Superintendent Battle hesitated a minute as he caught Mrs. Oliver’s eloquent eye. He was well aware of Colonel Race’s official position, and Poirot had worked with the police on many occasions. For Mrs. Oliver to remain was decidedly stretching a point. But Battle was a kindly man. He remembered that Mrs. Oliver had lost three pounds and seven shillings at bridge, and that she had been a cheerful loser.
“You can all stay,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned. But no interruptions, please (he looked at Mrs. Oliver), and there mustn’t be a hint of what M. Poirot has just told us. That was Shaitana’s little secret, and to all intents and purposes it died with him. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Battle strode to the door and called the constable who was on duty in the hall.
“Go to the little smoking room. You’ll find Anderson there with four guests. Ask Dr. Roberts if he’ll be so good as to step this way.”
“I should have kept him to the end,” said Mrs. Oliver. “In a book, I mean,” she added apologetically.
“Real life’s a bit different,” said Battle.
“I know,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Badly constructed.”
Dr. Roberts entered with the springiness of his step slightly subdued.
“I say, Battle,” he said. “This is the devil of a business! Excuse me, Mrs. Oliver, but it is. Professionally speaking, I could hardly have believed it! To stab a man with three other people a few yards away.” He shook his head. “Whew! I wouldn’t like to have done it!” A slight smile twitched up the corners of his mouth. “What can I say or do to convince you that I didn’t do it?”
“Well, there’s motive, Dr. Roberts.”
The doctor nodded his head emphatically.
“That’s all clear. I hadn’t the shadow of a motive for doing away with poor Shaitana. I didn’t even know him very well. He amused me—he was such a fantastic fellow. Touch of the Oriental about him. Naturally, you’ll investigate my relations with him closely—I expect that. I’m not a fool. But you won’t find anything. I’d no reason for killing Shaitana, and I didn’t kill him.”
Superintendent Battle nodded woodenly.
“That’s all right, Dr. Roberts. I’ve got to investigate as you know. You’re a sensible man. Now, can you tell me anyt
hing about the other three people?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know very much. Despard and Miss Meredith I met for the first time tonight. I knew of Despard before—read his travel book, and a jolly good yarn it is.”
“Did you know that he and Mr. Shaitana were acquainted?”
“No. Shaitana never mentioned him to me. As I say, I’d heard of him, but never met him. Miss Meredith I’ve never seen before. Mrs. Lorrimer I know slightly.”
“What do you know about her?”
Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
“She’s a widow. Moderately well off. Intelligent, well-bred woman—first-class bridge player. That’s where I’ve met her, as a matter of fact—playing bridge.”
“And Mr. Shaitana never mentioned her, either?”
“No.”
“H’m—that doesn’t help us much. Now, Dr. Roberts, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tax your memory carefully and tell me how often you yourself left your seat at the bridge table, and all you can remember about the movements of the others.”
Dr. Roberts took a few minutes to think.
“It’s difficult,” he said frankly. “I can remember my own movements, more or less. I got up three times—that is, on three occasions when I was dummy I left my seat and made myself useful. Once I went over and put wood on the fire. Once I brought drinks to the two ladies. Once I poured out a whisky and soda for myself.”
“Can you remember the times?”
“I could only say very roughly. We began to play about nine thirty, I imagine. I should say it was about an hour later that I stoked the fire, quite a short time after that I fetched the drinks (next hand but one, I think), and perhaps half past eleven when I got myself a whisky and soda—but those times are quite approximate. I couldn’t answer for their being correct.”
“The table with the drinks was beyond Mr. Shaitana’s chair?”