Cards on the Table

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; may be 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.