As Battle bent over it, Poirot looked thoughtfully at what he could see of Mr. Shaitana's face. Rather a silly face it looked now, the mouth drooping open – the devilish expression lacking.
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
Superintendent Battle straightened himself. He had examined without touching the thing which looked like an extra stud in Mr. Shaitana's shirt and it was not an extra stud. He had raised the limp hand and let it fall.
Now he stood up, unemotional, capable, soldierly – prepared to take charge efficiently of the situation.
'Just a minute, please,' he said.
And the raised voice was his official voice, so different that all the heads at the bridge table turned to him, and Anne Meredith's hand remained poised over an ace of spades in the dummy.
'I'm sorry to tell you all,' he said, 'that our host, Mr. Shaitana, is dead.'
Mrs. Lorrimer and Doctor Roberts rose to their feet. Despard stared and frowned. Anne Meredith gave a little gasp.
'Are you sure, man?'
Doctor Roberts, his professional instincts aroused, came briskly across the floor with a bounding medical 'in at the death' step.
Without seeming to, the bulk of Superintendent Battle impeded his progress.
'Just a minute, Doctor Roberts. Can you tell me first who's been in and out of this room this evening?'
Roberts stared at him.
'In and out? I don't understand you. Nobody has.'
The superintendent transferred his gaze.
'Is that right, Mrs. Lorrimer?'
'Quite right.'
'Not the butler nor any of the servants?'
'No. The butler brought in that tray as we sat down to bridge. He has not been in since.'
Superintendent Battle looked at Despard.
Despard nodded in agreement.
Anne said rather breathlessly, 'Yes – yes, that's right.'
'What's all this, man,' said Roberts impatiently. 'Just let me examine him – may be just a fainting fit.'
'It isn't a fainting fit, and I'm sorry – but nobody's going to touch him until the divisional surgeon comes. Mr. Shaitana's been murdered, ladies and gentlemen.'
'Murdered?' A horrified incredulous sigh from Anne.
A stare, a very blank stare from Despard.
A sharp incisive 'Murdered?' from Mrs. Lorrimer.
A 'Good God!' from Doctor Roberts.
Superintendent Battle nodded his head slowly. He looked rather like a Chinese porcelain mandarin. His expression was quite blank.
'Stabbed,' he said. 'That's the way of it. Stabbed.'
Then he shot out a question. 'Any of you leave the bridge table during the evening?'
He saw four expressions break up – waver. He saw fear – comprehension – indignation – dismay – horror, but he saw nothing definitely helpful.
'Well?'
There was a pause and then Major Despard said quietly, he had risen now and was standing like a soldier on parade, his narrow intelligent face turned to Battle, 'I think every one of us, at one time, or another, moved from the bridge table – either to get drinks or to put wood on the fire. I did both. When I went to the fire Shaitana was asleep in his chair.'
'Asleep?'
'I thought so – yes.'
'He may have been,' said Battle. 'Or he may have been dead then. We'll go into that presently. I'll ask you now to go into the room, next door.' He turned to the quiet figure at his elbow. 'Colonel Race, perhaps you'll go with them?'
Race gave a quick nod of comprehension.
'Right, Superintendent.'
The four bridge players went slowly through the doorway.
Mrs. Oliver sat down in a chair at the far end of the room and began to sob quietly.
Battle took up the telephone receiver and spoke.
Then he said, 'The local police will be round immediately. Orders from headquarters are that I'm to take on the case. Divisional surgeon will be here almost at once. How long should you say he'd been dead, Monsieur Poirot? I'd say well over an hour myself.'
'I agree. Alas that one cannot be more exact – that one cannot say, 'This man has been dead one hour twenty-five minutes and forty seconds.''
Battle nodded absently.
'He was sitting right in front of the fire. That makes a slight difference. Over an hour, not more than two and a half – that's what our doctor will say, I'll be bound. And nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Amazing! What a desperate chance to take. He might have cried out.'
'But he did not. The murderer's luck held. As you say, mon ami, it was a very desperate business.'
'Any ideas, Monsieur Poirot? As to motive? Anything of that kind?'
Poirot said slowly, 'Yes, I have something to say on that score. Tell me – Monsieur Shaitana, he did not give you any hint of what kind of a party you were coming to tonight?'
Superintendent Battle looked at him curiously.
'No, Monsieur Poirot. He didn't say anything at all. Why?'
A bell whirred in the distance and a knocker was plied.
'That's our people,' said Superintendent Battle. 'I'll go and let 'em in. We'll have your story presently. Must get on with the routine work.'
Poirot nodded. Battle left the room.
Mrs. Oliver continued to sob.
Poirot went over to the bridge table. Without touching anything he examined the scores. He shook his head once or twice.
'The stupid little man! Oh, the stupid little man,' murmured Hercule Poirot. 'To dress up as the devil and try to frighten people. Quel enfantillage!'
The door opened. The divisional surgeon came in, bag in hand; he was followed by the divisional inspector talking to Battle. A camera man came next. There was a constable in the hall.
The routine of the detection of crime had begun.
Chapter 4
FIRST MURDERER?
Hercule Poirot, Mrs. Oliver, Colonel Race, and Superintendent Battle sat round the dining-room table. It was an hour later. The body had been examined, photographed, and removed. A fingerprint expert had been and gone.
Superintendent Battle looked at Poirot.
'Before I have those four in, I want to hear what you've got to tell me. According to you there was something behind this party tonight?'
Very deliberately and carefully Poirot retold the conversation he had held with Shaitana at Wessex House.
Superintendent Battle pursed his lips. He very nearly whistled.
'Exhibits – eh? Murderers all alive, oh! And you think he meant it? You don't think he was pulling your
