Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [67]
Mrs Lorrimer stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head sharply.
‘No,’ she said.
‘You did not plan the murder beforehand?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then—then…Oh, you are lying to me—you must be lying!…’
Mrs Lorrimer’s voice cut into the air like ice.
‘Really, M. Poirot, you forget yourself.’
The little man sprang to his feet. He paced up and down the room, muttering to himself, uttering ejaculations.
Suddenly he said:
‘Permit me.’
And, going to the switch, he turned on the electric lights.
He came back, sat down in his chair, placed both hands on his knees and stared straight at his hostess.
‘The question is,’ he said, ‘can Hercule Poirot possibly be wrong?’
‘No one can always be right,’ said Mrs Lorrimer coldly.
‘I am,’ said Poirot. ‘Always I am right. It is so invariable that it startles me. But now it looks, it very much looks, as though I am wrong. And that upsets me. Presumably, you know what you are saying. It is your murder! Fantastic, then, that Hercule Poirot should know better than you do how you committed it.’
‘Fantastic and very absurd,’ said Mrs Lorrimer still more coldly.
‘I am, then, mad. Decidedly I am mad: No—sacré nom d’un petit bonhomme—Iam not mad! I am right. I must be right. I am willing to believe that you killed Mr Shaitana—but you cannot have killed him in the way you say you did. No one can do a thing that is not dans son charactère!’
He paused. Mrs Lorrimer drew in an angry breath and bit her lips. She was about to speak, but Poirot forestalled her.
‘Either the killing of Shaitana was planned beforehand—or you did not kill him at all!’
Mrs Lorrimer said sharply:
‘I really believe you are mad, M. Poirot. If I am willing to admit I committed the crime, I should not be likely to lie about the way I did it. What would be the point of such a thing?’
Poirot got up again and took one turn round the room. When he came back to his seat his manner had changed. He was gentle and kindly.
‘You did not kill Shaitana,’ he said softly. ‘I see that now. I see everything. Harley Street. And little Anne Meredith standing forlorn on the pavement. I see, too, another girl—a very long time ago, a girl who has gone through life always alone—terribly alone. Yes, I see all that. But one thing I do not see —why are you so certain that Anne Meredith did it?’
‘Really, M. Poirot—’
‘Absolutely useless to protest—to lie further to me, madame. I tell you, I know the truth. I know the very emotions that swept over you that day in Harley Street. You would not have done it for Dr Roberts—oh, no! You would not have done it for Major Despard, non plus. But Anne Meredith is different. You have compassion for her, because she has done what you once did. You do not know even—or so I imagine—what reason she had for the crime. But you are quite sure she did it. You were sure that first evening—the evening it happened—when Superintendent Battle invited you to give your views on the case. Yes, I know it all, you see. It is quite useless to lie further to me. You see that, do you not?’
He paused for an answer, but none came. He nodded his head in satisfaction.
‘Yes, you are sensible. That is good. It is a very noble action that you perform there, madame, to take the blame on yourself and to let this child escape.’
‘You forget,’ said Mrs Lorrimer in a dry voice, ‘I am not an innocent woman. Years ago, M. Poirot, I killed my husband…’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘I see,’ said Poirot. ‘It is justice. After all, only justice. You have the logical mind. You are willing to suffer for the act you committed. Murder is murder—it does not matter who the victim is. Madame, you have courage, and you have clear-sightedness. But I ask of you once more: How can you be so sure? How do you know that it was Anne Meredith who killed Mr Shaitana?’
A deep sigh broke from Mrs Lorrimer. Her last resistance had gone