The display of his official card brought him to a private interview with the manager.
'Good morning, sir. One of your clients is a Doctor Geoffrey Roberts, I understand.'
'Quite correct, Superintendent.'
'I shall want some information about that gentleman's account going back over a period of years.'
'I will see what I can do for you.'
A complicated half-hour followed. Finally Battle, with a sigh, tucked away a sheet of penciled figures.
'Got what you want?' inquired the bank manager curiously.
'No, I haven't. Not one suggestive lead. Thank you all the same.'
At that same moment, Doctor Roberts, washing his hands in his consulting room, said over his shoulder to Miss Burgess, 'What about our stolid sleuth, eh? Did he turn the place upside down and you inside out?'
'He didn't get much out of me, I can tell you,' said Miss Burgess, setting her lips tightly.
'My dear girl, no need to be an oyster. I told you to tell him all he wanted to know. What did he want to know, by the way?'
'Oh, he kept harping on your knowing that man Shaitana – suggested even that he might have come here as a patient under a different name. He showed me his photograph. Such a theatrical-looking man!'
'Shaitana? Oh, yes, fond of posing as a modern Mephistopheles. It went down rather well on the whole. What else did Battle ask you?'
'Really nothing very much. Except – oh, yes, somebody had been telling him some absolute nonsense about Mrs. Graves – you know the way she used to go on.'
' Graves? Graves? Oh, yes, old Mrs. Graves! That's rather funny!' The doctor laughed with considerable amusement. 'That's really very funny indeed.'
And in high good humor he went in to lunch.
Chapter 10
DOCTOR ROBERTS (CONTINUED)
Superintendent Battle was lunching with Hercule Poirot. The former looked downcast, the latter sympathetic.
'Your morning, then, has not been entirely successful,' said Poirot thoughtfully. Battle shook his head.
'It's going to be uphill work, Monsieur Poirot.'
'What do you think of him?'
'Of the doctor? Well, frankly, I think Shaitana was right. He's a killer. Reminds me of Westaway. And of that lawyer chap in Norfolk. Same hearty self-confident manner. Same popularity. Both of them were clever devils – so's Roberts. All the same it doesn't follow that Roberts killed Shaitana, and as a matter of fact I don't think he did. He'd know the risk too well – better than a layman would – that Shaitana might wake and cry out. No, I don't think Roberts murdered him.'
'But you think he has murdered someone?'
'Possibly quite a lot of people. Westaway had. But it's going to be hard to get at. I've looked over his bank account – nothing suspicious there – no large sums suddenly paid in. At any rate in the last seven years he's not had any legacy from a patient. That wipes out murder for direct gain. He's never married – that's a pity – so ideally simple for a doctor to kill his own wife. He's well to do, but then he's got a thriving practice among well-to-do people.'
'In fact he appears to lead a thoroughly blameless life – and perhaps does do so.'
'Maybe. But I prefer to believe the worst.'
He went on. 'There's the hint of a scandal over a woman – one of his patients – name of Craddock. That's worth looking up, I think. I'll get someone on to that straightaway. Woman actually died out in Egypt at some local disease, so I don't think there's anything in that – but it might throw a light on his general character and morals.'
'Was there a husband?'
'Yes. Husband died of anthrax.'
'Anthrax?'
'Yes, there were a lot of cheap shaving brushes on the market just then – some of them infected. There was a regular scandal about it.'
'Convenient,' suggested Poirot.
'That's what I thought. If her husband were threatening to kick up a row – But there, it's all conjecture. We haven't a leg to stand upon.'
'Courage, my friend. I know your patience. In the end, you will have perhaps as many legs as a centipede.'
'And fall into the ditch as a result of thinking about them,' grinned Battle.
Then he asked curiously. 'What about you, Monsieur Poirot? Going to take a hand?'
'I, too, might call on Doctor Roberts.'
'Two of us in one day, That ought to put the wind up him.'
'Oh, I shall be very discreet. I shall not inquire into his past life.'
'I'd like to know just exactly what line you'll take,' said Battle, curiously, 'but don't tell me unless you want to.'
'Du tout – du tout. I am most willing. I shall talk a little of bridge, that is all.'
'Bridge again. You harp on that, don't you, Monsieur Poirot?'
'I find the subject very useful.'
'Well, every man to his taste. I don't deal much in these fancy approaches. They don't suit my style.'
'What is your style, Superintendent?'
The superintendent met the twinkle in Poirot's eyes with an answering twinkle in his own.
'A straightforward, honest, zealous officer doing his duty in the most laborious manner – that's my style. No frills. No fancy work, Just honest perspiration. Stolid and a bit stupid – that's my ticket.'
Poirot raised his glass. 'To our respective methods – and may success crown our joint efforts.'
'I expect Colonel Race may get us something worth having about Despard,' said Battle, 'He's got a good many sources of information.'
'And Mrs. Oliver?'
'Bit of a tossup there, I rather like that woman. Talks a lot of nonsense, but she's a sport. And women get to know things about other women that men can't get at. She may spot something useful.'
They separated. Battle went back to Scotland Yard to issue instructions for certain lines to be followed up. Poirot betook himself to 200 Gloucester Terrace.
Doctor Roberts's eyebrows rose comically as he greeted his guest. 'Two sleuths in one day?' he asked. 'Handcuffs by this evening, I suppose.'
Poirot smiled.
'I can assure you, Doctor Roberts, that my attentions are being equally divided between all four of you.'
'That's something to be thankful for, at all events. Smoke?'
'If you permit, I prefer my own.'
Poirot lighted one of his tiny Russian cigarettes.
'Well, what can I do for you?' asked Roberts.
Poirot was silent for a minute or two puffing, then he said, 'Are you a keen observer of human nature, Doctor?'
'I don't know. I suppose I am. A doctor has to be.'
'That was exactly my reasoning, I said to myself, 'A doctor has always to be studying his patients – their expressions, their color, how fast they breathe, any signs of restlessness; a doctor notices these things automatically almost without noticing he notices! Doctor Roberts is the man to help me.''
'I'm willing enough to help. What's the trouble?'
