Poirot gallantly produced some loose change, and he and Mrs. Oliver went inside the building together.
They were taken to Superintendent Battle's own room. The superintendent was sitting behind a table and looking more wooden than ever. 'Just like a piece of modern sculpture,' whispered Mrs. Oliver to Poirot.
Battle rose and shook hands with them both and they sat down.
'I thought it was about time for a little meeting,' said Battle. 'You'd like to hear how I've got on, and I'd like to hear how you've got on. We're just waiting for Colonel Race and then -' But at that moment the door opened and the colonel appeared.
'Sorry I'm late, Battle. How do you do, Mrs. Oliver. Hullo, Monsieur Poirot. Very sorry if I've kept you waiting. But I'm off tomorrow and had a lot of things to see to.'
'Where are you going to?' asked Mrs. Oliver.
'A little shooting trip – Baluchistan way.'
Poirot said, smiling ironically, 'A little trouble, is there not, in that part of the world? You will have to be careful.'
'I mean to be,' said Race gravely – but his eyes twinkled.
'Got anything for us, sir?' asked Battle.
'I've got you your information on Despard. Here it is -' He pushed over a sheaf of papers.
'There's a mass of dates and places there. Most of it quite irrelevant, I should imagine. Nothing against him. He's a stout fellow. Record quite unblemished. Strict disciplinarian. Liked and trusted by the natives everywhere. One of their cumbrous names for him in Africa, where they go in for such things, is 'The man who keeps his mouth shut and judges fairly.' General opinion of the white races that Despard is a Pukka Sahib. Fine shot. Cool head. Generally long-sighted and dependable.'
Unmoved by this eulogy, Battle asked, 'Any sudden deaths connected with him?'
'I laid special stress on that point. There's one fine rescue to his credit. Pal of his was being mauled by a lion.'
Battle sighed. 'It's not rescues I want.'
'You're a persistent fellow, Battle. There's only one incident I've been able to rake up that might suit your book. Trip into the interior in South America. Despard accompanied Professor Luxmore, the celebrated botanist, and his wife. The professor died of fever and was buried somewhere up the Amazon.'
'Fever – eh?'
'Fever. But I'll play fair with you. One of the native bearers, who was sacked for stealing, incidentally, had a story that the professor didn't die of fever, but was shot. The rumor was never taken seriously.'
'About time it was, perhaps.'
Race shook his head. 'I've given you the facts. You asked for them and you're entitled to them, but I'd lay long odds against its being Despard who did the dirty work the other evening. He's a white man, Battle.'
'Incapable of murder, you mean?'
Colonel Race hesitated.
'Incapable of what I'd call murder – yes,' he said.
'But not incapable of killing a man for what would seem to him good and sufficient reasons, is that it?'
'If so, they would be good and sufficient reasons!'
Battle shook his head.
'You can't have human beings judging other human beings and taking the law into their own hands.'
'It happens, Battle – it happens.'
'It shouldn't happen – that's my point. What do you say, Monsieur Poirot?'
'I agree with you, Battle. I have always disapproved of murder.'
'What a delightfully droll way of putting it,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'Rather as though it were fox hunting or killing ospreys for hats. Don't you think there are people who ought to be murdered?'
'That, very possibly.'
'Well, then!'
'You do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is the effect on the character of the slayer.'
'What about war?'
'In war you do not exercise the right of private judgment. That is what is so dangerous. Once a man is imbued with the idea that he knows who ought to be allowed to live and who ought not – then he is half way to becoming the most dangerous killer there is, the arrogant criminal who kills not for profit but for an idea. He has usurped the functions of le bon Dieu.'
Colonel Race rose. 'I'm sorry I can't stop with you. Too much to do. I'd like to see the end of this business. Shouldn't be surprised if there never was an end. Even if you find out who did it, it's going to be next to impossible to prove. I've given you the facts you wanted, but in my opinion Despard's not the man. I don't believe he's ever committed murder. Shaitana may have heard some garbled rumor of Professor Luxmore's death, but I don't believe there's more to it than that. Despard's a white man, and I don't believe he's ever been a murderer. That's my opinion. And I know something of men.'
'What's Mrs. Luxmore like?' asked Battle.
'She lives in London so you can see for yourself. You'll find the address among those papers. Somewhere in South Kensington. But I repeat, Despard isn't the man.' Colonel Race left the room, stepping with the springy noiseless tread of a hunter.
Battle nodded his head thoughtfully as the door closed behind him. 'He's probably right,' he said. 'He knows men, Colonel Race does. But all the same, one can't take anything for granted.'
He looked through the mass of documents Race had deposited on the table, occasionally making a pencil note on the pad beside him.
'Well, Superintendent Battle,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'aren't you going to tell us what you have been doing?'
He looked up and smiled, a slow smile that creased his wooden face from side to side.
'This is all very irregular, Mrs. Oliver. I hope you realize that.'
'Nonsense,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'I don't suppose for a moment you'll tell us anything you don't want to.'
Battle shook his head.
'No,' he said decidedly. 'Cards on the table. That's the motto for this business. I mean to play fair.'
Mrs. Oliver hitched her chair nearer.
'Tell us,' she begged.
Superintendent Battle said slowly, 'First of all, I'll say this. As far as the actual murder of Mr. Shaitana goes, I'm not a penny the wiser. There's no hint nor clue of any kind to be found in his papers. As for the four others, I've had them shadowed, naturally, but without any tangible result. That was only to be expected. No, as Monsieur Poirot said, there's only one hope – the past. Find out what crime exactly, if any, these people have committed – and it may tell you who committed this crime.'
'Well, have you found out anything?'
'I've got a line on one of them,'
'Which?'
'Doctor Roberts.'
Mrs. Oliver looked at him with thrilled expectations.
'As Monsieur Poirot here knows, I tried out all kinds of theories. I established the fact pretty clearly that none of his immediate family had met with a sudden death. I've explored every alley as well as I could, and the whole thing boils down to one possibility – and rather an outside possibility at that. A few years ago Roberts must have been guilty of indiscretion, at least, with one of his lady patients. There may have been nothing in it – probably wasn't, but the woman was the hysterical emotional kind who likes to make a scene, and either the husband got wind of what was going on or his wife confessed. Anyway, the fat was in the fire as far as the doctor was concerned. Enraged husband threatening to report him to the General Medical Council – which would probably have meant the ruin of his professional career.'
'What happened?' demanded Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.
'Apparently Roberts managed to calm down the irate gentleman temporarily – and he died of anthrax almost immediately afterward.'
'Anthrax? But that's a cattle disease?'
