"Your morning, then, has not been entirely successful," said Poirot thoughtfully.

Battle shook his head.

"It's going to be uphill work, M. 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 /)opularity. 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 Shaitaaa might wake and cry out. No, I don't think Roberts murdered him."

"But you think he has murdered some one?"

"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. 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 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 some one on to that straightaway. Woman actually died out in Egypt of 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, M. Poirot? Going to take a hand?"

"I too, might call on Dr. 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, M. 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 eye 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 gla.s.s.

"To our respective methodsand 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?"

420

"Bit of a toss-up 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.

Dr. Roberts' 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 a.s.sure you, Dr. 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 colour, how fast they breathe, any signs of restlessness--a doctor notices these things automatically almost without noticing he notices! Dr. Roberts is the man to help me.'"