Cards on the Table (6 page)

“Do you mean,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that the former victim will have been stabbed with a dagger too?”

“Not quite as crude as that, Mrs. Oliver,” said Battle turning to her. “But I don't doubt it will be essentially the same
type
of crime.
The
details
may be different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. It's odd, but a criminal gives himself away every time by that.”

“Man is an unoriginal animal,” said Hercule Poirot.

“Women,” said Mrs. Oliver, “are capable of infinite variation. I should never commit the same type of murder twice running.”

“Don't you ever write the same plot twice running?” asked Battle.

“
The Lotus Murder,
” murmured Poirot. “
The Clue of the Candle Wax
.”

Mrs. Oliver turned on him, her eyes beaming appreciation.

“That's clever of you—that's really very clever of you. Because, of course, those two are exactly the same plot—but nobody else has seen it. One is stolen papers at an informal weekend party of the Cabinet, and the other's a murder in Borneo in a rubber planter's bungalow.”

“But the essential point on which the story turns is the same,” said Poirot. “One of your neatest tricks. The rubber planter arranges his own murder—the Cabinet Minister arranges the robbery of his own papers. At the last minute the third person steps in and turns deception into reality.”

“I enjoyed your last, Mrs. Oliver,” said Superintendent Battle kindly. “The one where all the Chief Constables were shot simultaneously. You just slipped up once or twice on official details. I know you're keen on accuracy, so I wondered if—”

Mrs. Oliver interrupted him.

“As a matter of fact I don't care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nobody nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful girl of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over
the sea and kissing her favourite labrador, Bob, good-bye, does anybody make a fuss because the girl was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyham terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing, I don't see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic, and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more. What really matters is plenty of
bodies!
If the thing's getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell something—and then they're killed first. That always goes down well. It comes in all my books—camouflaged different ways, of course. And people
like
untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and girls tied up in cellars with sewer gas or water pouring in (such a troublesome way of killing anyone really) and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villains single-handed. I've written thirty-two books by now—and of course they're all exactly the same really, as M. Poirot seems to have noticed—but nobody else has—and I only regret one thing—making my detective a Finn. I don't really know anything about Finns and I'm always getting letters from Finland pointing out something impossible that he's said or done. They seem to read detective stories a good deal in Finland. I suppose it's the long winters with no daylight. In Bulgaria and Romania they don't seem to read at all. I'd have done better to have made him a Bulgar.”

She broke off.

“I'm so sorry. I'm talking shop. And this is a real murder.” Her face lit up. “What a good idea it would be if none of them had murdered him. If he'd asked them all, and then quietly committed suicide just for the fun of making a schemozzle.”

Poirot nodded approvingly.

“An admirable solution. So neat. So ironic. But, alas, Mr. Shaitana was not that sort of man. He was very fond of life.”

“I don't think he was really a nice man,” said Mrs. Oliver slowly.

“He was not nice, no,” said Poirot. “But he was alive—and now he is dead, and as I told him once, I have a
bourgeois
attitude to murder, I disapprove of it.”

He added softly:

“And so—I am prepared to go inside the tiger's cage….”

“G
ood morning, Superintendent Battle.”

Dr. Roberts rose from his chair and offered a large pink hand smelling of a mixture of good soap and faint carbolic.

“How are things going?” he went on.

Superintendent Battle glanced round the comfortable consulting room before answering.

“Well, Dr. Roberts, strictly speaking, they're not going. They're standing still.”

“There's been nothing much in the papers, I've been glad to see.”

“
Sudden death of the well-known Mr. Shaitana at an evening party in his own home
. It's left at that for the moment. We've had the autopsy—I brought a report of the findings along—thought it might interest you—”

“That's very kind of you—it would—h'm—h'm. Yes, very interesting.”

He handed it back.

“And we've interviewed Mr. Shaitana's solicitor. We know the terms of his will. Nothing of interest there. He has relatives in Syria, it seems. And then, of course, we've been through all his private papers.”

Was it fancy or did that broad, clean-shaven countenance look a little strained—a little wooden?

“And?” said Dr. Roberts.

“Nothing,” said Superintendent Battle, watching him. There wasn't a sigh of relief. Nothing so blatant as that. But the doctor's figure seemed to relax just a shade more comfortably in his chair.

“And so you've come to me?”

“And so, as you say, I've come to you.”

The doctor's eyebrows rose a little and his shrewd eyes looked into Battle's.

“Want to go through
my
private papers—eh?”

“That was my idea.”

“Got a search warrant?”

“No.”

“Well; you could get one easily enough, I suppose. I'm not going to make difficulties. It's not very pleasant being suspected of murder but I suppose I can't blame you for what's obviously your duty.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Superintendent Battle with real gratitude. “I appreciate your attitude, if I may say so, very much. I hope all the others will be as reasonable, I'm sure.”

“What can't be cured must be endured,” said the doctor good-humouredly.

He went on:

“I've finished seeing my patients here. I'm just off on my
rounds. I'll leave you my keys and just say a word to my secretary and you can rootle to your heart's content.”

“That's all very nice and pleasant, I'm sure,” said Battle. “I'd like to ask you a few more questions before you go.”

“About the other night? Really, I told you all I know.”

“No, not about the other night. About yourself.”

“Well, man, ask away, what do you want to know?”

“I'd just like a rough sketch of your career, Dr. Roberts. Birth, marriage, and so on.”

“It will get me into practice for
Who's Who,
” said the doctor dryly. “My career's a perfectly straightforward one. I'm a Shropshire man, born at Ludlow. My father was in practice there. He died when I was fifteen. I was educated at Shrewsbury and went in for medicine like my father before me. I'm a St. Christopher's man—but you'll have all the medical details already, I expect.”

“I looked you up, yes, sir. You an only child or have you any brothers or sisters?”

“I'm an only child. Both my parents are dead and I'm unmarried. Will that do to get on with? I came into partnership here with Dr. Emery. He retired about fifteen years ago. Lives in Ireland. I'll give you his address if you like. I live here with a cook, a parlour maid and a housemaid. My secretary comes in daily. I make a good income and I only kill a reasonable number of my patients. How's that?”

Superintendent Battle grinned.

“That's fairly comprehensive, Dr. Roberts. I'm glad you've got a sense of humour. Now I'm going to ask you one more thing.”

“I'm a strictly moral man, superintendent.”

“Oh, that wasn't my meaning. No, I was going to ask you if you'd give me the names of four friends—people who've known you intimately for a number of years. Kind of references, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think so. Let me see now. You'd prefer people who are actually in London now?”

“It would make it a bit easier, but it doesn't really matter.”

The doctor thought for a minute or two, then with his fountain pen he scribbled four names and addresses on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk to Battle.

“Will those do? They're the best I can think of on the spur of the moment.”

Battle read carefully, nodded his head in satisfaction and put the sheet of paper away in an inner pocket.

“It's just a question of elimination,” he said. “The sooner I can get one person eliminated and go onto the next, the better it is for everyone concerned. I've got to make perfectly certain that you weren't on bad terms with the late Mr. Shaitana, that you had no private connections or business dealings with him, that there was no question of his having injured you at any time and your bearing resentment.
I
may believe you when you say you only knew him slightly—but it isn't a question of
my
belief. I've got to say I've made
sure
.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly. You've got to think everybody's a liar till he's proved he's speaking the truth. Here are my keys, superintendent. That's the drawers of the desk—that's the bureau—that little one's the key of the poison cupboard. Be sure to lock it up again. Perhaps I'd better just have a word with my secretary.”

He pressed a button on his desk.

Almost immediately the door opened and a competent-looking young woman appeared.

“You rang, doctor?”

“This is Miss Burgess—Superintendent Battle from Scotland Yard.”

Miss Burgess turned a cool gaze on Battle. It seemed to say:

“Dear me, what sort of an animal is this?”

“I should be glad, Miss Burgess, if you will answer any questions Superintendent Battle may put to you, and give him any help he may need.”

“Certainly, if you say so, doctor.”

“Well,” said Roberts, rising, “I'll be off. Did you put the morphia in my case? I shall need it for the Lockheart case.”

He bustled out, still talking, and Miss Burgess followed him.

“Will you press that button when you want me, Superintendent Battle?”

Superintendent Battle thanked her and said he would do so. Then he set to work.

His search was careful and methodical, though he had no great hopes of finding anything of importance. Roberts' ready acquiescence dispelled the chance of that. Roberts was no fool. He would realize that a search would be bound to come and he would make provisions accordingly. There was, however, a faint chance that Battle might come across a hint of the information he was really after, since Roberts would not know the real object of his search.

Superintendent Battle opened and shut drawers, rifled pigeonholes, glanced through a chequebook, estimated the unpaid bills—noted what those same bills were for, scrutinized Roberts' passbook, ran through his case notes and generally left no written document
unturned. The result was meagre in the extreme. He next took a look through the poison cupboard, noted the wholesale firms with which the doctor dealt, and the system of checking, relocked the cupboard and passed on to the bureau. The contents of the latter were of a more personal nature, but Battle found nothing germane to his search. He shook his head, sat down in the doctor's chair and pressed the desk button.

Miss Burgess appeared with commendable promptitude.

Superintendent Battle asked her politely to be seated and then sat studying her for a moment, before he decided which way to tackle her. He had sensed immediately her hostility and he was uncertain whether to provoke her into unguarded speech by increasing that hostility or whether to try a softer method of approach.

“I suppose you know what all this is about, Miss Burgess?” he said at last.

“Dr. Roberts told me,” said Miss Burgess shortly.

“The whole thing's rather delicate,” said Superintendent Battle.

“Is it?” said Miss Burgess.

“Well, it's rather a nasty business. Four people are under suspicion and one of them must have done it. What I want to know is whether you've ever seen this Mr. Shaitana?”

“Never.”

“Ever heard Dr. Roberts speak of him?”

“Never—no, I am wrong. About a week ago Dr. Roberts told me to enter up a dinner appointment in his engagement book. Mr. Shaitana, 8:15, on the 18th.”

“And that is the first you ever heard of this Mr. Shaitana?”

“Yes.”

“Never seen his name in the papers? He was often in the fashionable news.”

“I've got better things to do than reading the fashionable news.”

“I expect you have. Oh, I expect you have,” said the superintendent mildly.

“Well,” he went on. “There it is. All four of these people will only admit to knowing Mr. Shaitana slightly. But one of them knew him well enough to kill him. It's my job to find out which of them it was.”

There was an unhelpful pause. Miss Burgess seemed quite uninterested in the performance of Superintendent Battle's job. It was her job to obey her employer's orders and sit here listening to what Superintendent Battle chose to say and answer any direct questions he might choose to put to her.

“You know, Miss Burgess,” the superintendent found it uphill work but he persevered, “I doubt if you appreciate half the difficulties of our job. People say things, for instance. Well, we mayn't believe a word of it, but we've got to take notice of it all the same. It's particularly noticeable in a case of this kind. I don't want to say anything against your sex but there's no doubt that a woman, when she's rattled, is apt to lash out with her tongue a bit. She makes unfounded accusations, hints this, that and the other, and rakes up all sorts of old scandals that have probably nothing whatever to do with the case.”

“Do you mean,” demanded Miss Burgess, “that one of these other people has been saying things against the doctor?”

“Not exactly
said
anything,” said Battle cautiously. “But all the same, I'm bound to take notice. Suspicious circumstances about the
death of a patient. Probably all a lot of nonsense. I'm ashamed to bother the doctor with it.”

“I suppose someone's got hold of that story about Mrs. Graves,” said Miss Burgess wrathfully. “The way people talk about things they know nothing whatever about is disgraceful. Lots of old ladies get like that—they think everybody is poisoning them—their relations and their servants and even their doctors. Mrs. Graves had had three doctors before she came to Dr. Roberts and then when she got the same fancies about him he was quite willing for her to have Dr. Lee instead. It's the only thing to do in these cases, he said. And after Dr. Lee she had Dr. Steele, and then Dr. Farmer—until she died, poor old thing.”

“You'd be surprised the way the smallest thing starts a story,” said Battle. “Whenever a doctor benefits by the death of a patient somebody has something ill-natured to say. And yet why shouldn't a grateful patient leave a little something, or even a big something to her medical attendant.”

“It's the relations,” said Miss Burgess. “I always think there's nothing like death for bringing out the meanness of human nature. Squabbling over who's to have what before the body's cold. Luckily, Dr. Roberts has never had any trouble of that kind. He always says he hopes his patients won't leave him anything. I believe he once had a legacy of fifty pounds and he's had two walking sticks and a gold watch, but nothing else.”

“It's a difficult life, that of a professional man,” said Battle with a sigh. “He's always open to blackmail. The most innocent occurrences lend themselves sometimes to a scandalous appearance. A doctor's got to avoid even the appearance of evil—that means he's got to have his wits about him good and sharp.”

“A lot of what you say is true,” said Miss Burgess. “Doctors have a difficult time with hysterical women.”

“Hysterical women. That's right. I thought in my own mind, that that was all it amounted to.”

“I suppose you mean that dreadful Mrs. Craddock?”

Battle pretended to think.

“Let me see, was it three years ago? No, more.”

“Four or five, I think. She was a
most
unbalanced woman! I was glad when she went abroad and so was Dr. Roberts. She told her husband the most frightful lies—they always do, of course. Poor man, he wasn't quite himself—he'd begun to be ill. He died of anthrax, you know, an infected shaving brush.”

“I'd forgotten that,” said Battle untruthfully.

“And then she went abroad and died not long afterwards. But I always thought she was a nasty type of woman—man-mad, you know.”

“I know the kind,” said Battle. “Very dangerous, they are. A doctor's got to give them a wide berth. Whereabouts did she die abroad—I seem to remember.”

“Egypt, I think it was. She got blood poisoning—some native infection.”

“Another thing that must be difficult for a doctor,” said Battle, making a conversational leap, “is when he suspects that one of his patients is being poisoned by one of their relatives. What's he to do? He's got to be sure—or else hold his tongue. And if he's done the latter, then it's awkward for him if there's talk of foul play afterwards. I wonder if any case of that kind has ever come Dr. Roberts' way?”

“I really don't think it has,” said Miss Burgess, considering. “I've never heard of anything like that.”

“From the statistical point of view, it would be interesting to know how many deaths occur among a doctor's practice per year. For instance now, you've been with Dr. Roberts some years—”