Despard entered the room with a quick springing step—a step that reminded Poirot of something or someone.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting all this while, Major Despard,” said Battle. “But I wanted to let the ladies get away as soon as possible.”
“Don’t apologize. I understand.”
He sat down and looked inquiringly at the superintendent.
“How well did you know Mr. Shaitana?” began the latter.
“I’ve met him twice,” said Despard crisply.
“Only twice?”
“That’s all.”
“On what occasions?”
“About a month ago we were both dining at the same house. Then he asked me to a cocktail party a week later.”
“A cocktail party here?”
“Yes.”
“Where did it take place—this room or the drawing room?”
“In all the rooms.”
“See this little thing lying about?”
Battle once more produced the stiletto.
Major Despard’s lip twisted slightly.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t mark it down on that occasion for future use.”
“There’s no need to go ahead of what I say, Major Despard.”
“I beg your pardon. The inference was fairly obvious.”
There was a moment’s pause, then Battle resumed his inquiries.
“Had you any motive for disliking Mr. Shaitana?”
“Every motive.”
“Eh?” The superintendent sounded startled.
“For disliking him—not for killing him,” said Despard. “I hadn’t the least wish to kill him, but I would thoroughly have enjoyed kicking him. A pity. It’s too late now.”
“Why did you want to kick him, Major Despard?”
“Because he was the sort of Dago who needed kicking badly. He used to make the toe of my boot fairly itch.”
“Know anything about him—to his discredit, I mean?”
“He was too well dressed—he wore his hair too long—and he smelt of scent.”
“Yet you accepted his invitation to dinner,” Battle pointed out.
“If I were only to dine in houses where I thoroughly approved of my host I’m afraid I shouldn’t dine out very much, Superintendent Battle,” said Despard drily.
“You like society, but you don’t approve of it?” suggested the other.
“I like it for very short periods. To come back from the wilds to lighted rooms and women in lovely clothes, to dancing and good food and laughter—yes, I enjoy that—for a time. And then the insincerity of it all sickens me, and I want to be off again.”
“It must be a dangerous sort of life that you lead, Major Despard, wandering about in these wild places.”
Despard shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly.
“Mr. Shaitana didn’t lead a dangerous life—but he is dead, and I am alive!”
“He may have led a more dangerous life than you think,” said Battle meaningly.
“What do you mean?”
“The late Mr. Shaitana was a bit of a Nosey Parker,” said Battle.
The other leaned forward.
“You mean that he meddled with other people’s lives—that he discovered—what?”
“I really meant that perhaps he was the sort of man who meddled—er—well, with women.”
Major Despard leant back in his chair. He laughed, an amused but indifferent laugh.
“I don’t think women would take a mountebank like that seriously.”
“What’s your theory of who killed him, Major Despard?”
“Well, I know I didn’t. Little Miss Meredith didn’t. I can’t imagine Mrs. Lorrimer doing so—she reminds me of one of my more God-fearing aunts. That leaves the medical gentleman.”
“Can you describe your own and other people’s movements this evening?”
“I got up twice—once for an ashtray, and I also poked the fire—and once for a drink—”
“At what times?”
“I couldn’t say. First time might have been about half past ten, the second time eleven, but that’s pure guesswork. Mrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once and said something to Shaitana. I didn’t actually hear him answer, but, then, I wasn’t paying attention. I couldn’t swear he didn’t. Miss Meredith wandered about the room a bit, but I don’t think she went over near the fireplace. Roberts was always jumping up and down—three or four times at least.”
“I’ll ask you M. Poirot’s question,” said Battle with a smile. “What did you think of them as bridge players?”
“Miss Meredith’s quite a good player. Roberts overcalls his hand disgracefully. He deserves to go down more than he does. Mrs. Lorrimer’s damned good.”
Battle turned to Poirot.
“Anything else, M. Poirot?”
Poirot shook his head.
Despard gave his address as the Albany, wished them goodnight and left the room.
As he closed the door behind him, Poirot made a slight movement.
“What is it?” demanded Battle.
“Nothing,” said Poirot. “It just occurred to me that he walked like a tiger—yes, just so—lithe, easy, does the tiger move along.”
“H’m!” said Battle. “Now, then”—his eyes glanced round at his three companions—“which of ’em did it?”
[Cards on the Table -Agatha Christie] Seven. Fourth Murderer?