Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [49]
Unmoved by this eulogy, Battle asked:
‘Any sudden deaths connected with him?’
‘I laid special stress on that point. There’s one fine rescue to his credit. Pal of his was being mauled by a lion.’
Battle sighed.
‘It’s not rescues I want.’
‘You’re a persistent fellow, Battle. There’s only one incident I’ve been able to rake up that might suit your book. Trip into the interior in South America. Despard accompanied Professor Luxmore, the celebrated botanist, and his wife. The professor died of fever and was buried somewhere 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 rumour was never taken 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 odds against its being Despard who did the dirty work the other evening. He’s a white man, Battle.’
‘Incapable of murder, you mean?’
Colonel Race hesitated.
‘Incapable of what I’d call murder—yes,’ he said.
‘But not incapable of killing a man for what would seem to him good and sufficient reasons, is that 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 own hands.’
‘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 disapproved of murder.’
‘What a delightfully droll way of putting it,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Rather as though it were fox-hunting or killing ospreys for hats. Don’t you think there are people who ought to be murdered?’
‘That, very possibly.’
‘Well then!’
‘You do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is the effect on the character of the slayer.’
‘What about war?’
‘In war you do not exercise the right of private judgement. That is what is so dangerous. Once a man is imbued with the idea that he knows who ought to be allowed to live and who ought not—then he is halfway to becoming the most dangerous killer there is—the arrogant criminal who kills not for profit—but for an idea. He has usurped 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 be next to impossible to prove. I’ve given you the facts you wanted, but in my opinion Despard’s not the man. I don’t believe he’s ever committed murder. Shaitana may have heard some garbled rumour of Professor Luxmore’s death, but I don’t believe there’s more to it than that. Despard’s a whiteman, and I don’t believe he’s ever been a murderer. That’s my opinion. And I know something 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’t take anything for granted.’
He looked through the mass of documents Race had deposited on the table, occasionally making a pencil note on the pad beside him.
‘Well, Superintendent Battle,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Aren’t you going to tell us what you have been doing?’
He looked up and smiled, a slow smile that creased