Cards On The Table Part 33

"The truth about Professor Luxmore's death."

"Mon chef Battle! Does anybody know the truth about anything?"

"I'm going to about this business in Devons.h.i.+re," said the superintendent with decision.

Poirot murmured: "I wonder."

CHAPTER 20

The Evidence of Mrs. Luxmore

The maid who opened the door at Mrs. Luxmore's South Kensington address looked at Hercule Poirot with deep disapproval. She showed no disposition to admit him into the house.

Unperturbed, Poirot gave her a card.

"Give that to your mistress. I think she will see me."

It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words "Private Detective" were printed in one corner. He had had them specially engraved for the purpose of obtaining interviews with the so-called fair s.e.x. Nearly every woman, whether conscious of innocence or not, was anxious to have a look at a private detective and find out what he wanted.

Left ignominiously on the mat, Poirot studied the door-knocker with intense disgust at its unpolished condition.

"Ah! for some Bra.s.so and a rag," he murmured to himself.

Breathing excitedly the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.

He was shown into a room on the first floor--a rather dark room smelling of stale flowers and unemptied ashtrays. There were large quant.i.ties of silk cus.h.i.+ons of exotic colours all in need of cleaning. The walls were emerald green and the ceiling was of pseudo copper.

A tall, rather handsome woman was standing by the mantelpiece. She came

forward and spoke in a deep husky voice.

"M. Hercule Poirot?"

Poirot bowed. His manner was not quite his own. He was not only foreign but-ornately foreign. His gestures were positively baroque. Faintly, very faintly, it was the manner of the late Mr. Shaitana.

"What did you want to see me about?"

Again Poirot bowed.

"If I might be seated? It will take a little time "

She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a

sofa.

"Yes? Well?"

"It is, madame, that I make the inquiriesthe private inquiries, you understand?"

The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.

"Yes--yes?"

"I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore."

She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.

"But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?"

Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.

"There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent husband. The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact. As to your

husband's death, for instance "

She broke in at once:

"My husband died of fevern the Amazon."

Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to

and froa maddening, monotonous motion.

"Madame, madame "he protested.

"But I know! I was there at the time."

"Ah, yes, certainly. You were there. Yes, my information says so."

She cried out:

"What information?"

Eyeing her closely Poirot said:

"Information supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana."

She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.

"Shaitana?" she muttered.

"A man," said Poirot, "possessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable man. That man knew many secrets."

"I suppose he did," she murmured, pa.s.sing a tongue over her dry lips.

Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.

"He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever."

She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate.

He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.

She pulled herself together with an effort.

"I don't--I don't know what you mean."

It was very unconvincingly said.