“My methods being less straightforward?”
“You can put it that way if you like,” said Battle grinning. “I’ve heard Inspector Japp say that you’ve got a tortuous mind.”
“Like the late Mr. Shaitana?”
“You think he would have been able to get things out of her?”
Poirot said slowly:
“I rather think he did get things out of her!”
“What makes you think so?” asked Battle sharply.
“A chance remark of Major Despard’s.”
“Gave himself away, did he? That sounds unlike him.”
“Oh, my dear friend, it is impossible not to give oneself away—unless one never opens one’s mouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers.”
“Even if people tell lies?” asked Mrs. Oliver.
“Yes, madame, because it can be seen at once that you tell a certain kind of lie.”
“You make me feel quite uncomfortable,” said Mrs. Oliver, getting up.
Superintendent Battle accompanied her to the door and shook her by the hand.
“You’ve been the goods, Mrs. Oliver,” he said. “You’re a much better detective than that long lanky Laplander of yours.”
“Finn,” corrected Mrs. Oliver. “Of course he’s idiotic. But people like him. Good-bye.”
“I, too, must depart,” said Poirot.
Battle scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it into Poirot’s hand.
“There you are. Go and tackle her.”
Poirot smiled.
“And what do you want me to find out?”
“The truth about Professor Luxmore’s death.”
“Mon cher Battle! Does anybody know the truth about anything?”
“I’m going to about this business in Devonshire,” said the superintendent with decision.
Poirot murmured:
“I wonder.”
Twenty
THE EVIDENCE OF MRS. LUXMORE
The maid who opened the door at Mrs. Luxmore’s South Kensington address looked at Hercule Poirot with deep disapproval. She showed no disposition to admit him into the house.
Unperturbed, Poirot gave her a card.
“Give that to your mistress. I think she will see me.”
It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words “Private Detective” were printed in one corner. He had had them specially engraved for the purpose of obtaining interviews with the so-called fair sex. Nearly every woman, whether conscious of innocence or not, was anxious to have a look at a private detective and find out what he wanted.
Left ignominiously on the mat, Poirot studied the doorknocker with intense disgust at its unpolished condition.
“Ah! for some Brasso and a rag,” he murmured to himself.
Breathing excitedly the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.
He was shown into a room on the first floor—a rather dark room smelling of stale flowers and unemptied ashtrays. There were large quantities of silk cushions of exotic colours all in need of cleaning. The walls were emerald green and the ceiling was of pseudo copper.
A tall, rather handsome woman was standing by the mantelpiece. She came forward and spoke in a deep husky voice.
“M. Hercule Poirot?”
Poirot bowed. His manner was not quite his own. He was not only foreign but ornately foreign. His gestures were positively baroque. Faintly, very faintly, it was the manner of the late Mr. Shaitana.
“What did you want to see me about?”
Again Poirot bowed.
“If I might be seated? It will take a little time—”
She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a sofa.
“Yes? Well?”
“It is, madame, that I make the inquiries—the private inquiries, you understand?”
The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.
“Yes—yes?”
“I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore.”
She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.
“But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?”
Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.
“There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent husband. The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact. As to your husband’s death, for instance—”
She broke in at once:
“My husband died of fever—on the Amazon.”
Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to and fro—a maddening, monotonous motion.
“Madame—madame—” he protested.
“But I know! I was there at the time.”
“Ah, yes, certainly. You were there. Yes, my information says so.”
She cried out:
“What information?”
Eyeing her closely Poirot said:
“Information supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana.”
She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.
“Shaitana?” she muttered.
“A man,” said Poirot, “possessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable man. That man knew many secrets.”
“I suppose he did,” she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.
Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.
“He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever.”
She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate.
He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.
She pulled herself together with an effort.
“I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.”
It was very unconvincingly said.
“Madame,” said Poirot, “I will come out into the open. I will,” he smiled, “place my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of fever. He died of a bullet!”
“Oh!” she cried.
She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in terrible distress. But somewhere, in some remote fibre of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions. Poirot was quite sure of that.
“And therefore,” said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, “you might just as well tell me the whole story.”
She uncovered her face and said:
“It wasn’t in the least way you think.”
Again Poirot leaned forward—again he tapped her knee.
“You misunderstand me—you misunderstand me utterly,” he said. “I know very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were the cause.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a sort of fatality that pursues me.”
“Ah, how true that is,” cried Poirot. “How often have I not seen it? There are some women like that. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not their fault. These things happen in spite of themselves.”
Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.
“You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally.”
“You travelled together into the interior, did you not?”
“Yes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard was introduced to us as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition. My husband liked him very much. We started.”
There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and then murmured as though to himself.
“Yes, one can picture it. The winding river—the tropical night—the hum of the insects—the strong soldierly man—the beautiful woman….”
Mrs. Luxmore sighed.
“My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child before I knew what I was doing….”
Poirot shook his head sadly.
“I know. I know. How often does that not occur?”
“Neither of us would admit what was happening,” went on Mrs. Luxmore. “John Despard never said
anything. He was the soul of honour.”