‘Special reason? Oh, no.’
‘That’s all right, then. Now about tonight. Did you leave your seat at all?’
‘I don’t think so. Oh, yes, I may have done once. I went round to look at the others’ hands.’
‘But you stayed by the bridge table all the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite sure, Miss Meredith?’
The girl’s cheeks flamed suddenly.
‘No—no, I think I walked about.’
‘Right. You’ll excuse me, Miss Meredith, but try and speak the truth. I know you’re nervous, and when one’s nervous one’s apt to—well, to say the thing the way you want it to be. But that doesn’t really pay in the end. You walked about. Did you walk over in the direction of Mr Shaitana?’
The girl was silent for a minute, then she said:
‘Honestly—honestly—I don’t remember.’
‘Well, we’ll leave it that you may have done. Know anything about the other three?’
The girl shook her head.
‘I’ve never seen any of them before.’
‘What do you think of them? Any likely murderers amongst them?’
‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. It couldn’t be Major Despard. And I don’t believe it could be the doctor—after all, a doctor could kill anyone in much easier ways. A drug—or something like that.’
‘Then, if it’s anyone, you think it’s Mrs Lorrimer.’
‘Oh, I don’t. I’m sure she wouldn’t. She’s so charming—and so kind to play bridge with. She’s so good herself, and yet she doesn’t make one feel nervous, or point out one’s mistakes.’
‘Yet you left her name to the last,’ said Battle.
‘Only because stabbing seems somehow more like a woman.’
Battle did his conjuring trick. Anne Meredith shrank back.
‘Oh, horrible. Must I—take it?’
‘I’d rather you did.’
He watched her as she took the stiletto gingerly, her face contracted with repulsion.
‘With this tiny thing—with this—’
‘Go in like butter,’ said Battle with gusto. ‘A child could do it.’
‘You mean—you mean’—wide, terrified eyes fixed themselves on his face—‘that I might have done it? But I didn’t. Why should I?’
‘That’s just the question we’d like to know,’ said Battle. ‘What’s the motive? Why did anyone want to kill Shaitana? He was a picturesque person, but he wasn’t dangerous, as far as I can make out.’
Was there a slight indrawing of her breath—a sudden lifting of her breast?
‘Not a blackmailer, for instance, or anything of that sort?’ went on Battle. ‘And anyway, Miss Meredith, you don’t look the sort of girl who’s got a lot of guilty secrets.’
For the first time she smiled, reassured by his geniality.
‘No, indeed I haven’t. I haven’t got any secrets at all.’
‘Then don’t worry, Miss Meredith. We shall have to come round and ask you a few more questions, I expect, but it will be all a matter of routine.’
He got up.
‘Now off you go. My constable will get you a taxi; and don’t you lie awake worrying yourself. Take a couple of aspirins.’
He ushered her out. As he came back Colonel Race said in a low, amused voice:
‘Battle, what a really accomplished liar you are! Your fatherly air was unsurpassed.’
‘No good dallying about with her, Colonel Race. Either the poor kid is dead scared—in which case it’s cruelty, and I’m not a cruel man; I never have been—or she’s a highly accomplished little actress, and we shouldn’t get any further if we were to keep her here half the night.’
Mrs Oliver gave a sigh and ran her hands freely through her fringe until it stood upright and gave her a wholly drunken appearance.
‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I rather believe now that she did it! It’s lucky it’s not in a book. They don’t really like the young and beautiful girl to have done it. All the same, I rather think she did. What do you think, M. Poirot?’
‘Me, I have just made a discovery.’
‘In the bridge scores again?’
‘Yes, Miss Anne Meredith turns her score over, draws lines and uses the back.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘It means she has the habit of poverty or else is of a naturally economical turn of mind.’
‘She’s expensively dressed,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Send in Major Despard,’ said Superintendent Battle.
CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_0db0bc61-d543-579f-a9cf-3ec5a6ce5a2e)
Fourth Murderer? (#ulink_0db0bc61-d543-579f-a9cf-3ec5a6ce5a2e)
Despard entered the room with a quick springing step—a step that reminded Poirot of something or some one.
