Chapter 19 Chapter 19 Consultation

The phone at Poirot's house rang, and there was a well-mannered voice on the other end of the line. "I am Inspector O'Connor. Inspector Bart greets you. Is it convenient for Mr. Hercule Poirot to come to Scotland Yard at eleven-thirty?" Poirot replied in the affirmative, and Inspector O'Connor hung up the phone. Poirot got out of the taxi at the gate of New Scotland Yard exactly at eleven-thirty--and was immediately caught by Mrs. Oliver. "Mr. Poirot. Great! Will you come and save me?" "It will be more than a pleasure, madam. How can I help you?"

"Pay the taxi for me. I don't know why, but I've got the purse for foreign currency when I go abroad, and this guy won't take francs, lire, or marks!" Poirot graciously produced a small change to pay the bill, and he and Mrs. Oliver entered the building together. The two of them were ushered into Inspector Bart's room.The inspector sat behind a long table, looking more rigid than usual.Mrs. Oliver whispered to Poirot: "It looks like a modern sculpture." Bart stood up, shook hands with them both, and they sat down one by one. Bart said, "I think it's time for a little meeting. You must want to hear what I'm doing, and I'd like to hear what you're doing. Just wait until Colonel Race comes and—" And now we're off, Colonel walk in.

"Bart, I'm sorry I'm late. Hello, Mrs. Oliver. Hi, Mr. Poirot. I'm sorry to keep you waiting. But I'm going on a long journey tomorrow, and I have a lot to attend to." Mrs. Oliver asked, "Where are you going?" "A little shooting trip—to Palustan in South Asia." Poirot said with a sneer: "There's trouble there, isn't it? You've got to watch out." "I will," Rhys said solemnly -- but he blinked a few times. Bart asked, "Sir, have you found anything for us?" "I found Desper's papers for you. Here—" He pushed a bundle of papers over.

"There's a bunch of dates and places on it. Mostly irrelevant, I think. Nothing against him. He's a brave, determined fellow, with an impeccable record. Disciplined, loved and trusted by the natives in every way. The Africans took him All sorts of cumbersome epithets, one of which is for the man who is quiet and impartial. The whites generally call him Mr. Reliable. Good marksmanship, cool head, far-sighted, very reliable." Bart was not moved by this eulogy, and asked him: "Is there any violent death related to him?" "I'm particularly concerned about this. He saved a man once—a fellow was mauled by a lion..."

Bart sighed and said, "What I want is not information about saving lives." "Bart, you are such an indomitable guy. There is probably only one thing that suits your appetite. Once on a trip to the interior of South America, Despar accompanied the famous botanist Professor Luxmore and his wife. The professor had a fever and died. , buried somewhere in the Amazon." "Fever—eh?" "It's a fever. But let me tell you clearly. A coffin-carrying native was suddenly fired for stealing. He said that the professor didn't die of a fever, but was shot. No one took this rumor seriously."

"Maybe it's time to get serious." Reese shook his head. "I've found out the facts for you. You're entitled to what you want, but I'll bet Despar didn't do what happened that night. He's a gentleman." "You mean it's impossible to commit murder?" Colonel Race hesitated. "Impossible to do what I call murder -- yes," he said. "If it's for a sound and sufficient reason in his mind, he might not kill people, isn't that what he means?" "If he kills someone, his reasons must be sound and sufficient!"

Bart shook his head. "You can't let humans judge other humans and take the law into their hands." "Bart, there's such a thing--such a situation." "It shouldn't be so—that's my opinion. What do you think, M. Poirot?" "I feel the same way you do, Bart. I've never been in favor of killing people." Mrs. Oliver said: "That's a funny way of saying it. It's like hunting foxes or egrets for millinery. Don't you think some people ought to be killed?" "It's... possible." "That's over!"

"You don't understand. My main concern is not the victim, but the effect on the murderer's character." "What about war?" "The right of the individual to judge is not exercised in war. That is the danger. Once a man thinks he knows who deserves to live and who does not - he may become the most dangerous killer in the world, the one who kills not for profit but for ideals An arrogant mob. He has usurped the function of God." Colonel Race stood up. "I'm sorry I can't be with you. There's so much to do. I really want to see this case closed. I wouldn't be surprised if it never ends. Even if you find out who the killer is, it's going to be very, very hard to prove. I put I'll give you the facts you asked for, but I don't think Desper was the murderer. I don't believe he murdered anyone. Maybe Shaitana heard rumors of Professor Luxmore's death. I think that's all. Desper was a man Honestly, I don't believe he was a murderer. That's my claim. I know a little about human nature."

"What does Mrs. Luxmore look like?" asked Bart. "She lives in London. You might as well go and see for yourself. There's an address in these papers—somewhere in South Cansington. But I'll say otherwise. It wasn't Despard." Colonel Race walked out of the room with steps like Swift as a hunter, silent. After the door closed, Bart nodded thoughtfully.He said, "He may be right. Colonel Race is good at knowing people. But we have to be skeptical about everything." He flipped through Reese's pile of papers on his desk, and occasionally wrote a few words with a pencil on a nearby legal pad.

Mrs. Oliver said, "Well, Inspector Bart, don't you want to tell us what you do?" He raised his eyes and smiled, a smile slowly appearing on his wooden face. "It's not quite right, Mrs. Oliver. I hope you understand that." Mrs. Oliver said, "Nonsense. I knew you wouldn't tell us anything you didn't want to say." Bart shook his head. He said flatly: "No, show your cards—that's the motto this time. I intend to act publicly." Mrs. Oliver drew her chair closer. "Tell us," she begged. Inspector Bart said slowly, "First, I'd like to say something. Who killed Mr. Shaitana, I don't think I know. There's nothing in his papers to give a clue or hint. As for the four, I certainly don't know. A follow-up was sent, but nothing substantial. That was to be expected. Mr. Poirot is right, the only hope is the past. Find out what crimes these people have committed before--maybe you can deduce who committed it. "

"Okay, did you find anything?" "I found some information on one of them." "Who?" "Dr. Roberts?" Mrs. Oliver looked at him with excitement and expectation. "Mr. Poirot knows, and I've tried all kinds of theories. I'm sure none of his close relatives died violently. I've probed every path I've tried, and I've found only one possibility—and it's not very likely. Poz was probably having an affair with a female patient. Maybe nothing—but that woman was crazy and troublesome, and the husband probably got wind of it, or the wife admitted it to him. Anyway, as far as the doctor is concerned, disaster is imminent .The angry husband said to report to the Medical Association - it may ruin his career." Mrs. Oliver said breathlessly, "What's the matter?" "Roberts appeases the angry gentleman for a while - but he dies of anthrax shortly afterwards." "Anthrax? Is that rinderpest?" The Inspector cracked his lips and smiled: "Yes, Mrs. Oliver. Not the untraceable curare poison of the South American Indians! You may recall that some cheap shaving brushes were infected with germs at the time, which caused quite a panic. It turned out afterwards Craddock's disease came from a shaving brush infection." "Did Dr. Roberts see him?" "Oh, no, he's too shrewd to do that. Craddock mustn't have him. I've only got one piece of evidence—a precious little piece of evidence—that one of Dr. Roberts's patients had anthrax at the time. cases." "You mean the doctor got the virus on the shaving brush?" "It's a marvelous concept. It's just a concept, I tell you, nothing remains. Pure speculation. But it's possible." "Didn't he marry Mrs. Craddock afterward?" "Oh, God, no, I think the woman was attached to him. I heard she made trouble on purpose, but then happily went to Egypt to spend the winter, and died there. It was vague blood poisoning. The name is very long, I don't think it conveys much. The disease is rare here, but common among the native Egyptians." "Then it can't be that the doctor poisoned her?" Bart said slowly, "I'm not sure. I once talked to a friend who studies bacteria -- it's hard to get a straight answer from these people. They never say yes or no, they always say that at some point It is possible in this situation—it depends on the pathological condition of the vaccinator—there have been such cases before—it probably depends on the individual’s physique—it’s all in this category. But I tried to ask my friend as much as possible, and finally got some Conclusion - Bacteria may have been injected into her body before she left the UK. Symptoms took some time to appear." Poirot asked: "Did Mrs. Craddock have a typhoid shot before she went to Egypt? I think most of them have." "Mr. Poirot, you hit the spot." "Injected by Dr. Roberts?" "Yeah. You guessed right again—we can't prove it. She had two shots as usual—could have been the typhoid shot; or one shot was the typhoid shot and the other was something else. We don't know. We never will." would know. It is purely hypothetical. It can only be said that it is possible." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "That fits perfectly with what Mr. Shaitana told me. He praises successful murderers and says they can never be found guilty." Mrs. Oliver asked, "And how did Mr. Shaitana know?" Poirot shrugged. "We'll never find out. He himself lived in Egypt at one time. We know it because he knew Mrs. Lorrimer there. He may have heard of Mrs. Craddock's condition from one of the local doctors." Some sort of eccentricity--said her infection was strange. And he had heard gossip between Roberts and Mrs. Craddock on another occasion. Perhaps he entertained the doctor with a few cryptic remarks, and found The horrified and wary look in the other person's eyes - we'll never know. Some people are very good at guessing secrets. Mr. Shaitana is one of them. None of our business. Let's just say - he guessed right Yes. Was he right at all?" Bart said, "Well, I think he's guessed right. Our jovial doctor probably won't be too cautious. I know a couple of his type--it's odd how people of the same type can be so similar." ...I think he's a natural born murderer. He killed Craddock. If Mrs. Craddock starts to be a nuisance and a scandal, he might kill her too. But did Shaitana kill him? That's the real problem. Comparing the crimes, I'm puzzled. The Craddocks, he used drugs both times. I think if he killed Shaitana, he would use drugs as a means. He would use bacteria, no Can use a knife." Poirot muttered: "Roberts is out. Where are the others?" Bart gestures impatiently. "I'm totally out of luck. Mrs. Lorrimer has been a widow for twenty years. She mostly lives in London, occasionally going abroad for the winter. Civilized places--Rivera and Egypt and so on. Can't find any mysterious deaths." Related to her. Her life seems normal and noble, she is a woman of the world. Everyone seems to look up to her and have a lot of respect for her character. They say her only flaw is that she can't stand fools! I admit to tracking down That lead failed. But there must be something wrong! Shatana thinks she has." He sighed dejectedly. "And Miss Meredith. I've found out her background. It's pretty ordinary—an officer's daughter, her parents left me nothing, she's got to work for a living, and she's got no training. I checked. Her early days in Cheltenham were fairly simple. Everyone sympathized with the poor little thing. She went to live with some family on the Isle of Wight first--as nurse and a little housework. The woman The owner lives in Palestine now, but I've talked to her sister and I've heard Mrs. Elton likes the girl very much. They don't have any sudden deaths or anything like that. "After Mrs. Elton went abroad, Miss Meredith went to Devonshire as a companion to the aunt of a schoolmate who lives with her now—Miss Rhoda Davis. She was there Side for two years, then Mrs. Deering got very sick and had to get a regular nurse. I heard about cancer. She was alive, but delirious. I wanted to be on regular morphine. I visited her once. She remembers Annie , said Anne was a good boy. I spoke to one of her neighbors, who should remember years ago. Only one or two old villagers died in the parish, and as far as I know Anne Meredith never Been in touch with them. "And then there was the Swiss experience. I thought it would be useful to look up a few deaths over there, but nothing came of it. Nothing happened in Wallingfort anywhere." "Then Anne Meredith is not suspected?" asked Poirot. Bart hesitated for a while, "I'm not sure. One thing—there was a look of panic in her eyes, I don't think it's all caused by Shaitana's panic. She's too guarded, too alert, I bet there is." Problem. But—her experience was impeccable." Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath—a gasp of sheer joy. "However," she said, "Anne Meredith happened to be in the house of a woman who had taken poison and died." Her words had a strong effect, and she had nothing to complain about. Inspector Bart turned in his chair and stared at her in surprise. "Is it true, Mrs. Oliver? How do you know?" Mrs. Oliver said: "I've been scouting. I've been working on girls. I went to see these two girls and told me that I doubted Dr. Roberts. Miss Rhoda was very friendly - thought I was a celebrity, moved Terrible. Little Meredith hated my going, obviously. She was very suspicious. If she had nothing to hide, why should she? I asked them to come and see me in London. Miss Rhoda came and blurted out everything ——that Annie was rude to me a few days ago because my words reminded her of a painful memory, and then she said it." "Did she say when and where it happened?" "Four or five years ago in Devonshire." The Inspector muttered something under his breath and scribbled on a legal pad.His dull tranquility was shaken.Mrs. Oliver enjoyed her victory.It was too sweet for her at this time. Bart regained his original composure.He said, "Mrs. Oliver, I take my hat off to you. This time you have earned our respect. The information you have found is very valuable. It is easy to overlook a thing." He frowned. "Wherever it was, she must not have stayed long, two months at the most. Probably after leaving the Isle of Wight, before going to Mrs. Deering's house. Yes, it must have been. Mrs. Elton's sister." Just remembers that she went somewhere in Devonshire—she couldn't remember who or where." "Is this Mrs. Elton not very lazy?" said Poirot. Bart looked at him curiously: "Mr. Poirot, it's strange that you say that. I don't know how you know. Her sister speaks very clearly. I remember she once said: My sister is so lazy and confused. You How do you know?" Mrs. Oliver said: "Because she needs help." Poirot shook his head. "No, no, it's not. It's nothing. I'm just curious. Inspector Bart, go ahead." Bart said, "I thought she went straight from the Isle of Wight to Mrs. Deering's too. That girl, she's a crafty one. She's got me out. Lying all the time." "Lying is not necessarily a sign of guilt," said Poirot. "I know, Monsieur Poirot, that there are people who are born liars. In fact, I think she is one of them, always saying the best-sounding things. But it's still a big risk to hide such things." "She didn't know that you were reminded of past crimes," said Mrs. Oliver. "Then there is no reason to hide such a small thing. Everyone thinks it was an accidental death, so she has nothing to do." Scary -- unless she's guilty. " "Unless she is guilty of the Devonshire murders, yes," said Poirot. Bart turned to him. "Oh, I know that even if that accidental death wasn't entirely accidental, she didn't necessarily kill Mr. Shaitana. But other homicides are homicides, too. I hope there's some evidence of the crime." Poirot said: "According to Shaitana, it is impossible." "That's Roberts' case. We'll have to wait and see about Miss Meredith. I'm going to Devonshire to-morrow." Mrs. Oliver asked, "Do you know where to look? I don't want to ask Ruda for details." "No, that's very clever of you. It won't be too hard for me. There must have been an autopsy there before, and I can check the coroner's records. It's a routine job for the police, and they'll copy it down for me in the morning. " Mrs. Oliver asked: "Where is Major Despard? Have you found any information on him?" "I've been waiting for Reese's little report. Of course, I've had him followed. There's an interesting incident. He went to Wallingford to see Miss Meredith. You remember, he said he was the former I just met her a few days ago." Poirot muttered: "But she is a very pretty girl." Bart laughed. "Yes, that's all I think. By the way, Desper doesn't want to take any chances. He's already consulted a lawyer and seems to expect trouble." Poirot said: "He is a man who looks into the future and is always ready to meet contingencies." Bart sighed, "So it's not likely that you're going to stab someone in a hurry." "He will not do it unless there is no other way. Remember, he can act quickly," said Poirot. Bart studies him across the table. "Mr. Poirot, where are your cards? You don't seem to have revealed them yet." Poirot smiled. "So little. You think I'm keeping something from you? No. I haven't gotten much of the facts. I've talked to Dr. Roberts, Mrs. Lorrimer, and Major Desper, and I've got to talk to Meredith." Miss talk. What did I poke out? Dr. Roberts is very observant; Mrs. Lorrimer has amazing powers of concentration, so she is almost oblivious to everything around her. But she likes flowers. Desper only pays attention to attract him things—rugs, hunting trophies, etc. He had neither what I would call an outer vision—seeing details around him, observing the peculiarities of everything—nor an inner vision—a single-minded focus, keeping his mind in one Physical powers. His vision is limited by objects. He sees only what is in harmony with the inclinations of his mind." Bart asked curiously: "So this is what you call empirical evidence?" "It's empirical evidence. It's just very small and complicated." "Where's Miss Meredith?" "I was the last to see her. But I'm also going to ask her what she remembers about the house." Bart thought, "What a weird approach, purely psychological. Join them purely to confuse you?" Poirot shook his head and smiled. "No, it's impossible. Whether they want to hinder me or help me, they're bound to give away the type of mind." Bart pondered: "Probably makes sense. But I can't use this method to handle the case myself." Still smiling, Poirot said: "Compared with you and Mrs. Oliver—compared with Colonel Race, I think the result is very little. The cards I laid on the table are very low." Bart winked at him. "Speaking of which, Monsieur Poirot, the two aces may be low, but they will take the other three aces. But I beg you to do a real job." "What's up?" "I want you to visit Professor Ruxmore's widow." "Why don't you go yourself?" "As I said, I'm going to Devonshire." Poirot asked again: "Why don't you go by yourself?" "You can't lie, can you? Well, I'll tell the truth. I think you can tell her the truth better than I can." "My method is less straightforward." Bart grinned, "You could say the same thing. I heard Inspector Japp say you have a deceiving head." "Like the late Mr. Shaitana?" "Do you think he can get her out of it?" Poirot said slowly: "I think he has got her out!" "What makes you think so?" "Because Despar accidentally said a word." "Showing off, isn't it? Not quite his style." "Oh, friend, it's impossible not to tell -- unless never to! Words give away a man's secrets." Mrs. Oliver asked, "Even telling a lie?" "Yes, ma'am, because it will immediately show what kind of lies you tell." "You make me feel uncomfortable," said Mrs. Oliver, rising. Inspector Bart walks her to the door and shakes her warmly. He said: "Mrs. Oliver, you are very capable. You are a better detective than your skinny Rablan." Mrs. Oliver corrected, "He's a Finn. He's really stupid, but the readers like him. Good-bye." "I must go, too," said Poirot. Barthes wrote an address on a piece of paper and pressed it into Poirot's hands. "Here, go and play her tricks." Poirot smiled. "What do you want me to check?" "The Truth About the Death of Professor Ruxmore." "Dear Bart! Does anyone know the truth about anything?" "I'm going to find out what happened in Devonshire," said the Inspector, determined. Poirot muttered: "I dare not say."