M. Shaitana—he did not give you any hint of what kind of a party you were coming to tonight?”

Superintendent Battle looked at him curiously.

“No, M. Poirot. He didn't say anything at all. Why?”

A bell whirred in the distance and a knocker was plied.

“That's our people,” said Superintendent Battle. “I'll go and let 'em in. We'll have your story presently. Must get on with the routine work.”

Poirot nodded.

Battle left the room.

Mrs. Oliver continued to sob.

Poirot went over to the bridge table. Without touching anything, he examined the scores. He shook his head once or twice.

“The stupid little man! Oh, the stupid little man,” murmured Hercule Poirot. “To dress up as the devil and try to frighten people.
Quel enfantillage!
”

The door opened. The divisional surgeon came in, bag in hand. He was followed by the divisional inspector, talking to Battle. A camera man came next. There was a constable in the hall.

The routine of the detection of crime had begun.