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He was very disturbed.
Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a young girl from death and disgrace—or was there a different, a more sinister explanation?
There were certain facts….
Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark, discoloured bruise on the dead woman’s arm.
He straightened himself up again. There was a strange, catlike gleam in his eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognized.
He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said:
“He hasn’t come back, sir.”
Battle said:
“Despard. I’ve been trying to get him. There’s a letter for him with the Chelsea postmark all right.”
Poirot asked an irrelevant question.
“Had Dr. Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?”
Battle stared.
“No,” he said, “I remember he mentioned that he’d come out without it.”
“Then he will be at his house now. We can get him.”
“But why—?”
But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke:
“Dr. Roberts? It is Dr. Roberts speaking? Mais oui, it is Poirot here. Just one question. Are you well acquainted with the handwriting of Mrs. Lorrimer?”
“Mrs. Lorrimer’s handwriting? I—no, I don’t know that I’d ever seen it before.”
“Je vous remercie.”
Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.
Battle was staring at him.
“What’s the big idea, M. Poirot?” he asked quietly.
Poirot took him by the arm.
“Listen, my friend. A few minutes after I left this house yesterday Anne Meredith arrived. I actually saw her going up the steps, though I was not quite sure of her identity at the time. Immediately after Anne Meredith left Mrs. Lorrimer went to bed. As far as the maid knows, she did not write any letters then. And, for reasons which you will understand when I recount to you our interview, I do not believe that she wrote those three letters before my visit. When did she write them, then?”
“After the servants had gone to bed?” suggested Battle. “She got up and posted them herself.”
“That is possible, yes, but there is another possibility—that she did not write them at all.”
Battle whistled.
“My God, you mean—”
The telephone trilled. The sergeant picked up the receiver. He listened a minute, then turned to Battle.
“Sergeant O’Connor speaking from Despard’s flat, sir. There’s reason to believe that Despard’s down at Wallingford-on-Thames.”
