Dumb Witness (21 page)

W
e found Theresa Arundell just preparing to go out.

She was looking extraordinarily attractive. A small hat of the most outrageous fashion descended rakishly over one eye. I recognized with momentary amusement that Bella Tanios had worn a cheap imitation of such a hat yesterday and had worn it—as George had put it—on the back of the head instead of over the right eye. I remembered well how she had pushed it farther and farther back on her untidy hair.

Poirot said, politely:

“Can I have just a minute or two, mademoiselle, or will it delay you too much?”

Theresa laughed.

“Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm always three-quarters of an hour late for everything. I might just as well make it an hour.”

She led him into the sitting room. To my surprise Dr. Donaldson rose from a chair by the window.

“You've met M. Poirot already, Rex, haven't you?”

“We met at Market Basing,” said Donaldson, stiffly.

“You were pretending to write the life of my drunken grandfather, I understand,” said Theresa. “Rex, my angel, will you leave us?”

“Thank you, Theresa, but I think that from every point of view it would be advisable for me to be present at this interview.”

There was a brief duel of eyes. Theresa's were commanding. Donaldson's were impervious. She showed a quick flash of anger.

“All right, stay then, damn you!”

Dr. Donaldson seemed unperturbed.

He seated himself again in the chair by the window, laying down his book on the arm of it. It was a book on the pituitary gland, I noticed.

Theresa sat down on her favourite low stool and looked impatiently at Poirot.

“Well, you've seen Purvis? What about it?”

Poirot said in a noncommittal voice:

“There are—possibilities, mademoiselle.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. Then she sent a very faint glance in the direction of the doctor. It was, I think, intended as a warning to Poirot.

“But it would be well, I think,” went on Poirot, “for me to report later when my plans are more advanced.”

A faint smile showed for a minute on Theresa's face.

Poirot continued:

“I have today come from Market Basing and while there I have talked to Miss Lawson. Tell me, mademoiselle, did you on the night of April 13th (that was the night of the Easter Bank Holiday) kneel upon the stairs after everyone had gone to bed?”

“My dear Hercule Poirot, what an extraordinary question. Why should I?”

“The question, mademoiselle, is not why you
should,
but whether you
did.
”

“I'm sure I don't know. I should think it most unlikely.”

“You comprehend, mademoiselle, Miss Lawson
says you did.
”

Theresa shrugged her attractive shoulders.

“Does it matter?”

“It matters very much.”

She stared at him. In a perfectly amiable fashion, Poirot stared back.

“Loopy!” said Theresa.

“
Pardon?
”

“Definitely loopy!” said Theresa. “Don't you think so, Rex?”

Dr. Donaldson coughed.

“Excuse me, M. Poirot, but what is the point of the question?”

My friend spread out his hands.

“It is most simple! Someone drove in a nail in a convenient position at the head of the stairs. The nail was just touched with brown varnish to match the skirting board.”

“Is this a new kind of witchcraft?” asked Theresa.

“No, mademoiselle, it is much more homely and simple than that. On the following evening, the Tuesday,
someone
attached a string of thread from the nail to the balusters with the result that when Miss Arundell came out of her room she caught her foot in it and went headlong down the stairs.”

Theresa drew in her breath sharply.

“That was Bob's ball!”

“
Pardon,
it was not.”

There was a pause. It was broken by Donaldson who said in his quiet, precise voice:

“Excuse me, but what evidence have you in support of this statement?”

Poirot said quietly:

“The evidence of the nail, the evidence of Miss Arundell's own written words, and finally the evidence of Miss Lawson's eyes.”

Theresa found her voice.

“She says
I
did it, does she?”

Poirot did not answer except by bending his head a little.

“Well, it's a lie! I had nothing to do with it!”

“You were kneeling on the stairs for quite another reason?”

“I wasn't kneeling on the stairs at all!”

“Be careful, mademoiselle.”

“I wasn't there! I never came out of my room after I went to bed on any evening I was there.”

“Miss Lawson recognized you.”

“It was probably Bella Tanios or one of the maids she saw.”

“She says it was you.”

“She's a damned liar!”

“She recognized your dressing gown and a brooch you wear.”

“A brooch—what brooch?”

“A brooch with your initials.”

“Oh, I know the one! What a circumstantial liar she is!”

“You still deny that it was you she saw?”

“If it's my word against hers—”

“You are a better liar than she is—eh?”

Theresa said, calmly:

“That's probably quite true. But in this case I'm speaking the
truth. I wasn't preparing a booby trap, or saying my prayers, or picking up gold or silver, or doing anything at all on the stairs.”

“Have you this brooch that was mentioned?”

“Probably. Do you want to see it?”

“If you please, mademoiselle.”

Theresa got up and left the room. There was an awkward silence. Dr. Donaldson looked at Poirot much as I imagined he might have looked at an anatomical specimen.

Theresa returned.

“Here it is.”

She almost flung the ornament at Poirot. It was a large rather showy chromium or stainless steel brooch with T.A. enclosed in a circle. I had to admit that it was large enough and showy enough to be easily seen in Miss Lawson's mirror.

“I never wear it now. I'm tired of it,” said Theresa. “London's been flooded with them. Every little skivvy wears one.”

“But it was expensive when you bought it?”

“Oh, yes. They were quite exclusive to begin with.”

“When was that?”

“Last Christmas, I think it was. Yes, about then.”

“Have you ever lent it to anyone?”

“No.”

“You had it with you at Littlegreen House?”

“I suppose I did. Yes, I did. I remember.”

“Did you leave it about at all? Was it out of your possession while you were there?”

“No, it wasn't. I wore it on a green jumper. I remember. And I wore the same jumper every day.”

“And at night?”

“It was still in the jumper.”

“And the jumper.”

“Oh, hell, the jumper was sitting on a chair.”

“You are sure no one removed the brooch and put it back again the next day?”

“We'll say so in court if you like—if you think that's the best lie to tell! Actually I'm
quite sure
that nothing like that happened! It's a pretty idea that somebody framed me—but I don't think it's true.”

Poirot frowned. Then he got up, attached the brooch carefully to his coat lapel and approached a mirror on a table at the other end of the room. He stood in front of it and then moved slowly backward, getting an effect of distance.

Then he uttered a grunt.

“Imbecile that I am! Of course!”

He came back and handed the brooch to Theresa with a bow.

“You are quite right, mademoiselle. The brooch did
not
leave your possession! I have been regrettably dense.”

“I do like modesty,” said Theresa, pinning the brooch on carelessly.

She looked up at him.

“Anything more? I ought to be going.”

“Nothing that cannot be discussed later.”

Theresa moved towards the door. Poirot went on in a quiet voice:

“There is a question of exhumation, it is true—”

Theresa stopped dead. The brooch fell to the ground.

“What's that?”

Poirot said clearly:

“It is possible that the body of Miss Emily Arundell may be exhumed.”

Theresa stood still, her hands clenched. She said in a low, angry voice:

“Is this
your
doing? It can't be done without an application from the family!”

“You are wrong, mademoiselle. It can be done on an order from the Home Office.”

“My God!” said Theresa.

She turned and walked swiftly up and down.

Donaldson said quietly:

“I really don't see that there is any need to be upset, Tessa. I daresay that to an outsider the idea is not very pleasant, but—”

She interrupted him.

“Don't be a fool, Rex!”

Poirot asked:

“The idea disturbs you, mademoiselle?”

“Of course it does! It isn't decent. Poor old Aunt Emily. Why the devil
should
she be exhumed?”

“I presume,” said Donaldson, “that there is some doubt as to the cause of death?” He looked inquiringly at Poirot. He went on. “I confess that I am surprised. I think that there is no doubt that Miss Arundell died a natural death from a disease of long standing.”

“You told me something about a rabbit and liver trouble once,” said Theresa. “I've forgotten it now, but you infect a rabbit with blood from a person with yellow atrophy of the liver, and then you inject that rabbit's blood into another rabbit, and then that second rabbit's blood into a person and the person gets a diseased liver. Something like that.”

“That was merely an illustration of serum therapeutics,” said Donaldson patiently.

“Pity there are so many rabbits in the story!” said Theresa with a reckless laugh. “None of us keep rabbits.” She turned on Poirot and her voice altered.

“M. Poirot, is this
true?
” she asked.

“It is true enough, but—there are ways of avoiding such a contingency, mademoiselle.”

“Then avoid it!” her voice sank almost to a whisper. It was urgent, compelling. “Avoid it
at all costs!
”

Poirot rose to his feet.

“Those are your instructions?” His voice was formal.

“Those are my instructions.”

“But Tessa—” Donaldson interrupted.

She whirled round on her fiancé.

“Be quiet! She was
my
aunt, wasn't she? Why should
my
aunt be dug up? Don't you know there will be paragraphs in the papers and gossip and general unpleasantness?” She swung round again on Poirot.

“You must stop it! I give you
carte blanche.
Do anything you like, but
stop it!
”

Poirot bowed formally.

“I will do what I can.
Au revoir, mademoiselle, au revoir,
doctor.”

“Oh, go away!” cried Theresa. “And take St. Leonards with you. I wish I'd never set eyes on either of you.”

We left the room. Poirot did not this time deliberately place his ear to the crack but he dallied—yes, he dallied.

And not in vain. Theresa's voice rose clear and defiant:

“Don't look at me like that, Rex.”

And then suddenly, with a break in her voice—“Darling.” Dr. Donaldson's precise voice answered her.

He said very clearly: “That man means mischief.”

Poirot grinned suddenly. He drew me through the front door. “Come, St. Leonards,” he said. “
C'est drôle, ça!
” Personally I thought the joke a particularly stupid one.

N
o, I thought, as I hurried after Poirot, there was no doubt about it now. Miss Arundell had been murdered and Theresa knew it. But was she herself the criminal or was there another explanation?

She was afraid—yes. But was she afraid for herself or for someone else? Could that someone be the quiet, precise young doctor with the calm, aloof manner?

Had the old lady died of genuine disease
artificially induced?

Up to a point it all fitted in—Donaldson's ambitions, his belief that Theresa would inherit money at her aunt's death. Even the fact that he had been at dinner there on the evening of the accident. How easy to leave a convenient window open and return in the dead of night to tie the murderous thread across the staircase. But then, what about the placing of the nail in position?

No, Theresa must have done that. Theresa, his fiancée and accomplice. With the two of them working in together, the whole thing seemed clear enough. In that case it was probably Theresa who had actually placed the thread in position. The
first
crime, the
crime that failed, had been
her
work. The second crime, the crime that had succeeded, was Donaldson's more scientific masterpiece.

Yes—it all fitted in.

Yet even now there were loose strands. Why had Theresa blurted out those facts about inducing liver disease in human beings? It was almost as though she did not realize the truth… But in that case—and I felt my mind growing bewildered, and I interrupted my speculations to ask:

“Where are we going, Poirot?”

“Back to my flat. It is possible that we may find Mrs. Tanios there.”

My thoughts switched off on a different track.

Mrs. Tanios! That was another mystery! If Donaldson and Theresa were guilty, where did Mrs. Tanios and her smiling husband come in? What did the woman want to tell Poirot and what was Tanios' anxiety to prevent her doing so?

“Poirot,” I said humbly. “I'm getting rather muddled. They're not
all
in it, are they?”

“Murder by a syndicate? A family sydicate? No, not this time. There is the mark of one brain and one brain only in this. The psychology is very clear.”

“You mean that either Theresa or Donaldson did it—but not
both
of them? Did he get her to hammer that nail in on some entirely innocent pretext, then?”

“My dear friend, from the moment I heard Miss Lawson's story I realized that there were three possibilities. (1) That Miss Lawson was telling the exact truth. (2) That Miss Lawson had invented the story for reasons of her own. (3) That Miss Lawson actually believed her own story, but that her identification rested upon the
brooch—and as I have already pointed out to you—a brooch is easily detachable from its owner.”

“Yes, but Theresa insists that the brooch did not leave her possession.”

“And she is perfectly right. I had overlooked a small but intensely significant fact.”

“Very unlike you, Poirot,” I said solemnly.

“
N'est ce pas?
But one has one's lapses.”

“Age will tell!”

“Age has nothing to do with it,” said Poirot coldly.

“Well, what is the significant fact?” I asked as we turned in at the entrance of the Mansions.

“I will show you.”

We had just reached the flat.

George opened the door to us. In reply to Poirot's anxious question he shook his head.

“No, sir. Mrs. Tanios has not called. Neither has she telephoned.” Poirot went into the sitting room. He paced up and down for a few minutes. Then he picked up the telephone. He got first onto the Durham Hotel.

“Yes—yes, please. Ah, Dr. Tanios, this is Hercule Poirot speaking. Your wife has returned? Oh, not returned. Dear me… Taken her luggage, you say… And the children… You have no idea where she has gone… Yes, quite… Oh, perfectly… If my professional services are of any use to you? I have certain experience in these matters… Such things can be done quite discreetly… No, of course not… Yes, of course that is true… Certainly—certainly. I shall respect your wishes in the matter.”

He hung up the receiver thoughtfully.

“He does not know where she is,” he said thoughtfully. “I think that is quite genuine. The anxiety in his voice is unmistakable. He does not want to go to the police, that is understandable. Yes, I understand that. He does not want my assistance either. That is, perhaps, not quite so understandable… He wants her found—but he does not want
me
to find her… No, definitely he does not want me to find her… He seems confident that he can manage the matter himself. He does not think she can remain long hidden, for she has very little money with her. Also she has the children. Yes, I fancy he will be able to hunt her down before long. But, I think, Hastings, that we shall be a little quicker than he is. It is important, I think, that we should be.”

“Do you think it's true that she is slightly batty?” I asked.

“I think that she is in a highly nervous, overwrought condition.”

“But not to such a point that she ought to be in a mental home?”

“That, very definitely, no.”

“You know, Poirot, I don't quite understand all this.”

“If you will pardon my saying so, Hastings, you do not understand at all!”

“There seem so many—well—side issues.”

“Naturally there are side issues. To separate the main issue from the side issues is the first task of the orderly mind.”

“Tell me, Poirot, have you realized all along that there were
eight
possible suspects and not seven?”

Poirot replied drily:

“I have taken that fact into consideration from the moment that Theresa Arundell mentioned that the last time she saw Dr. Donaldson was when he dined at Littlegreen House on April 14th.”

“I can't quite see—” I broke off.

“What is it you cannot quite see?”

“Well, if Donaldson had planned to do away with Miss Arundell by scientific means—by inoculation, that is to say—I can't see why he resorted to such a clumsy device as a string across the stairs.”

“
En vérité,
Hastings, there are moments when I lose patience with you! One method is a highly scientific one needing fully specialized knowledge. That is so, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“And the other is a homely simple method—‘the kind that mother makes'—as the advertisements say. Is that not right?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Then think, Hastings—
think.
Lie back in your chair, close the eyes, employ the little grey cells.”

I obeyed. That is to say, I leant back in the chair and closed my eyes and endeavoured to carry out the third part of Poirot's instructions. The result, however, did not seem to clarify matters much.

I opened my eyes to find Poirot regarding me with the kindly attention a nurse might display towards a childish charge.

“
Eh bien?
”

I made a desperate attempt to emulate Poirot's manner.

“Well,” I said, “it seems to me that the kind of person who laid the original booby trap is not the kind of person to plan out a scientific murder.”

“Exactly.”

“And I doubt if a mind trained to scientific complexities would think of anything so childish as the accident plan—it would be altogether too haphazard.”

“Very clearly reasoned.”

Emboldened, I went on:

“Therefore, the only logical solution seems to be this—the two attempts were planned by two different people. We have here to deal with murder attempted by two entirely different people.”

“You do not think that is too much of a coincidence?”

“You said yourself once that one coincidence is nearly always found in a murder case.”

“Yes, that is true. I have to admit it.”

“Well, then.”

“And who do you suggest for your villains?”

“Donaldson and Theresa Arundell. A doctor is clearly indicated for the final successful murder. On the other hand we know that Theresa Arundell is concerned in the first attempt. I think it's possible that they acted quite independently of each other.”

“You are so fond of saying, ‘we know,' Hastings. I can assure you that no matter what
you
know, I do not know that Theresa was implicated.”

“But Miss Lawson's story.”

“Miss Lawson's story is Miss Lawson's story. Just that.”

“But she says—”

“She says—she says… Always you are so ready to take what people say for a proved and accepted fact. Now listen,
mon cher,
I told you at the time, did I not, that something struck me as wrong about Miss Lawson's story?”

“Yes, I remember your saying so. But you couldn't get hold of what it was.”

“Well, I have done so now. A little moment and I will show you what I, imbecile that I am, ought to have seen at once.” He went over to the desk and opening a drawer took out a sheet of
cardboard. He cut into this with a pair of scissors, motioning to me not to overlook what he was doing.

“Patience, Hastings, in a little moment we will proceed to our experiment.”

I averted my eyes obligingly.

In a minute or two Poirot uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He put away the scissors, dropped the fragments of cardboard into the wastepaper basket and came across the room to me.

“Now, do not look. Continue to avert the eyes while I pin something to the lapel of your coat.”

I humoured him. Poirot completed the proceeding to his satisfaction, then, propelling me gently to my feet he drew me across the room, and into the adjoining bedroom.

“Now, Hastings, regard yourself in the glass. You are wearing, are you not, a fashionable brooch with your initials on it—only,
bien entendu,
the brooch is made not of chromium nor stainless steel, nor gold, nor platinum—but of humble cardboard!”

I looked at myself and smiled. Poirot is uncommonly neat with his fingers. I was wearing a very fair representation of Theresa Arundell's brooch—a circle cut out of cardboard and enclosing my initials. A.H.

“
Eh bien,
” said Poirot. “You are satisfied? You have there, have you not, a very smart brooch with your initials?”

“A most handsome affair,” I agreed.

“It is true that it does not gleam and reflect the light, but all the same you are prepared to admit that that brooch could be seen plainly from some distance away?”

“I've never doubted it.”

“Quite so. Doubt is not your strong point. Simple faith is more
characteristic of you. And now, Hastings, be so good as to remove your coat.”

Wondering a little, I did so. Poirot divested himself of his own coat and slipped on mine, turning away a little as he did so.

“And now,” he said. “Regard how the brooch—the brooch with
your
initials—becomes me?”

He whisked round. I stared at him—for the moment uncomprehendingly. Then I saw the point.

“What a blithering fool I am! Of course. It's H.A. in the brooch, not A.H. at all.”

Poirot beamed on me, as he reassumed his own clothes and handed me mine.

“Exactly—and now you see what struck me as wrong with Miss Lawson's story. She stated that she had seen Theresa's initials clearly on the brooch she was wearing. But she saw Theresa in the
glass. So, if she saw the initials at all,
she must have seen them
reversed.
”

“Well,” I argued, “perhaps she did, and realized that they were reversed.”

“
Mon cher,
did that occur to you just now? Did you exclaim, ‘Ha! Poirot, you've got it wrong. That's H.A. really—not A.H.' No, you did not. And yet you are a good deal more intelligent, I should say, than Miss Lawson. Do not tell me that a muddleheaded woman like that woke up suddenly, and still half asleep, realized that A.T. was really T.A. No, that is not at all consistent with the mentality of Miss Lawson.”

“She was determined it should be Theresa,” I said slowly.

“You are getting nearer, my friend. You remember, I hint to her that she could not really see the face of anyone on the stairs, and immediately—what does she do?”

“Remembers Theresa's brooch and lugs that in—forgetting that the mere fact of having seen it in the glass gave her own story the lie.”

The telephone bell rang sharply. Poirot crossed to it.

He only spoke a few noncommittal words.

“Yes? Yes… certainly. Yes, quite convenient. The afternoon, I think. Yes, two o'clock will do admirably.” He replaced the receiver and turned to me with a smile.

“Dr. Donaldson is anxious to have a talk with me. He is coming here tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock. We progress,
mon ami,
we progress.”