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“No one can always be right,” said Mrs. Lorrimer coldly.
“I am,” said Poirot. “Always I am right. It is so invariable that it startles me. But now it looks, it very much looks, as though I am wrong. And that upsets me. Presumably, you know what you are saying. It is your murder! Fantastic, then, that Hercule Poirot should know better than you do how you committed it.”
“Fantastic and very absurd,” said Mrs. Lorrimer still more coldly.
“I am, then, mad. Decidedly I am mad: No—sacré nom d’un petit bonhomme—I am not mad! I am right. I must be right. I am willing to believe that you killed Mr. Shaitana—but you cannot have killed him in the way you say you did. No one can do a thing that is not dans son charactère!”
He paused. Mrs. Lorrimer drew in an angry breath and bit her lips. She was about to speak, but Poirot forestalled her.
“Either the killing of Shaitana was planned beforehand—or you did not kill him at all!”
Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:
“I really believe you are mad, M. Poirot. If I am willing to admit I committed the crime, I should not be likely to lie about the way I did it. What would be the point of such a thing?”
Poirot got up again and took one turn round the room. When he came back to his seat his manner had changed. He was gentle and kindly.
“You did not kill Shaitana,” he said softly. “I see that now. I see everything. Harley Street. And little Anne Meredith standing forlorn on the pavement. I see, too, another girl—a very long time ago, a girl who has gone through life always alone—terribly alone. Yes, I see all that. But one thing I do not see—why are you so certain that Anne Meredith did it?”
“Really, M. Poirot—”
“Absolutely useless to protest—to lie further to me, madame. I tell you, I know the truth. I know the very emotions that swept over you that day in Harley Street. You would not have done it for Dr. Roberts—oh, no! You would not have done it for Major Despard, non plus. But Anne Meredith is different. You have compassion for her, because she has done what you once did. You do not know even—or so I imagine—what reason she had for the crime. But you are quite sure she did it. You were sure that first evening—the evening it happened—when Superintendent Battle invited you to give your views on the case. Yes, I know it all, you see. It is quite useless to lie further to me. You see that, do you not?”
He paused for an answer, but none came. He nodded his head in satisfaction.
“Yes, you are sensible. That is good. It is a very noble action that you perform there, madame, to take the blame on yourself and to let this child escape.”
“You forget,” said Mrs. Lorrimer in a dry voice, “I am not an innocent woman. Years ago, M. Poirot, I killed my husband….”
There was a moment’s silence.
“I see,” said Poirot. “It is justice. After all, only justice. You have the logical mind. You are willing to suffer for the act you committed. Murder is murder—it does not matter who the victim is. Madame, you have courage, and you have clearsightedness. But I ask of you once more: How can you be so sure? How do you know that it was Anne Meredith who killed Mr. Shaitana?”
A deep sigh broke from Mrs. Lorrimer. Her last resistance had gone down before Poirot’s insistence. She answered his question quite simply like a child.
“Because,” she said, “I saw her.”
Twenty-seven
THE EYEWITNESS
Suddenly Poirot laughed. He could not help it. His head went back, and his high Gallic laugh filled the room.
“Pardon, madame,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I could not help it. Here we argue and we reason! We ask questions! We invoke the psychology—and all the time there was an eyewitness of the crime. Tell me, I pray of you.”
“It was fairly late in the evening. Anne Meredith was dummy. She got up and looked over her partner’s hand, and then she moved about the room. The hand wasn’t very interesting—the conclusion was inevitable. I didn’t need to concentrate on the cards. Just as we got to the last three tricks I looked over towards the fireplace. Anne Meredith was bent over Mr. Shaitana. As I watched, she straightened herself—her hand had been actually on his breast—a gesture which awakened my surprise. She straightened herself, and I saw her face and her quick look over towards us. Guilt and fear—that is what I saw on her face. Of course, I didn’t know what had happened then. I only wondered what on earth the girl could have been doing. Later—I knew.”
Poirot nodded.
“But she did not know that you knew. She did not know that you had seen her?”
“Poor child,” said Mrs. Lorrimer. “Young, frightened—her way to make in the world. Do you wonder that I—well, held my tongue?”
“No, no, I do not wonder
.”
“Especially knowing that I—that I myself—” She finished the sentence with a shrug. “It was certainly not my place to stand accuser. It was up to the police.”
