111 Cheyne Lane was a small house of very neat and trim appearance standing in a quiet street. The door was painted black and the steps were particularly well whitened, the brass of the knocker and handle gleamed in the afternoon sun.
The door was opened by an elderly parlourmaid with an immaculate white cap and apron.
In answer to Poirot’s inquiry she said that her mistress was at home.
She preceded him up the narrow staircase.
“What name, sir?”
“M. Hercule Poirot.”
He was ushered into a drawing room of the usual L shape. Poirot looked about him, noting details. Good furniture, well polished, of the old family type. Shiny chintz on the chairs and settees. A few silver photograph frames about in the old-fashioned manner. Otherwise an agreeable amount of space and light, and some really beautiful chrysanthemums arranged in a tall jar.
Mrs. Lorrimer came forward to meet him.
She shook hands without showing any particular surprise at seeing him, indicated a chair, took one herself and remarked favourably on the weather.
There was a pause.
“I hope, madame,” said Hercule Poirot, “that you will forgive this visit.”
Looking directly at him, Mrs. Lorrimer asked:
“Is this a professional visit?”
“I confess it.”
“You realize, I suppose, M. Poirot, that though I shall naturally give Superintendent Battle and the official police any information and help they may require, I am by no means bound to do the same for any unofficial investigator?”
“I am quite aware of that fact, madame. If you show me the door, me, I march to that door with complete submission.”
Mrs. Lorrimer smiled very slightly.
“I am not yet prepared to go to those extremes, M. Poirot. I can give you ten minutes. At the end of that time I have to go out to a bridge party.”
“Ten minutes will be ample for my purpose. I want you to describe to me, madame, the room in which you played bridge the other evening—the room in which Mr. Shaitana was killed.”
Mrs. Lorrimer’s eyebrows rose.
“What an extraordinary question! I do not see the point of it.”
“Madame, if when you were playing bridge, someone were to say to you—why do you play that ace or why do you put on the knave that is taken by the queen and not the king which would take the trick? If people were to ask you such questions, the answers would be rather long and tedious, would they not?”
Mrs. Lorrimer smiled slightly.
“Meaning that in this game you are the expert and I am the novice. Very well.” She reflected a minute. “It was a large room. There were a good many things in it.”
“Can you describe some of those things?”
“There were some glass flowers—modern—rather beautiful … And I think there were some Chinese or Japanese pictures. And there was a bowl of tiny red tulips—amazingly early for them.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything in detail.”
“The furniture—do you remember the colour of the upholstery?”
“Something silky, I think. That’s all I can say.”
“Did you notice any of the small objects?”
“I’m afraid not. There were so many. I know it struck me as quite a collector’s room.”
There was silence for a minute. Mrs. Lorrimer said with a faint smile:
“I’m afraid I have not been very helpful.”
“There is something else.” He produced the bridge scores. “Here are the first three rubbers played. I wondered if you could help me with the aid of these scores to reconstruct the hands.”
“Let me see.” Mrs. Lorrimer looked interested. She bent over the scores.
“That was the first rubber. Miss Meredith and I were playing against the two men. The first game was played in four spades. We made it and an over trick. Then the next hand was left at two diamonds and Dr. Roberts went down one trick on it. There was quite a lot of bidding on the third hand, I remember. Miss Meredith passed. Major Despard went a heart. I passed. Dr. Roberts gave a jump bid of three clubs. Miss Meredith went three spades. Major Despard bid four diamonds. I doubled. Dr. Roberts took it into four hearts. They went down one.”
“Epatant,” said Poirot. “What a memory!”
Mrs. Lorrimer went on, disregarding him:
“On the next hand Major Despard passed and I bid a no trump. Dr. Roberts bid three hearts. My partner said nothing. Despard put his partner to four. I doubled and they went down two tricks. Then I dealt and we went out on a four-spade call.”
She took up the next score.
“It is difficult, that,” said Poirot. “Major Despard scores in the cancellation manner.”
“I rather fancy both sides went down fifty to start with—then Dr. Roberts went to five diamonds and we doubled and got him down to three tricks. Then we made three clubs, but immediately after the others went game in spades. We made the second game in five clubs. Then we went down a hundred. The others made one heart, we made two no trumps and we finally won the rubber with a four-club call.”
She picked up the next score.
“This rubber was rather a battle, I remember. It started tamely. Major Despard and Miss Meredith made a one-heart call. Then we went down a couple of fifties trying for four hearts and four spades. Then the others made game in spades—no use trying to stop them. We went down three hands running after that but undoubled. Then we won the second game in no trumps. Then a battle royal started. Each side went down in turn. Dr. Roberts overcalled but though he went down badly once or twice, his calling paid, for more than once he frightened Miss Meredith out of bidding her hand. Then he bid an original two spades, I gave him three diamonds, he bid four no trumps, I bid five spades and he suddenly jumped to seven diamonds. We were doubled, of course. He had no business to make such a call. By a kind of miracle we got it. I never thought we should when I saw his hand go down. If the others had led a heart we would have been three tricks down. As it was they led the king of clubs and we got it. It was really very exciting.”
“Je crois bien—a Grand Slam Vulnerable doubled. It causes the emotions, that! Me, I admit it, I have not the nerve to go for the slams. I content myself with the game.”
“Oh, but you shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Lorrimer with energy. “You must play the game properly.”
“Take risks, you mean?”
“There is no risk if the bidding is correct. It should be a mathematical certainty. Unfortunately, few people really bid well. They know the opening bids but later they lose their heads. They cannot distinguish between a hand with winning cards in it and a hand without losing cards—but I mustn’t give you a lecture on bridge, or on the losing count, M. Poirot.”
“It would improve my play, I am sure, madame.”
Mrs. Lorrimer resumed her study of the score.
“After that excitement the next hands were rather tame. Have you the fourth score there? Ah, yes. A ding-dong battle—neither side able to score below.”
“It is often like that as the evening wears on.”
“Yes, one starts tamely and then the cards get worked up.”
Poirot collected the scores and made a little bow.
“Madame, I congratulate you. Your card memory is magnificent—but magnificent! You remember, one might say, every card that was played!”
“I believe I do!”
“Memory is a wonderful gift. With it the past is never the past—I should imagine, madame, that to you the past unrolls itself, every incident clear as yesterday. Is that so?”
She looked at him quickly. Her eyes were wide and dark.
It was only for a moment, then she had resumed her woman-of-the-world manner, but Hercule Poirot did not doubt. That shot had gone home.
Mrs. Lorrimer rose.
“I’m afraid I shall have to leave now. I am so sorry—but I really mustn’t be late.”
“Of course not—of course not. I apologize for trespassing on your time.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you more.”
“But you have helped me,” said Hercule Poirot.
“I hardly think so.”
She spoke with decision.
“But yes. You have told me something I wanted to know.”
She asked no question as to what that something was.
He held out his hand.
“Thank you, madame, for your forbearance.”
As she shook hands with him she said:
“You are an extraordinary man, M. Poirot.”
“I am as the good God made me, madame.”
“We are all that, I suppose.”
“Not all, madame. Some of us have tried to improve on His pattern. Mr. Shaitana, for instance.”
“In what way do you mean?”
“He had a very pretty taste in objets de vertu and bric-à-brac—he should have been content with that. Instead, he collected other things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Well—shall we say—sensations?”
“And don’t you think that was dans son caractère?”
Poirot shook his head gravely.
“He played the part of the devil too successfully. But he was not the devil. Au fond, he was a stupid man. And so—he died.”
“Because he was stupid?”
“It is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, madame.”
There was a silence. Then Poirot said:
“I take my departure. A thousand thanks for your amiability, madame. I will not come again unless you send for me.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Dear me, M. Poirot, why should I send for you?”
“You might. It is just an idea. If so, I will come. Remember that.”
He bowed once more and left the room.
In the street he said to himself:
“I am right … I am sure I am right … It must be that!”
[Cards on the Table -Agatha Christie] Eleven. Mrs. Lorrimer