There was a pause—a very long pause.
The room was growing dark. The firelight leaped and flickered.
Mrs. Lorrimer and Hercule Poirot looked not at each other, but at the fire. It was as though time was momentarily in abeyance.
Then Hercule Poirot sighed and stirred.
“So it was that—all the time … Why did you kill him, madame?”
“I think you know why, M. Poirot.”
“Because he knew something about you—something that had happened long ago?”
“Yes.”
“And that something was—another death, madame?”
She bowed her head.
Poirot said gently:
“Why did you tell me? What made you send for me today?”
“You told me once that I should do so someday.”
“Yes—that is, I hoped … I knew, madame, that there was only one way of learning the truth as far as you were concerned—and that was by your own free will. If you did not choose to speak, you would not do so, and you would never give yourself away. But there was a chance—that you yourself might wish to speak.”
Mrs. Lorrimer nodded.
“It was clever of you to foresee that—the weariness—the loneliness—”
Her voice died away.
Poirot looked at her curiously.
“So it has been like that? Yes, I can understand it might be….”
“Alone—quite alone,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “No one knows what that means unless they have lived, as I have lived, with the knowledge of what one has done.”
Poirot said gently:
“Is it an impertinence, madame, or may I be permitted to offer my sympathy?”
She bent her head a little.
“Thank you, M. Poirot.”
There was another pause, then Poirot said, speaking in a slightly brisker tone:
“Am I to understand, madame, that you took the words Mr. Shaitana spoke at dinner as a direct menace aimed at you?”
She nodded.
“I realized at once that he was speaking so that one person should understand him. That person was myself. The reference to a woman’s weapon being poison was meant for me. He knew. I had suspected it once before. He had brought the conversation round to a certain famous trial, and I saw his eyes watching me. There was a kind of uncanny knowledge in them. But, of course, that night I was quite sure.”
“And you were sure, too, of his future intentions?”
Mrs. Lorrimer said drily:
“It was hardly likely that the presence of Superintendent Battle and yourself was an accident. I took it that Shaitana was going to advertise his own cleverness by pointing out to you both that he had discovered something that no one else had suspected.”
“How soon did you make up your mind to act, madame?”
Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a little.
“It is difficult to remember exactly when the idea came into my mind,” she said. “I had noticed the dagger before going into dinner. When we returned to the drawing room I picked it up and slipped it into my sleeve. No one saw me do it. I made sure of that.”
“It would be dexterously done, I have no doubt, madame.”
“I made up my mind then exactly what I was going to do. I had only to carry it out. It was risky, perhaps, but I considered that it was worth trying.”
“That is your coolness, your successful weighing of chances, coming into play. Yes, I see that.”
“We started to play bridge,” continued Mrs. Lorrimer. Her voice cool and unemotional. “At last an opportunity arose. I was dummy. I strolled across the room to the fireplace. Shaitana had dozed off to sleep. I looked over at the others. They were all intent on the game. I leant over and—and did it—”
Her voice shook just a little, but instantly it regained its cool aloofness.
“I spoke to him. It came into my head that that would make a kind of alibi for me. I made some remark about the fire, and then pretended he had answered me and went on again, saying something like: ‘I agree with you. I do not like radiators, either.’”
“He did not cry out at all?”
“No. I think he made a little grunt—that was all. It might have been taken for words from a distance.”
“And then?”
“And then I went back to the bridge table. The last trick was just being played.”
“And you sat down and resumed play?”
“Yes.”
“With sufficient interest in the game to be able to tell me nearly all the calling and the hands two days later?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Lorrimer simply.
“Epatant!” said Hercule Poirot.
He leaned back in his chair. He nodded his head several times. Then, by way of a change, he shook it.
“But there is still something, madame, that I do not understand.”
“Yes?”
“It seems to me that there is some factor that I have missed. You are a woman who considers and weighs everything carefully. You decide that, for a certain reason, you will run an enormous risk. You do run it—successfully. And then, not two weeks later, you change your mind. Frankly, madame, that does not seem to me to ring true.”
A queer little smile twisted her lips.
“You are quite right, M. Poirot, there is one factor that you do not know. Did Miss Meredith tell you where she met me the other day?”
“It was, I think she said, near Mrs. Oliver’s flat.”
“I believe that is so. But I meant the actual name of the street. Anne Meredith met me in Harley Street.”
“Ah!” He looked at her attentively. “I begin to see.”
“Yes, I thought you would. I had been to see a specialist there. He told me what I already half suspected.”
Her smile widened. It was no longer twisted and bitter. It was suddenly sweet.
“I shall not play very much more bridge, M. Poirot. Oh, he didn’t say so in so many words. He wrapped up the truth a little. With great care, etc., etc., I might live several years. But I shall not take any great care. I am not that kind of a woman.”
“Yes, yes, I begin to understand,” said Poirot.
“It made a difference, you see. A month—two months, perhaps—not more. And then, just as I left the specialist, I met Miss Meredith. I asked her to have tea with me.”
She paused, then went on:
“I am not, after all, a wholly wicked woman. All the time we were having tea I was thinking. By my action the other evening I had not only deprived the man Shaitana of life (that was done, and could not be undone), I had also, to a varying degree, affected unfavourably the lives of three other people. Because of what I had done, Dr. Roberts, Major Despard and Anne Meredith, none of whom had injured me in any way, were passing through a very grave ordeal, and might even be in danger. That, at least, I could undo. I don’t know that I felt particularly moved by the plight of either Dr. Roberts or Major Despard—although both of them had presumably a much longer span of life in front of them than I had. They were men, and could, to a certain extent, look after themselves. But when I looked at Anne Meredith—”
She hesitated, then continued slowly:
“Anne Meredith was only a girl. She had the whole of her life in front of her. This miserable business might ruin that life….
“I didn’t like the thought of that….
“And then, M. Poirot, with these ideas growing in my mind, I realized that what you had hinted had come true. I was not going to be able to keep silence. This afternoon I rang you up….”
Minutes passed.
Hercule Poirot leaned forward. He stared, deliberately stared through the gathering gloom, at Mrs. Lorrimer. She returned that intent gaze quietly and without any nervousness.
He said at last:
“Mrs. Lorrimer, are you sure—are you positive (you will tell me the truth, will you not?)—that the murder of Mr. Shaitana was not premeditated? Is it not a fact that you planned the crime beforehand—that you went to that dinner with the murder already mapped out in your mind?”
Mrs. Lorrimer stared at him for a moment, then she shook her head sharply.
“No,” she said.
“You did not plan the murder beforehand?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then—then … Oh, you are lying to me—you must be lying! … ”
Mrs. Lorrimer’s voice cut into the air like ice.
“Really, M. Poirot, you forget yourself.”
The little man sprang to his feet. He paced up and down the room, muttering to himself, uttering ejaculations.
Suddenly he said:
“Permit me.”
And, going to the switch, he turned on the electric lights.
He came back, sat down in his chair, placed both hands on his knees and stared straight at his hostess.
“The question is,” he said, “can Hercule Poirot possibly be wrong?”
“No one can always be right,” said Mrs. Lorrimer coldly.
“I am,” said Poirot. “Always I am right. It is so invariable that it startles me. But now it looks, it very much looks, as though I am wrong. And that upsets me. Presumably, you know what you are saying. It is your murder! Fantastic, then, that Hercule Poirot should know better than you do how you committed it.”
“Fantastic and very absurd,” said Mrs. Lorrimer still more coldly.
“I am, then, mad. Decidedly I am mad: No—sacré nom d’un petit bonhomme—I am not mad! I am right. I must be right. I am willing to believe that you killed Mr. Shaitana—but you cannot have killed him in the way you say you did. No one can do a thing that is not dans son charactère!”
He paused. Mrs. Lorrimer drew in an angry breath and bit her lips. She was about to speak, but Poirot forestalled her.
“Either the killing of Shaitana was planned beforehand—or you did not kill him at all!”
Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:
“I really believe you are mad, M. Poirot. If I am willing to admit I committed the crime, I should not be likely to lie about the way I did it. What would be the point of such a thing?”
Poirot got up again and took one turn round the room. When he came back to his seat his manner had changed. He was gentle and kindly.
“You did not kill Shaitana,” he said softly. “I see that now. I see everything. Harley Street. And little Anne Meredith standing forlorn on the pavement. I see, too, another girl—a very long time ago, a girl who has gone through life always alone—terribly alone. Yes, I see all that. But one thing I do not see—why are you so certain that Anne Meredith did it?”
“Really, M. Poirot—”
“Absolutely useless to protest—to lie further to me, madame. I tell you, I know the truth. I know the very emotions that swept over you that day in Harley Street. You would not have done it for Dr. Roberts—oh, no! You would not have done it for Major Despard, non plus. But Anne Meredith is different. You have compassion for her, because she has done what you once did. You do not know even—or so I imagine—what reason she had for the crime. But you are quite sure she did it. You were sure that first evening—the evening it happened—when Superintendent Battle invited you to give your views on the case. Yes, I know it all, you see. It is quite useless to lie further to me. You see that, do you not?”
He paused for an answer, but none came. He nodded his head in satisfaction.
“Yes, you are sensible. That is good. It is a very noble action that you perform there, madame, to take the blame on yourself and to let this child escape.”
“You forget,” said Mrs. Lorrimer in a dry voice, “I am not an innocent woman. Years ago, M. Poirot, I killed my husband….”
There was a moment’s silence.
“I see,” said Poirot. “It is justice. After all, only justice. You have the logical mind. You are willing to suffer for the act you committed. Murder is murder—it does not matter who the victim is. Madame, you have courage, and you have clearsightedness. But I ask of you once more: How can you be so sure? How do you know that it was Anne Meredith who killed Mr. Shaitana?”
A deep sigh broke from Mrs. Lorrimer. Her last resistance had gone down before Poirot’s insistence. She answered his question quite simply like a child.
“Because,” she said, “I saw her.”
[Cards on the Table -Agatha Christie] Twenty-six. The truth