Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [54]
‘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’s mouth! 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 long lanky Laplander of yours.’
‘Finn,’ corrected Mrs Oliver. ‘Of course he’s idiotic. But people like him. Goodbye.’
‘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.’
Chapter 20
The Evidence of Mrs Luxmore
The maid who opened the door at Mrs Luxmore’s South Kensington address looked at Hercule Poirot with deep disapproval. She showed no disposition to admit him into the house.
Unperturbed, Poirot gave her a card.
‘Give that to your mistress. I think she will see me.’
It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words ‘Private Detective’ were printed in one corner. He had had them specially engraved for the purpose of obtaining interviews with the so-called fair sex. Nearly every woman, whether conscious of innocence or not, was anxious to have a look at a private detective and find out what he wanted.
Left ignominiously on the mat, Poirot studied the door-knocker with intense disgust at its unpolished condition.
‘Ah! for some Brasso and a rag,’ he murmured to himself.
Breathing excitedly the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.
He was shown into a room on the first floor—a rather dark room smelling of stale flowers and unemptied ashtrays. There were large quantities of silk cushions of exotic colours all in need of cleaning. The walls were emerald green and the ceiling was of pseudo copper.
A tall, rather handsome woman was standing by the mantelpiece. She came forward and spoke in a deep husky voice.
‘M. Hercule Poirot?’
Poirot bowed. His manner was not quite his own. He was not only foreign but ornately foreign. His gestures were positively baroque. Faintly, very faintly, it was the manner of the late Mr Shaitana.
‘What did you want to see me about?’
Again Poirot bowed.
‘If I might be seated? It will take a little time—’
She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a sofa.
‘Yes? Well?’
‘It is, madame, that I make the inquiries—the private inquiries, you understand?’
The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.
‘Yes—yes?’
‘I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore.’
She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.
‘But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?’
Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.
‘There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent husband. The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact. As to your husband’s death, for instance—’
She broke in at once:
‘My husband died of fever—on the Amazon.’
Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to and fro—a maddening, monotonous motion.
‘Madame—madame—’ he protested.
‘But I know! I was there at the time.’
‘Ah, yes, certainly. You were there. Yes, my information says so.’
She cried out:
‘What information?’
Eyeing her closely Poirot said:
‘Information supplied to me by the late Mr Shaitana.’
She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.
‘Shaitana?’ she muttered.
‘A man,’ said Poirot, ‘possessed