“Ten past twelve. Time for another?”
“You’ll excuse me,” said Superintendent Battle. “But I’m by way of being an ‘early-to-bed’ man.”
“I, too,” said Hercule Poirot.
“We’d better add up,” said Race.
The result of the evening’s five rubbers was an overwhelming victory for the male sex. Mrs. Oliver had lost three pounds and seven shillings to the other three. The biggest winner was Colonel Race.
Mrs. Oliver, though a bad bridge player, was a sporting loser. She paid up cheerfully.
“Everything went wrong for me tonight,” she said. “It is like that sometimes. I held the most beautiful cards yesterday. A hundred and fifty honours three times running.”
She rose and gathered up her embroidered evening bag, just refraining in time from stroking her hair off her brow.
“I suppose our host is next door,” she said.
She went through the communicating door, the others behind her.
Mr. Shaitana was in his chair by the fire. The bridge players were absorbed in their game.
“Double five clubs,” Mrs. Lorrimer was saying in her cool, incisive voice.
“Five No Trumps.”
“Double five No Trumps.”
Mrs. Oliver came up to the bridge table. This was likely to be an exciting hand.
Superintendent Battle came with her.
Colonel Race went towards Mr. Shaitana, Poirot behind him.
“Got to be going, Shaitana,” said Race.
Mr. Shaitana did not answer. His head had fallen forward, and he seemed to be asleep. Race gave a momentary whimsical glance at Poirot and went a little nearer. Suddenly he uttered a muffled exclamation, bent forward. Poirot was beside him in a minute, he, too, looking where Colonel Race was pointing—something that might have been a particularly ornate shirt stud—but was not….
Poirot bent, raised one of Mr. Shaitana’s hands, then let it fall. He met Race’s inquiring glance and nodded. The latter raised his voice.
“Superintendent Battle, just a minute.”
The superintendent came over to them. Mrs. Oliver continued to watch the play of Five No Trumps doubled.
Superintendent Battle, despite his appearance of stolidity, was a very quick man. His eyebrows went up and he said in a low voice as he joined them:
“Something wrong?”
With a nod Colonel Race indicated the silent figure in the chair.
As Battle bent over it, Poirot looked thoughtfully at what he could see of Mr. Shaitana’s face. Rather a silly face it looked now, the mouth drooping open—the devilish expression lacking….
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
Superintendent Battle straightened himself. He had examined, without touching, the thing which looked like an extra stud in Mr. Shaitana’s shirt—and it was not an extra stud. He had raised the limp hand and let it fall.
Now he stood up, unemotional, capable, soldierly—prepared to take charge efficiently of the situation.
“Just a minute, please,” he said.