Cards On The Table Part 37

So it came about that at three o'clock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes and Anne Meredith sat primly on their chairs in Poirot's neat room and sipped blackberry sirop (which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse) from old-fashioned gla.s.ses.

"It was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle," Poirot was saying.

"I'm sure I shall be glad to help you in any way I can," murmured Anne vaguely.

"It is a little mater of memory."

"Memory?"

"Yes, I have already put these questions to Mrs. Lorrimer, to Dr. Roberts and to Major Despard. None of them, alas, have given me the response that I hoped

for."

Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

"I want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the drawing-room of Mr. Shaitana."

A weary shadow pa.s.sed over Anne's face. Was she never to be free of that nightmare?

Poirot noticed the expression.

"I know, mademoiselle, I know," he said kindly. "C'est pnible, n'est ce pas? That is very natural. You, so young as you are, to be brought in contact with horror

for the first time. Probably you have never known or seen a violent death."

Rhoda's feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor.

"Well?" said Anne.

"Cast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that room?"

Anne stared at him suspiciously.

"I don't understand?"

"But, yes. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments, the wallpaper, the curtains, the fire-irons. You saw them all. Can you not then describe them?"

"Oh, I see." Anne hesitated, frowning. "It's difficult. I don't really think I remember. I couldn't say what the wallpaper was like. I think the walls were painted--some inconspicuous colour. There were rugs on the floor. There was a piano." She shook her head. "I really couldn't tell you any more."

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"But you are not trying, mademoiselle. You must remember some object, some ornament, some piece of bricabrac?"

"There was a case of Egyptian jewellery, I remember," said Anne slowly.

"Over by the window."

"Oh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay the little dagger."

Anne looked at him.

"I never heard which table that was on."

"Pas si bte," commented Poirot to himself. "But then, no more is Hercule Poirot! If she knew me better she would realise I would never lay a piege as gross as that!"

Aloud he said: "A case of Egyptian jewellery, you say?"

Anne answered with some enthusiasm.

"Yes--some of it was lovely. Blues and red. Enamel. One or two lovely rings.

And scarabsbut I don't like them so much."

"He was a great collector, Mr. Shaitana," murmured Poirot. "Yes, he must have been," Anne agreed. "The room was full of stuff. One couldn't begin to look at it all."

"So that you cannot mention anything else that particularly struck your notice?"

Anne smiled a little as she said: "Only a vase of chrysanthemums that badly wanted their water changed."

"Ah, yes, servants are not always too particular about that."

Poirot was silent for a moment or two.

Anne asked timidly.

"I'm afraid I didn't notice--whatever it is you wanted me to notice."

Poirot smiled kindly.

"It does not matter, mon enfant. It was, indeed, an outside chance. Tell me, have you seen the good Major Despard lately?"

He saw the delicate pink colour come up in the girl's face. She replied:

"He said he would come and see us again quite soon."

Rhoda said impetuously: "He didn't do it, anyway! Anne and I are quite sure of that."

Poirot twinkled at them.

"How fortunates-to have convinced two such charming young ladies of one's innocence."

"Oh, dear," thought Rhoda. "He's going to be French, and it does embarra.s.s me so.

She got up and began examining some etchings on the wall.

"These are awfully good," she said.

"They are not bad," said Poirot.

He hesitated, looking at Anne.

"Mademoiselle," he said at last. "I wonder if I might ask you to do me a great favour--oh, nothing to do with the murder. This is an entirely private and personal matter."

Anne looked a little surprised. Poirot went on speaking in a slightly embarra.s.sed manner.

"It is, you understand, that Christmas is coming on. I have to buy presents for many nieces and grand-nieces. And it is a little difficult to choose what young ladies like in this present time. My tastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned."

"Yes?" said Anne kindly.

"Silk stockings, now--are silk stockings a welcome present to receive?"

"Yes, indeed. It's always nice to be given stockings."

"You relieve my mind. I will ask my favour. I have obtained some different colours. There are, I think, about fifteen or sixteen pairs. Would you be so amiable as to look through them and set aside half a dozen pairs that seem to you the most desirable?"

"Certainly I will," said Anne, rising, with a laugh.

Poirot directed her towards a table in an alcove--a table whose contents were strangely at variance, had she but known it, with the well-known order and neatness of Hercule Poirot. There were stockings piled up in untidy heaps--some fur-lined gloves---calendars and boxes of bonbons.

"I send off my parcels very much l'avance," Poirot explained. "See,

mademoiselle, here are the stockings. Select me, I pray of you, six pairs."

He turned, intercepting Rhoda, who was following him.

"As for mademoiselle here, I have a little treat for her--a treat that would be