Free Cards on the Table by Agatha Christie Page B

Battle sighed. “I’m much obliged to the doctor, I’m sure, for being so pleasant about everything. Tell himfrom me, will you? Tell him I’m passing on to No. 2. Good-bye, 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 a couple of 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 and Wessex Bank.
    The display of his official card brought him to a private interview with the manager.
    â€œGood morning, sir. One of your clients is a Dr. Geoffrey Roberts, I understand.”
    â€œQuite correct, superintendent.”
    â€œI shall want some information about that gentleman’s account going back over a period of years.”
    â€œI will see what I can do for you.”
    A complicated half hour followed. Finally Battle, with a sigh, tucked away a sheet of pencilled figures.
    â€œGot what you want?” inquired the bank manager curiously.
    â€œNo, I haven’t. Not one suggestive lead. Thank you all the same.”
    Â 
    At that same moment, Dr. Roberts, washing his hands in his consulting room, said over his shoulder to Miss Burgess:
    â€œWhat about our stolid sleuth, eh? Did he turn the place upside down and you inside out?”
    â€œHe didn’t get much out of me, I can tell you,” said Miss Burgess, setting her lips tightly.
    â€œMy 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?”
    â€œOh, 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!”
    â€œShaitana? Oh, yes, fond of posing as a modern Mephistopheles. It went down rather well on the whole. What else did Battle ask you?”
    â€œReally nothing very much. Except—oh, yes, somebody had been telling him some absurd nonsense about Mrs. Graves—you know the way she used to go on.”
    â€œGraves? 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 humour he went in to lunch.

Ten
D R . R OBERTS ( CONTINUED )
    S uperintendent Battle was lunching with M. Hercule Poirot.
    The former looked downcast, the latter sympathetic.
    â€œYour morning, then, has not been entirely successful,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
    Battle shook his head.
    â€œIt’s going to be uphill work, M. Poirot.”
    â€œWhat do you think of him?”
    â€œOf 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.”
    â€œBut you think he has murdered someone?”
    â€œPossibly quite a lot of people. Westaway had. But it’s goingto 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.”
    â€œIn fact he appears to lead a thoroughly blameless