Читать книгу Cards on the Table - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 13

Battle looked from one face to another. Only one person answered his question. Mrs Oliver, never averse to giving her views, rushed into speech.

‘The girl or the doctor,’ she said.

Battle looked questioningly at the other two. But both the men were unwilling to make a pronouncement. Race shook his head. Poirot carefully smoothed his crumpled bridge scores.

‘One of ’em did it,’ said Battle musingly. ‘One of ’em’s lying like hell. But which? It’s not easy—no, it’s not easy.’

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

‘If we’re to go by what they say, the medico thinks Despard did it, Despard thinks the medico did it, the girl thinks Mrs Lorrimer did it—and Mrs Lorrimer won’t say! Nothing very illuminating there.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Poirot.

Battle shot him a quick glance.

‘You think there is?’

Poirot waved an airy hand.

‘A nuance—nothing more! Nothing to go upon.’

Battle continued:

‘You two gentlemen won’t say what you think—’

‘No evidence,’ said Race curtly.

‘Oh, you men!’ sighed Mrs Oliver, despising such reticence.

‘Let’s look at the rough possibilities,’ said Battle. He considered a minute. ‘I put the doctor first, I think. Specious sort of customer. Would know the right spot to shove the dagger in. But there’s not much more than that to it. Then take Despard. There’s a man with any amount of nerve. A man accustomed to quick decisions and a man who’s quite at home doing dangerous things. Mrs Lorrimer? She’s got any amount of nerve, too, and she’s the sort of woman who might have a secret in her life. She looks as though she’s known trouble. On the other hand, I’d say she’s what I call a high-principled woman—sort of woman who might be headmistress of a girls’ school. It isn’t easy to think of her sticking a knife into anyone. In fact, I don’t think she did. And lastly, there’s little Miss Meredith. We don’t know anything about her. She seems an ordinary good-looking, rather shy girl. But one doesn’t know, as I say, anything about her.’

‘We know that Shaitana believed she had committed murder,’ said Poirot.

‘The angelic face masking the demon,’ mused Mrs Oliver.

‘This getting us anywhere, Battle?’ asked Colonel Race.

‘Unprofitable speculation, you think, sir? Well, there’s bound to be speculation in a case like this.’

‘Isn’t it better to find out something about these people?’

Battle smiled.

‘Oh, we shall be hard at work on that. I think you could help us there.’

‘Certainly. How?’

‘As regards Major Despard. He’s been abroad a lot—in South America, in East Africa, in South Africa—you’ve means of knowing those parts. You could get information about him.’

Race nodded.

‘It shall be done. I’ll get all available data.’

‘Oh,’ cried Mrs Oliver. ‘I’ve got a plan. There are four of us—four sleuths, as you might say—and four of them! How would it be if we each took one. Backed our fancy! Colonel Race takes Major Despard, Superintendent Battle takes Dr Roberts, I’ll take Anne Meredith, and M. Poirot takes Mrs Lorrimer. Each of us to follow our own line!’

Superintendent Battle shook his head decisively.

‘Couldn’t quite do that, Mrs Oliver. That is official, you see. I’m in charge. I’ve got to investigate all lines. Besides, it’s all very well to say back your fancy. Two of us might want to back the same horse! Colonel Race hasn’t said he suspects Major Despard. And M. Poirot mayn’t be putting his money on Mrs Lorrimer.’

Mrs Oliver sighed.

‘It was such a good plan,’ she sighed regretfully. ‘So neat.’ Then she cheered up a little. ‘But you don’t mind me doing a little investigating on my own, do you?’

‘No,’ said Superintendent Battle slowly. ‘I can’t say I object to that. In fact, it’s out of my power to object. Having been at this party tonight, you’re naturally free to do anything your own curiosity or interest suggests. But I’d like to point out to you, Mrs Oliver, that you’d better be a little careful.’

‘Discretion itself,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I shan’t breathe a word of—of anything—’ she ended a little lamely.

‘I do not think that was quite Superintendent Battle’s meaning,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘He meant that you will be dealing with a person who has already, to the best of our belief, killed twice. A person, therefore, who will not hesitate to kill a third time—if he considers it necessary.’