The day was not a bright one, and Mrs. Lorrimer’s room seemed rather dark and cheerless. She herself had a grey look, and seemed much older than she had done on the occasion of Poirot’s last visit.
She greeted him with her usual smiling assurance.
“It is very nice of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot. You are a busy man, I know.”
“At your service, madame,” said Poirot with a little bow.
Mrs. Lorrimer pressed the bell by the fireplace.
“We will have tea brought in. I don’t know what you feel about it, but I always think it’s a mistake to rush straight into confidences without any decent paving of the way.”
“There are to be confidences, then, madame?”
Mrs. Lorrimer did not answer, for at that moment her maid answered the bell. When she had received the order and gone again, Mrs. Lorrimer said dryly:
“You said, if you remember, when you were last here, that you would come if I sent for you. You had an idea, I think, of the reason that should prompt me to send.”
There was no more just then. Tea was brought. Mrs. Lorrimer dispensed it, talking intelligently on various topics of the day.
Taking advantage of a pause, Poirot remarked:
“I hear you and little Mademoiselle Meredith had tea together the other day.”
“We did. Have you seen her lately?”
“This very afternoon.”
“She is in London, then, or have you been down to Wallingford?”
“No. She and her friend were so amiable as to pay me a visit.”
“Ah, the friend. I have not met her.”
Poirot said, smiling a little:
“This murder—it has made for me a rapprochement. You and Mademoiselle Meredith have tea together. Major Despard, he, too, cultivates Miss Meredith’s acquaintance. The Dr. Roberts, he is perhaps the only one out of it.”
“I saw him out at bridge the other day,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “He seemed quite his usual cheerful self.”
“As fond of bridge as ever?”
“Yes—still making the most outrageous bids—and very often getting away with it.”
She was silent for a moment or two, then said:
“Have you seen Superintendent Battle lately?”
“Also this afternoon. He was with me when you telephoned.”
Shading her face from the fire with one hand, Mrs. Lorrimer asked:
“How is he getting on?”
Poirot said gravely:
“He is not very rapid, the good Battle. He gets there slowly, but he does get there in the end, madame.”
“I wonder.” Her lips curved in a faintly ironical smile.
She went on:
“He has paid me quite a lot of attention. He has delved, I think, into my past history right back to my girlhood. He has interviewed my friends, and chatted to my servants—the ones I have now and the ones who have been with me in former years. What he hoped to find I do not know, but he certainly did not find it. He might as well have accepted what I told him. It was the truth. I knew Mr. Shaitana very slightly. I met him at Luxor, as I said, and our acquaintanceship was never more than an acquaintanceship. Superintendent Battle will not be able to get away from these facts.”
“Perhaps not,” said Poirot.
“And you, M. Poirot? Have not you made any inquiries?”
“About you, madame?”
“That is what I meant.”
Slowly the little man shook his head.
“It would have been to no avail.”
“Just exactly what do you mean by that, M. Poirot?”
“I will be quite frank, madame. I have realized from the beginning that, of the four persons in Mr. Shaitana’s room that night, the one with the best brains, with the coolest, most logical head, was you, madame. If I had to lay money on the chance of one of those four planning a murder and getting away with it successfully, it is on you that I should place my money.”
Mrs. Lorrimer’s brows rose.
“Am I expected to feel flattered?” she asked drily.
Poirot went on, without paying any attention to her interruption:
“For a crime to be successful, it is usually necessary to think every detail of it out beforehand. All possible contingencies must be taken into account. The timing must be accurate. The placing must be scrupulously correct. Dr. Roberts might bungle a crime through haste and overconfidence; Major Despard would probably be too prudent to commit one; Miss Meredith might lose her head and give herself away. You, madame, would do none of these things. You would be clearheaded and cool, you are sufficiently resolute of character, and could be sufficiently obsessed with an idea to the extent of overruling prudence, you are not the kind of woman to lose her head.”
Mrs. Lorrimer sat silent for a minute or two, a curious smile playing round her lips. At last she said:
“So that is what you think of me, M. Poirot. That I am the kind of woman to commit an ideal murder.”
“At least you have the amiability not to resent the idea.”
“I find it very interesting. So it is your idea that I am the only person who could successfully have murdered Shaitana?”
Poirot said slowly:
“There is a difficulty there, madame.”
“Really? Do tell me.”
“You may have noticed that I said just now a phrase something like this: ‘For a crime to be successful it is usually necessary to plan every detail of it carefully beforehand.’ ‘Usually’ is the word to which I want to draw your attention. For there is another type of successful crime. Have you ever said suddenly to anyone, ‘Throw a stone and see if you can hit that tree,’ and the person obeys quickly, without thinking—and surprisingly often he does hit the tree? But when he comes to repeat the throw it is not so easy—for he has begun to think. ‘So hard—no harder—a little more to the right—to the left.’ The first was an almost unconscious action, the body obeying the mind as the body of an animal does. Eh bien, madame, there is a type of crime like that, a crime committed on the spur of the moment—an inspiration—a flash of genius—without time to pause or think. And that, madame, was the kind of crime that killed Mr. Shaitana. A sudden dire necessity, a flash of inspiration, rapid execution.”
He shook his head.
“And that, madame, is not your type of crime at all. If you killed Mr. Shaitana, it should have been a premeditated crime.”
“I see.” Her hand waved softly to and fro, keeping the heat of the fire from her face. “And, of course, it wasn’t a premeditated crime, so I couldn’t have killed him—eh, M. Poirot?”
Poirot bowed.
“That is right, madame.”
“And yet—” She leaned forward, her waving hand stopped. “I did kill Shaitana, M. Poirot….”
[Cards on the Table -Agatha Christie] Twenty-five. Mrs. Lorrimer Speaks