“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….”
Twenty-six
THE TRUTH
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 opport
unity 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.”