Free Cards on the Table by Agatha Christie Page A

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?”
    Poirot produced from a neat little pocket case three carefully folded bridge scores.
    “These are the first three rubbers the other evening,” he explained. “Here is the first one, in Miss Meredith's handwriting. Now can you tell me, with this to refresh your memory, exactly what the bidding was and how each hand went?”
    Roberts stared at