“Quite so—but today you have gone further than that.”
Mrs. Lorrimer said grimly:
“I’ve never been a very softhearted or compassionate woman, but I suppose these qualities grow upon one in one’s old age. I assure you, I’m not often actuated by pity.”
“It is not always a very safe guide, madame. Mademoiselle Anne is young, she is fragile, she looks timid and frightened—oh, yes, she seems a very worthy subject for compassion. But I, I do not agree. Shall I tell you, madame, why Miss Anne Meredith killed Mr. Shaitana. It was because he knew that she had previously killed an elderly lady to whom she was companion—because that lady had found her out in a petty theft.”
Mrs. Lorrimer looked a little startled.
“Is that true, M. Poirot?”
“I have no doubt of it, whatsoever. She is so soft—so gentle—one would say. Pah! She is dangerous, madame, that little Mademoiselle Anne! Where her own safety, her own comfort, is concerned, she will strike wildly—treacherously. With Mademoiselle Anne those two crimes will not be the end. She will gain confidence from them….”
Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:
“What you say is horrible, M. Poirot. Horrible!”
Poirot rose.
“Madame, I will now take my leave. Reflect on what I have said.”
Mrs. Lorrimer was looking a little uncertain of herself. She said with an attempt at her old manner:
“If it suits me, M. Poirot, I shall deny this whole conversation. You have no witnesses, remember. What I have just told you that I saw on that fatal evening is—well, private between ourselves.”
Poirot said gravely:
“Nothing shall be done without your consent, madame. And be at peace; I have my own methods. Now that I know what I am driving at—”
He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Permit me to tell you, madame, that you are a most remarkable woman. All my homage and respect. Yes, indeed, a woman in a thousand. Why, you have not even done what nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand could not have resisted doing.”
“What is that?”
“Told me just why you killed your husband—and how entirely justified such a proceeding really was.”
Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up.
“Really, M. Poirot,” she said stiffly. “My reasons were entirely my own business.”
“Magnifique!” said Poirot, and, once more raising her hand to his lips, he left the room.
It was cold outside the house, and he looked up and down for a taxi, but there was none in sight.
He began to walk in the direction of King’s Road.
As he walked he was thinking hard. Occasionally he nodded his head; once he shook it.
He looked back over his shoulder. Someone was going up the steps of Mrs. Lorrimer’s house. In figure it looked very like Anne Meredith. He hesitated for a minute, wondering whether to turn back or not, but in the end he went on.
On arrival at home, he found that Battle had gone without leaving any message.
He proceeded to ring the superintendent up.
“Hallo.” Battle’s voice came through. “Got anything?”
“Je crois bien. Mon ami, we must get after the Meredith girl—and quickly.”