Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [66]
Her voice shook just a little, but instantly it regained its cool aloofness.
‘I spoke to him. It came into my head that that would make a kind of alibi for me. I made some remark about the fire, and then pretended he had answered me and went on again, saying something like: “I agree with you. I do not like radiators, either.”’
‘He did not cry out at all?’
‘No. I think he made a little grunt—that was all. It might have been taken for words from a distance.’
‘And then?’
‘And then I went back to the bridge table. The last trick was just being played.’
‘And you sat down and resumed play?’
‘Yes.’
‘With sufficient interest in the game to be able to tell me nearly all the calling and the hands two days later?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Lorrimer simply.
‘Epatant!’ said Hercule Poirot.
He leaned back in his chair. He nodded his head several times. Then, by way of a change, he shook it.
‘But there is still something, madame, that I do not understand.’
‘Yes?’
‘It seems to me that there is some factor that I have missed. You are a woman who considers and weighs everything carefully. You decide that, for a certain reason, you will run an enormous risk. You do run it—successfully. And then, not two weeks later, you change your mind. Frankly, madame, that does not seem to me to ring true.’
A queer little smile twisted her lips.
‘You are quite right, M. Poirot, there is one factor that you do not know. Did Miss Meredith tell you where she met me the other day?’
‘It was, I think she said, near Mrs Oliver’s flat.’
‘I believe that is so. But I meant the actual name of the street. Anne Meredith met me in Harley Street.’
‘Ah!’ He looked at her attentively. ‘I begin to see.’
‘Yes, I thought you would. I had been to see a specialist there. He told me what I already half suspected.’
Her smile widened. It was no longer twisted and bitter. It was suddenly sweet.
‘I shall not play very much more bridge, M. Poirot. Oh, he didn’t say so in so many words. He wrapped up the truth a little. With great care, etc., etc., I might live several years. But I shall not take any great care. I am not that kind of a woman.’
‘Yes, yes, I begin to understand,’ said Poirot.
‘It made a difference, you see. A month—two months, perhaps—not more. And then, just as I left the specialist, I met Miss Meredith. I asked her to have tea with me.’
She paused, then went on:
‘I am not, after all, a wholly wicked woman. All the time we were having tea I was thinking. By my action the other evening I had not only deprived the man Shaitana of life (that was done, and could not be undone), I had also, to a varying degree, affected unfavourably the lives of three other people. Because of what I had done, Dr Roberts, Major Despard and Anne Meredith, none of whom had injured me in any way, were passing through a very grave ordeal, and might even be in danger. That, at least, I could undo. I don’t know that I felt particularly moved by the plight of either Dr Roberts or Major Despard—although both of them had presumably a much longer span of life in front of them than I had. They were men, and could, to a certain extent, look after themselves. But when I looked at Anne Meredith—’
She hesitated, then continued slowly:
‘Anne Meredith was only a girl. She had the whole of her life in front of her. This miserable business might ruin that life…
‘I didn’t like the thought of that…
‘And then, M. Poirot, with these ideas growing in my mind, I realized that what you had hinted had come true. I was not going to be able to keep silence. This afternoon I rang you up…’
Minutes passed.
Hercule Poirot leaned forward. He stared, deliberately stared through the gathering gloom, at Mrs Lorrimer. She returned that intent gaze quietly and without any nervousness.
He said at last:
‘Mrs Lorrimer, are you sure—are you positive (you will tell me the truth, will you not?)—that the murder of Mr Shaitana