Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [76]
Roberts grew very quiet. His eyes glittered. He said sharply:
‘You are talking rubbish!’
‘Oh, no, I am not. It was early in the morning. You bluffed your way into Mrs Lorrimer’s room, where she was still heavily asleep under the influence of the drug she had taken the night before. You bluff again—pretend to see at a glance that she is dead! You pack the parlourmaid off for brandy—hot water—all the rest of it. You are left alone in the room. The maid has only had the barest peep. And then what happens?
‘You may not be aware of the fact, Dr Roberts, but certain firms of window cleaners specialize in early morning work. A window cleaner with his ladder arrived at the same time as you did. He placed his ladder against the side of the house and began his work. The first window he tackled was that of Mrs Lorrimer’s room. When, however, he saw what was going on, he quickly retired to another window, but he had seen something first. He shall tell us his own story.’
Poirot stepped lightly across the floor, turned a door handle, called:
‘Come in, Stephens,’ and returned.
A big awkward-looking man with red hair entered. In his hand he held a uniformed hat bearing the legend ‘Chelsea Window Cleaners’ Association’ which he twirled awkwardly.
Poirot said:
‘Is there anybody you recognize in this room?’
The man looked round, then gave a bashful nod of the head towards Dr Roberts.
‘Him,’ he said.
‘Tell us when you saw him last and what he was doing.’
‘This morning it was. Eight o’clock job at a lady’s house in Cheyne Lane. I started on the windows there. Lady was in bed. Looked ill she did. She was just turning her head round on the pillow. This gent I took to be a doctor. He shoved her sleeve up and jabbed something into her arm about here—’ He gestured. ‘She just dropped back on the pillow again. I thought I’d better hop it to another window, so I did. Hope I didn’t do wrong in any way?’
‘You did admirably, my friend,’ said Poirot.
He said quietly:
‘Eh bien, Dr Roberts?’
‘A—a simple restorative—’ stammered Roberts. ‘A last hope of bringing her round. It’s monstrous—’
Poirot interrupted him.
‘A simple restorative?—N-methyl—cyclo—hexenyl—methyl—malonyl urea,’ said Poirot. He rolled out the syllables unctuously. ‘Known more simply as Evipan. Used as an anaesthetic for short operations. Injected intravenously in large doses it produces instant unconsciousness. It is dangerous to use it after veronal or any barbiturates have been given. I noticed the bruised place on her arm where something had obviously been injected into a vein. A hint to the police surgeon and the drug was easily discovered by no less a person than Sir Charles Imphery, the Home Office Analyst.’
‘That about cooks your goose, I think,’ said Superintendent Battle. ‘No need to prove the Shaitana business, though, of course, if necessary we can bring a further charge as to the murder of Mr Charles Craddock—and possibly his wife also.’
The mention of those two names finished Roberts.
He leaned back in his chair.
‘I throw in my hand,’ he said. ‘You’ve got me! I suppose that sly devil Shaitana put you wise before you came that evening. And I thought I’d settled his hash so nicely.’
‘It isn’t Shaitana you’ve got to thank,’ said Battle. ‘The honours lie with M. Poirot here.’
He went to the door and two men entered.
Superintendent Battle’s voice became official as he made the formal arrest.
As the door closed behind the accused man Mrs Oliver said happily, if not quite truthfully:
‘I always said he did it!’
Chapter 31
Cards on the Table
It was Poirot’s moment, every face was turned to his in eager anticipation.
‘You are very kind,’ he said, smiling. ‘You know, I think, that I enjoy my little lecture. I am a prosy old fellow.
‘This case, to my mind, has been one of the