“What about our stolid sleuth, eh? Did he turn the place upside down and you inside out?”
“He didn’t get much out of me, I can tell you,” said Miss Burgess, setting her lips tightly.
“My dear girl, no need to be an oyster. I told you to tell him all he wanted to know. What did he want to know, by the way?”
“Oh, he kept harping on your knowing that man Shaitana—suggested even that he might have come here as a patient under a different name. He showed me his photograph. Such a theatrical-looking man!”
“Shaitana? Oh, yes, fond of posing as a modern Mephistopheles. It went down rather well on the whole. What else did Battle ask you?”
“Really nothing very much. Except—oh, yes, somebody had been telling him some absurd nonsense about Mrs. Graves—you know the way she used to go on.”
“Graves? Graves? Oh, yes, old Mrs. Graves. That’s rather funny!” The doctor laughed with considerable amusement. “That’s really very funny indeed.”
And in high good humour he went in to lunch.
Ten
DR. ROBERTS (CONTINUED)
Superintendent Battle was lunching with M. Hercule Poirot.
The former looked downcast, the latter sympathetic.
“Your morning, then, has not been entirely successful,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
Battle shook his head.
“It’s going to be uphill work, M. Poirot.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Of the doctor? Well, frankly, I think Shaitana was right. He’s a killer. Reminds me of Westaway. And of that lawyer chap in Norfolk. Same hearty, self-confident manner. Same popularity. Both of them were clever devils—so’s Roberts. All the same, it doesn’t follow that Roberts killed Shaitana—and as a matter of fact I don’t think he did. He’d know the risk too well—better than a layman would—that Shaitana might wake and cry out. No, I don’t think Roberts murdered him.”
“But you think he has murdered someone?”
“Possibly quite a lot of people. Westaway had. But it’s going to be hard to get at. I’ve looked over his bank account—nothing suspicious there—no large sums suddenly paid in. At any rate, in the last seven years he’s not had any legacy from a patient. That wipes out murder for direct gain. He’s never married—that’s a pity—so ideally simple for a doctor to kill his own wife. He’s well-to-do, but then he’s got a thriving practice among well-to-do people.”
“In fact he appears to lead a thoroughly blameless life—and perhaps does do so.”
“Maybe. But I prefer to believe the worst.”
He went on:
“There’s the hint of a scandal over a woman—one of his patients—name of Craddock. That’s worth looking up, I think. I’ll get someone onto that straightaway. Woman actually died out in Egypt of some local disease so I don’t think there’s anything in that—but it might throw a light on his general character and morals.”
“Was there a husband?”
“Yes. Husband died of anthrax.”
“Anthrax?”
“Yes, there were a lot of cheap shaving brushes on the market just then—some of them infected. There was a regular scandal about it.”
“Convenient,” suggested Poirot.
“That’s what I thought. If her husband were threatening to kick up a row—But there, it’s all conjecture. We haven’t a leg to stand upon.”
“Courage, my friend. I know your patience. In the end, you will have perhaps as many legs as a centipede.”