Cards on the Table. Agatha Christie
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Название: Cards on the Table
Автор: Agatha Christie
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
Серия: Poirot
isbn: 9780007422197
isbn:
The four bridge players went slowly through the doorway.
Mrs Oliver sat down in a chair at the far end of the room and began to sob quietly.
Battle took up the telephone receiver and spoke. Then he said:
‘The local police will be round immediately. Orders from headquarters are that I’m to take on the case. Divisional surgeon will be here almost at once. How long should you say he’d been dead, M. Poirot? I’d say well over an hour myself.’
‘I agree. Alas, that one cannot be more exact—that one cannot say, “This man has been dead one hour, twenty-five minutes and forty seconds.”’
Battle nodded absently.
‘He was sitting right in front of the fire. That makes a slight difference. Over an hour—not more than two and a half: that’s what our doctor will say, I’ll be bound. And nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Amazing! What a desperate chance to take. He might have cried out.’
‘But he did not. The murderer’s luck held. As you say, mon ami, it was a very desperate business.’
‘Any idea, M. Poirot, as to motive? Anything of that kind?’
Poirot said slowly:
‘Yes, I have something to say on that score. Tell me, M. Shaitana—he did not give you any hint of what kind of a party you were coming to tonight?’
Superintendent Battle looked at him curiously.
‘No, M. Poirot. He didn’t say anything at all. Why?’
A bell whirred in the distance and a knocker was plied.
‘That’s our people,’ said Superintendent Battle. ‘I’ll go and let ’em in. We’ll have your story presently. Must get on with the routine work.’
Poirot nodded.
Battle left the room.
Mrs Oliver continued to sob.
Poirot went over to the bridge table. Without touching anything, he examined the scores. He shook his head once or twice.
‘The stupid little man! Oh, the stupid little man,’ murmured Hercule Poirot. ‘To dress up as the devil and try to frighten people. Quel enfantillage!’
The door opened. The divisional surgeon came in, bag in hand. He was followed by the divisional inspector, talking to Battle. A camera man came next. There was a constable in the hall.
The routine of the detection of crime had begun.
Hercule Poirot, Mrs Oliver, Colonel Race and Superintendent Battle sat round the dining-room table.
It was an hour later. The body had been examined, photographed and removed. A fingerprint expert had been and gone.
Superintendent Battle looked at Poirot.
‘Before I have those four in, I want to hear what you’ve got to tell me. According to you there was something behind this party tonight?’
Very deliberately and carefully Poirot retold the conversation he had held with Shaitana at Wessex House.
Superintendent Battle pursed his lips. He very nearly whistled.
‘Exhibits—eh? Murderers all alive oh! And you think he meant it? You don’t think he was pulling your leg?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘Oh, no, he meant it. Shaitana was a man who prided himself on his Mephistophelian attitude to life. He was a man of great vanity. He was also a stupid man—that is why he is dead.’
‘I get you,’ said Superintendent Battle, following things out in his mind. ‘A party of eight and himself. Four “sleuths”, so to speak—and four murderers!’
‘It’s impossible!’ cried Mrs Oliver. ‘Absolutely impossible. None of those people can be criminals.’
Superintendent Battle shook his head thoughtfully.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Mrs Oliver. Murderers look and behave very much like everybody else. Nice, quiet, well-behaved, reasonable folk very often.’
‘In that case, it’s Dr Roberts,’ said Mrs Oliver firmly. ‘I felt instinctively that there was something wrong with that man as soon as I saw him. My instincts never lie.’
Battle turned to Colonel Race.
‘What do you think, sir?’
Race shrugged his shoulders. He took the question as referring to Poirot’s statement and not to Mrs Oliver’s suspicions.
‘It could be,’ he said. ‘It could be. It shows that Shaitana was right in one case at least! After all, he can only have suspected that these people were murderers—he can’t have been sure. He may have been right in all four cases, he may have been right in only one case—but he was right in one case; his death proved that.’
‘One of them got the wind up. Think that’s it, M. Poirot?’
Poirot nodded.
‘The late Mr Shaitana had a reputation,’ he said. ‘He had a dangerous sense of humour, and was reputed to be merciless. The victim thought that Shaitana was giving himself an evening’s amusement, leading up to a moment when he’d hand the victim over to the police—you! He (or she) must have thought that Shaitana had definite evidence.’
‘Had he?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘That we shall never know.’
‘Dr Roberts!’ repeated Mrs Oliver firmly. ‘Such a hearty man. Murderers are often hearty—as a disguise! If I were you, Superintendent Battle, I should arrest him at once.’
‘I dare say we would if there was a Woman at the Head of Scotland Yard,’ said Superintendent Battle, a momentary twinkle showing in his unemotional eye. ‘But, you see, mere men being in charge, we’ve got to be careful. We’ve got to get there slowly.’
‘Oh, men—men,’ sighed Mrs Oliver, and began to compose newspaper articles in her head.
‘Better have them in now,’ said Superintendent Battle. ‘It won’t do to keep them hanging about too long.’
Colonel Race half rose.
‘If you’d like us to go—’
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