Nineteen

CONSULTATION¹

The telephone rang in Poirot’s room and a respectful voice spoke².

“Sergeant³ O’Connor. Superintendent⁴ Battle’s compliments and would it be convenient for Mr.

Hercule Poirot to come to Scotland Yard at 11:30?”

Poirot replied in the affirmative and Sergeant O’Connor rang off.

It was 11:30 to the minute when Poirot descended⁵ from his taxi at the door of New ScotlandYard—to be at once seized upon by Mrs. Oliver.

“M. Poirot. How splendid! Will you come to my rescue?”

“Enchanté, madame. What can I do?”

“Pay my taxi for me. I don’t know how it happened but I brought out the bag I keep my going-abroad money in and the man simply won’t take francs or liras or marks!”

Poirot gallantly⁶ produced some loose change, and he and Mrs. Oliver went inside the buildingtogether.

They were taken to Superintendent Battle’s own room. The superintendent was sitting behind atable and looking more wooden than ever. “Just like a little piece of modern sculpture,” whisperedMrs. Oliver to Poirot.

Battle rose and shook hands with them both and they sat down.

“I thought it was about time for a little meeting,” said Battle. “You’d like to hear how I’ve goton, and I’d like to hear how you’ve got on. We’re just waiting for Colonel Race and then—”

But at that moment the door opened and the colonel appeared.

“Sorry I’m late, Battle. How do you do, Mrs. Oliver. Hallo, M. Poirot. Very sorry if I’ve keptyou waiting. But I’m off tomorrow and had a lot of things to see to.”

“Where are you going to?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“A little shooting trip—Baluchistan way.”

Poirot said, smiling ironically:

“A little trouble, is there not, in that part of the world? You will have to be careful.”

“I mean to be,” said Race gravely—but his eyes twinkled.

“Got anything for us, sir?” asked Battle.

“I’ve got you your information re Despard. Here it is—”

He pushed over a sheaf of papers.

“There’s a mass of dates and places there. Most of it quite irrelevant⁸, I should imagine. Nothingagainst him. He’s a stout⁹ fellow. Record quite unblemished. Strict disciplinarian. Liked and trustedby the natives everywhere. One of their cumbrous names for him in Africa, where they go in forsuch things, is ‘The man who keeps his mouth shut and judges fairly.’ General opinion of thewhite races that Despard is a Pukka Sahib. Fine shot. Cool head. Generally long-sighted anddependable.”

Unmoved by this eulogy¹⁰, Battle asked:

“Any sudden deaths connected with him?”

“I laid special stress on that point. There’s one fine rescue to his credit. Pal¹¹ of his was beingmauled by a lion.”

Battle sighed.

“It’s not rescues I want.”

“You’re a persistent¹² fellow, Battle. There’s only one incident I’ve been able to rake up thatmight suit your book. Trip into the interior in South America. Despard accompanied ProfessorLuxmore, the celebrated¹³ botanist¹⁴, and his wife. The professor died of fever and was buriedsomewhere up the Amazon.”

“Fever—eh?”

“Fever. But I’ll play fair with you. One of the native bearers (who was sacked for stealing,incidentally) had a story that the professor didn’t die of fever, but was shot. The rumour¹⁵ was nevertaken seriously.”

“About time it was, perhaps.”

Race shook his head.

“I’ve given you the facts. You asked for them and you’re entitled to them, but I’d lay long oddsagainst its being Despard who did the dirty work the other evening. He’s a white man, Battle.”

“Incapable¹⁶ of murder, you mean?”

Colonel Race hesitated.

“Incapable of what I’d call murder—yes,” he said.

“But not incapable of killing¹⁷ a man for what would seem to him good and sufficient reasons, isthat it?”

“If so, they would be good and sufficient reasons!”

Battle shook his head.

“You can’t have human beings judging other human beings and taking the law into their ownhands.”

“It happens, Battle—it happens.”

“It shouldn’t happen—that’s my point. What do you say, M. Poirot?”

“I agree with you, Battle. I have always disapproved¹⁸ of murder.”

“What a delightfully¹⁹ droll²⁰ way of putting it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Rather as though it werefoxhunting or killing ospreys for hats. Don’t you think there are people who ought to bemurdered?”

“That, very possibly.”

“Well then!”

“You do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is the effect on thecharacter of the slayer²¹.”

“What about war?”

“In war you do not exercise the right of private judgement. That is what is so dangerous. Once aman is imbued²² with the idea that he knows who ought to be allowed to live and who ought not—then he is halfway²³ to becoming the most dangerous killer²⁴ there is—the arrogant²⁵ criminal who killsnot for profit—but for an idea. He has usurped²⁶ the functions of le bon Dieu.”

Colonel Race rose:

“I’m sorry I can’t stop with you. Too much to do. I’d like to see the end of this business.

Shouldn’t be surprised if there never was an end. Even if you find out who did it, it’s going to benext to impossible to prove. I’ve given you the facts you wanted, but in my opinion Despard’s notthe man. I don’t believe he’s ever committed murder. Shaitana may have heard some garbledrumour of Professor Luxmore’s death, but I don’t believe there’s more to it than that. Despard’s awhite man, and I don’t believe he’s ever been a murderer. That’s my opinion. And I knowsomething of men.”

“What’s Mrs. Luxmore like?” asked Battle.

“She lives in London, so you can see for yourself. You’ll find the address among those papers.

Somewhere in South Kensington. But I repeat, Despard isn’t the man.”

Colonel Race left the room, stepping with the springy noiseless tread of a hunter.

Battle nodded his head thoughtfully as the door closed behind him.

“He’s probably right,” he said. “He knows men, Colonel Race does. But all the same, one can’ttake anything for granted.”

He looked through the mass of documents Race had deposited on the table, occasionally makinga pencil note on the pad beside him.

“Well, Superintendent Battle,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Aren’t you going to tell us what you havebeen doing?”

He looked up and smiled, a slow smile that creased²⁷ his wooden face from side to side.

“This is all very irregular, Mrs. Oliver. I hope you realize that.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t suppose for a moment you’ll tell us anything you don’twant to.”

Battle shook his head.

“No,” he said decidedly. “Cards on the table. That’s the motto for this business. I mean to playfair.”

Mrs. Oliver hitched²⁸ her chair nearer.

“Tell us,” she begged.

Superintendent Battle said slowly:

“First of all, I’ll say this. As far as the actual murder of Mr. Shaitana goes, I’m not a penny thewiser. There’s no hint or clue of any kind to be found in his papers. As for the four others, I’vehad them shadowed, naturally, but without any tangible²⁹ result. No, as M. Poirot said, there’s onlyone hope—the past. Find out what crime exactly (if any, that is to say—after all, Shaitana mayhave been talking through his hat to make an impression on M. Poirot) these people havecommitted—and it may tell you who committed this crime.”

“Well, have you found out anything?”

“I’ve got a line on one of them.”

“Which?”

“Dr. Roberts.”

Mrs. Oliver looked at him with thrilled expectation. “As M. Poirot here knows, I tried out allkinds of theories. I established the fact pretty clearly that none of his immediate³⁰ family had metwith a sudden death. I’ve explored every alley³¹ as well as I could, and the whole thing boils downto one possibility—and rather an outside possibility at that. A few years ago Roberts must havebeen guilty of indiscretion, at least, with one of his lady patients. There may have been nothing init—probably wasn’t. But the woman was the hysterical³², emotional kind who likes to make a scene,and either the husband got wind of what was going on, or his wife ‘confessed.’ Anyway, the fatwas in the fire as far as the doctor was concerned. Enraged³³ husband threatening to report him tothe General Medical Council—which would probably have meant the ruin of his professionalcareer.”

“What happened?” demanded Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.

“Apparently Roberts managed to calm down the irate³⁴ gentleman temporarily—and he died ofanthrax almost immediately afterwards.”

“Anthrax? But that’s a cattle disease?”

The superintendent grinned.

“Quite right, Mrs. Oliver. It isn’t the untraceable arrow poison of the South American Indians!

You may remember that there was rather a scare about infected shaving brushes of cheap makeabout that time. Craddock’s shaving brush was proved to have been the cause of infection.”

“Did Dr. Roberts attend him?”

“Oh, no. Too canny³⁵ for that. Daresay Craddock wouldn’t have wanted him in any case. Theonly evidence I’ve got—and that’s precious little—is that among the doctor’s patients there was acase of anthrax at the time.”

“You mean the doctor infected the shaving brush?”

“That’s the big idea. And mind you, it’s only an idea. Nothing whatever to go on. Pureconjecture. But it could be.”

“He didn’t marry Mrs. Craddock afterwards?”

“Oh, dear me, no, I imagine the affection was always on the lady’s side. She tended to cut uprough, I hear, but suddenly went off to Egypt quite happily for the winter. She died there. A caseof some obscure blood poisoning. It’s got a long name, but I don’t expect it would convey much toyou. Most uncommon³⁶ in this country, fairly common among the natives in Egypt.”

“So the doctor couldn’t have poisoned her?”

“I don’t know,” said Battle slowly. “I’ve been chatting to a bacteriologist friend of mine—awfully difficult to get straight answers out of these people. They never can say yes or no. It’salways ‘that might be possible under certain conditions’—‘it would depend on the pathologicalcondition of the recipient’—‘such cases have been known’—‘a lot depends on individualidiosyncrasy’—all that sort of stuff. But as far as I could pin my friend down I got at this—thegerm, or germs, I suppose, might have been introduced into the blood before leaving England. Thesymptoms would not make their appearance for sometime to come.”

Poirot asked:

“Was Mrs. Craddock inoculated³⁷ for typhoid before going to Egypt? Most people are, I fancy.”

“Good for you, M. Poirot.”

“And Dr. Roberts did the inoculation³⁸?”

“That’s right. There you are again — we can’t prove anything. She had the usual twoinoculations—and they may have been typhoid inoculations for all we know. Or one of them mayhave been typhoid inoculation and the other—something else. We don’t know. We never shallknow. The whole thing is pure hypothesis. All we can say is: it might be.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

“It agrees very well with some remarks made to me by Mr. Shaitana. He was exalting³⁹ thesuccessful murderer—the man against whom his crime could never be brought home.”

“How did Mr. Shaitana know about it, then?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

Poirot shrugged⁴⁰ his shoulders.

“That we shall never learn. He himself was in Egypt at one time. We know that, because he metMrs. Lorrimer there. He may have heard some local doctor comment on curious features of Mrs.

Craddock’s case—a wonder as to how the infection arose. At some other time he may have heardgossip about Roberts and Mrs. Craddock. He might have amused himself by making some crypticremark to the doctor and noted⁴¹ the startled awareness⁴² in his eye—all that one can never know.

Some people have an uncanny gift of divining secrets. Mr. Shaitana was one of those people. Allthat does not concern us. We have only to say—he guessed. Did he guess right?”

“Well, I think he did,” said Battle. “I’ve a feeling that our cheerful, genial⁴³ doctor wouldn’t betoo scrupulous⁴⁴. I’ve known one or two like him—wonderful how certain types resemble eachother. In my opinion he’s a killer all right. He killed Craddock. He may have killed Mrs. Craddockif she was beginning to be a nuisance and cause a scandal. But did he kill Shaitana? That’s the realquestion. And comparing the crimes, I rather doubt it. In the case of the Craddocks he usedmedical methods each time. The deaths appeared to be due to natural causes. In my opinion if hehad killed Shaitana, he would have done so in a medical way. He’d have used the germ and not theknife.”

“I never thought it was him,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Not for a minute. He’s too obvious, somehow.”

“Exit Roberts,” murmured Poirot. “And the others?”

Battle made a gesture of impatience⁴⁵.

“I’ve pretty well drawn⁴⁶ blank. Mrs. Lorrimer’s been a widow for twenty years now. She’s livedin London most of the time, occasionally going abroad in the winter. Civilized⁴⁷ places — theRiviera, Egypt, that sort of thing. Can’t find any mysterious death associated with her. She seemsto have led a perfectly⁴⁸ normal, respectable life—the life of a woman of the world. Everyone seemsto respect her and to have the highest opinion of her character. The worst that they can say abouther is that she doesn’t suffer fools gladly! I don’t mind admitting I’ve been beaten all along theline there. And yet there must be something! Shaitana thought there was.”

He sighed in a dispirited manner.

“Then there’s Miss Meredith. I’ve got her history taped out quite clearly. Usual sort of story.

Army officer’s daughter. Left with very little money. Had to earn her living. Not properly trainedfor anything. I’ve checked up on her early days at Cheltenham. All quite straightforward⁴⁹.

Everyone very sorry for the poor little thing. She went first to some people in the Isle⁵⁰ of Wight—kind of nursery-governess and mother’s help. The woman she was with is out in Palestine but I’vetalked with her sister and she says Mrs. Eldon liked the girl very much. Certainly no mysteriousdeaths nor anything of that kind.

“When Mrs. Eldon went abroad, Miss Meredith went to Devonshire and took a post ascompanion to an aunt of a school friend. The school friend is the girl she is living with now—MissRhoda Dawes. She was there over two years until Miss Dawes got too ill and she had to have aregular trained nurse. Cancer, I gather. She’s alive still, but very vague. Kept under morphia agood deal, I imagine. I had an interview with her. She remembered ‘Anne,’ said she was a nicechild. I also talked to a neighbour of hers who would be better able to remember the happenings ofthe last few years. No deaths in the parish except one or two of the older villagers, with whom, asfar as I can make out, Anne Meredith never came into contact.

“Since then there’s been Switzerland. Thought I might get on the track of some fatal accidentthere, but nothing doing. And there’s nothing in Wallingford either.”

“So Anne Meredith is acquitted⁵¹?” asked Poirot.

Battle hesitated.

“I wouldn’t say that. There’s something … There’s a scared look about her that can’t quite beaccounted for by panic over Shaitana. She’s too watchful⁵². Too much on the alert. I’d swear therewas something. But there it is—she’s led a perfectly blameless life.”

Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath—a breath of pure enjoyment⁵³.

“And yet,” she said, “Anne Meredith was in the house when a woman took poison by mistakeand died.”

She had nothing to complain of in the effect her words produced.

Superintendent Battle spun⁵⁴ round in his chair and stared at her in amazement⁵⁵.

“Is this true, Mrs. Oliver? How do you know?”

“I’ve been sleuthing,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I get on with girls. I went down to see those two andtold them a cock-and-bull story about suspecting Dr. Roberts. The Rhoda girl was friendly—oh,and rather impressed by thinking I was a celebrity⁵⁶. The little Meredith hated my coming andshowed it quite plainly. She was suspicious. Why should she be if she hadn’t got anything to hide?

I asked either of them to come and see me in London. The Rhoda girl did. And she blurted⁵⁷ thewhole thing out. How Anne had been rude to me the other day because something I’d said hadreminded her of a painful incident, and then she went on to describe the incident.”

“Did she say when and where it happened?”

“Three years ago in Devonshire.”

The superintendent muttered something under his breath and scribbled⁵⁸ on his pad. His woodencalm was shaken.

Mrs. Oliver sat enjoying her triumph. It was a moment of great sweetness to her.

“I take off my hat to you, Mrs. Oliver,” he said. “You’ve put one over on us this time. That isvery valuable information. And it just shows how easily you can miss a thing.”

He frowned a little.

“She can’t have been there—wherever it was—long. A couple of months at most. It must havebeen between the Isle of Wight and going to Miss Dawes. Yes, that could be it right enough.

Naturally Mrs. Eldon’s sister only remembers she went off to a place in Devonshire—she doesn’tremember exactly who or where.”

“Tell me,” said Poirot, “was this Mrs. Eldon an untidy woman?”

Battle bent⁵⁹ a curious gaze upon him.

“It’s odd your saying that, M. Poirot. I don’t see how you could have known. The sister wasrather a precise party. In talking I remember her saying ‘My sister is so dreadfully untidy andslapdash.’ But how did you know?”

“Because she needed a mother’s help,” said Mrs. Oliver.

Poirot shook his head.

“No, no, it was not that. It is of no moment. I was only curious. Continue, SuperintendentBattle.”

“In the same way,” went on Battle, “I took it for granted that she went to Miss Dawes straightfrom the Isle of Wight. She’s sly, that girl. She deceived me all right. Lying the whole time.”

“Lying is not always a sign of guilt,” said Poirot.

“I know that, M. Poirot. There’s the natural liar⁶⁰. I should say she was one, as a matter of fact.

Always says the thing that sounds best. But all the same it’s a pretty grave risk to take, suppressingfacts like that.”

“She wouldn’t know you had any idea of past crimes,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“That’s all the more reason for not suppressing that little piece of information. It must havebeen accepted as a bona fide case of accidental death, so she’d nothing to fear—unless she wereguilty.”

“Unless she were guilty of the Devonshire death, yes,” said Poirot.

Battle turned to him.

“Oh, I know. Even if that accidental death turns out to be not so accidental, it doesn’t followthat she killed Shaitana. But these other murders are murders too. I want to be able to bring homea crime to the person responsible for it.”

“According to Mr. Shaitana, that is impossible,” remarked Poirot.

“It is in Roberts’ case. It remains⁶¹ to be seen if it is in Miss Meredith’s. I shall go down to Devontomorrow.”

“Will you know where to go?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “I didn’t like to ask Rhoda for more details.”

“No, that was wise of you. I shan’t have much difficulty. There must have been an inquest. Ishall find it in the coroner’s records. That’s routine police work. They’ll have it all taped out forme by tomorrow morning.”

“What about Major Despard?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “Have you found out anything about him?”

“I’ve been waiting for Colonel Race’s report. I’ve had him shadowed, of course. One ratherinteresting thing, he went down to see Miss Meredith at Wallingford. You remember he said he’dnever met her until the other night.”

“But she is a very pretty girl,” murmured Poirot.

Battle laughed.

“Yes, I expect that’s all there is to it. By the way, Despard’s taking no chances. He’s alreadyconsulted a solicitor⁶². That looks as though he’s expecting trouble.”

“He is a man who looks ahead,” said Poirot. “He is a man who prepares for every contingency⁶³.”

“And therefore not the kind of man to stick a knife into a man in a hurry,” said Battle with asigh.

“Not unless it was the only way,” said Poirot. “He can act quickly, remember.”

Battle looked across the table at him.

“Now, M. Poirot, what about your cards? Haven’t seen your hand down on the table yet.”

Poirot smiled.

“There is so little in it. You think I conceal⁶⁴ facts from you? It is not so. I have not learned manyfacts. I have talked with Dr. Roberts, with Mrs. Lorrimer, with Major Despard (I have still to talkto Miss Meredith) and what have I learnt? This! That Dr. Roberts is a keen observer, that Mrs.

Lorrimer on the other hand has a most remarkable⁶⁵ power of concentration but is, in consequence,almost blind to her surroundings. But she is fond of flowers. Despard notices only those thingswhich appeal to him—rugs, trophies⁶⁶ of sport. He has neither what I call the outward vision (seeingdetails all around you—what is called an observant person) nor the inner vision—concentration,the focusing of the mind on one object. He has a purposefully limited vision. He sees only whatblends and harmonizes with the bent of his mind.”

“So those are what you call facts—eh?” said Battle curiously⁶⁷.

“They are facts—very small fry—perhaps.”

“What about Miss Meredith?”

“I have left her to the end. But I shall question her too as to what she remembers in that room.”

“It’s an odd method of approach,” said Battle thoughtfully. “Purely psychological. Supposethey’re leading you up the garden path?”

Poirot shook his head with a smile.

“No, that would be impossible. Whether they try to hinder or to help, they necessarily revealtheir type of mind.”

“There’s something in it, no doubt,” said Battle thoughtfully. “I couldn’t work that way myself,though.”

Poirot said, still smiling:

“I feel I have done very little in comparison with you and with Mrs. Oliver—and with ColonelRace. My cards, that I place on the table, are very low ones.”

Battle twinkled at him.

“As to that, M. Poirot, the two of trumps⁶⁸ is a low card but it can take any one of three aces⁷. Allthe same, I’m going to ask you to do a practical job of work.”

“And that is?”

“I want you to interview Professor Luxmore’s widow.”

“Why do you not do that yourself?”

“Because, as I said just now, I’m off to Devonshire.”

“Why do you not do that yourself?” repeated Poirot.

“Won’t be put off, will you? Well, I’ll speak the truth. I think you’ll get more out of her than Ishall.”

“My methods being less straightforward?”

“You can put it that way if you like,” said Battle grinning. “I’ve heard Inspector⁶⁹ Japp say thatyou’ve got a tortuous⁷⁰ mind.”

“Like the late Mr. Shaitana?”

“You think he would have been able to get things out of her?”

Poirot said slowly:

“I rather think he did get things out of her!”

“What makes you think so?” asked Battle sharply.

“A chance remark of Major Despard’s.”

“Gave himself away, did he? That sounds unlike him.”

“Oh, my dear friend, it is impossible not to give oneself away—unless one never opens one’smouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers.”

“Even if people tell lies?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“Yes, madame, because it can be seen at once that you tell a certain kind of lie.”

“You make me feel quite uncomfortable,” said Mrs. Oliver, getting up.

Superintendent Battle accompanied her to the door and shook her by the hand.

“You’ve been the goods, Mrs. Oliver,” he said. “You’re a much better detective than that longlanky Laplander of yours.”

“Finn,” corrected Mrs. Oliver. “Of course he’s idiotic⁷¹. But people like him. Good-bye.”

“I, too, must depart,” said Poirot.

Battle scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it into Poirot’s hand.

“There you are. Go and tackle her.”

Poirot smiled.

“And what do you want me to find out?”

“The truth about Professor Luxmore’s death.”

“Mon cher Battle! Does anybody know the truth about anything?”

“I’m going to about this business in Devonshire,” said the superintendent with decision.

Poirot murmured:

“I wonder.”

 

点击收听单词发音