Free Cards on the Table by Agatha Christie

Battle handed her a photograph. “Recognize him at all?”
    “What a very theatrical-looking person! No, I've never seen him here at any time.”
    “Well, that's that.” Battle sighed. “I'm much obliged to the doctor, I'm sure, for being so pleasant about everything. Tell him so from me, will you? Tell him I'm passing on to number two. Good-by, Miss Burgess, and thank you for your help.”
    He shook hands and departed. Walking along the street he took a small notebook from his pocket and made several entries in it under the letter R.
    Mrs. Graves? Unlikely.
    Mrs. Craddock?
    No legacies.
    No wife. (Pity.)
    Investigate deaths of patients. Difficult.
    He closed the book and turned into the Lancaster Gate branch of the London & Wessex bank.
    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.

Cards on the Table

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