Dumb Witness

  “What has that got to do with it?”

  “Everything! Tell me, what did you think of that statement of Mr. Charles Arundell’s—that his aunt had shown him her new will?”

  I looked at Poirot, warily.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked.

  Why should Poirot always be the one to ask the questions?

  “I call it very interesting—very interesting indeed. So was Miss Theresa Arundell’s reaction to it. Their passage of arms was suggestive—very suggestive.”

  “H’m,” I said, in oracular fashion.

  “It opens up two distinct lines of inquiry.”

  “They seem a nice pair of crooks,” I remarked. “Ready for anything. The girl’s amazingly good-looking. As for young Charles, he’s certainly an attractive scoundrel.”

  Poirot was just hailing a taxi. It drew into the kerb and Poirot gave an address to the driver.

  “17 Clanroyden Mansions, Bayswater.”

  “So it’s Lawson next,” I commented. “And after that—the Tanioses?”

  “Quite right, Hastings.”

  “What rôle are you adopting here?” I inquired as the taxi drew up at Clanroyden Mansions. “The biographer of General Arundell, a prospective tenant of Littlegreen House, or something more subtle still?”

  “I shall present myself simply as Hercule Poirot.”

  “How very disappointing,” I gibed.

  Poirot merely threw me a glance and paid off the taxi.

  No. 17 was on the second floor. A pert-looking maid opened the door and showed us into a room that really struck a ludicrous note after the one we had just left.

  Theresa Arundell’s flat had been bare to the point of emptiness. Miss Lawson’s on the other hand was so crammed with furniture and odds and ends that one could hardly move about without the fear of knocking something over.

  The door opened and a rather stout, middle-aged lady came in. Miss Lawson was very much as I had pictured her. She had an eager, rather foolish face, untidy greyish hair and pince-nez perched a little askew on her nose. Her style of conversation was spasmodic and consisted of gasps.

  “Good morning—er—I don’t think—”

  “Miss Wilhelmina Lawson?”

  “Yes—yes—that is my name….”

  “My name is Poirot—Hercule Poirot. Yesterday I was looking over Littlegreen House.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  Miss Lawson’s mouth fell a little wider open and she made some inefficient dabs at her untidy hair.

  “Won’t you sit down?” she went on. “Sit here, won’t you? Oh, dear, I’m afraid that table is in your way. I’m just a leetle bit crowded here. So difficult! These flats! Just a teeny bit on the small side. But so central! And I do like being central. Don’t you?”

  With a gasp she sat down on an uncomfortable-looking Victorian chair and, her pince-nez still awry, leaned forward breathlessly and looked at Poirot hopefully.

  “I went to Littlegreen House in the guise of a purchaser,” went on Poirot. “But I should like to say at once—this is in the strictest confidence—”

  “Oh, yes,” breathed Miss Lawson, apparently pleasurably excited.

  “The very strictest confidence,” continued Poirot, “that I went there with another object… You may or may not be aware that shortly before she died Miss Arundell wrote to me—”

  He paused and then went on:

  “I am a well-known private detective.”

  A variety of expressions chased themselves over Miss Lawson’s slightly flushed countenance. I wondered which one Poirot would single out as relevant to his inquiry. Alarm, excitement, surprise, puzzlement….

  “Oh,” she said. Then after a pause, “Oh,” again.

  And then, quite unexpectedly, she asked:

  “Was it about the money?”

  Poirot, even, was slightly taken aback. He said tentatively:

  “You mean the money that was—”

  “Yes, yes. The money that was taken from the drawer?”

  Poirot said, quietly:

  “Miss Arundell didn’t tell you she had written to me on the subject of that money?”

  “No, indeed. I had no idea—Well, really, I must say I’m very surprised—”

  “You thought she would not have mentioned it to anyone?”

  “I certainly didn’t think so. You see, she had a very good idea—”

  She stopped again. Poirot said, quickly:

  “She had a very good idea who took it. That is what you would say, is it not?”

  Miss Lawson nodded and continued breathlessly:

  “And I shouldn’t have thought she would have wanted—well, I mean she said—that is, she seemed to feel—”

  Again Poirot cut in neatly into the midst of these incoherencies.

  “It was a family matter?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But me,” said Poirot, “I specialize in family matters. I am, you see, very very discreet.”

  Miss Lawson nodded vigorously.

  “Oh! of course—that makes a difference. It’s not like the police.”

  “No, no. I am not at all like the police. That would not have done at all.”

  “Oh, no. Dear Miss Arundell was such a proud woman. Of course, there had been trouble before with Charles, but it was always hushed up. Once, I believe, he had to go to Australia!”

  “Just so,” said Poirot. “Now the facts of the case were as follows, were they not? Miss Arundell had a sum of money in a drawer—”

  He paused. Miss Lawson hastened to confirm his statement.

  “Yes—from the Bank. For the wages, you know, and the books.”

  “And how much was missing exactly?”

  “Four pound notes. No, no, I am wrong, three pound notes and two ten-shilling notes. One must be exact, I know, very exact, in such matters.” Miss Lawson looked at him earnestly and absentmindedly knocked her pince-nez a little farther awry. Her rather prominent eyes seemed to goggle at him.

  “Thank you, Miss Lawson. I see you have an excellent business sense.”

  Miss Lawson bridled a little and uttered a deprecatory laugh.

  “Miss Arundell suspected, no doubt with reason, that her nephew Charles was responsible for this theft,” went on Poirot.

  “Yes.”

  “Although there was no particular evidence to show who actually took the money?”

  “Oh, but it must have been Charles! Mrs. Tanios wouldn’t do such a thing, and her husband was quite a stranger and wouldn’t have known where the money was kept—neither of them would. And I don’t think Theresa Arundell would dream of such a thing. She’s got plenty of money and always so beautifully dressed.”

  “It might have been one of the servants,” Poirot suggested.

  Miss Lawson seemed horrified by the idea.

  “Oh, no, indeed, neither Ellen nor Annie would have dreamed of such a thing. They are both most superior women and absolutely honest I am sure.”

  Poirot waited a minute or two. Then he said:

  “I wonder if you can give me any idea—I am sure you can, for if anyone possessed Miss Arundell’s confidence you did—”

  Miss Lawson murmured confusedly:

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, I’m sure—” but she was clearly flattered.

  “I feel that you will be able to help me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure, if I can—anything I can do—”

  Poirot went on:

  “This is in confidence—”

  A sort of owlish expression appeared on Miss Lawson’s face. The magical words “in confidence” seemed to be a kind of Open Sesame.

  “Have you any idea of the reason which caused Miss Arundell to alter her will?”

  “Her will? Oh—her will?”

  Miss Lawson seemed slightly taken aback.

  Poirot said, watching her closely:

  “It is true, is it not, that she made a new will shortly before her death, leaving all her fortune to you?”

 
“Yes, but I knew nothing about it. Nothing at all!” Miss Lawson was shrill in protest. “It was the greatest surprise to me! A wonderful surprise, of course! So good of dear Miss Arundell. And she never even gave me a hint. Not the smallest hint! I was so taken aback when Mr. Purvis read it out, I didn’t know where to look, or whether to laugh or cry! I assure you, M. Poirot, the shock of it—the shock, you know. The kindness—the wonderful kindness of dear Miss Arundell. Of course, I’d hoped perhaps, for just a little something—perhaps just a teeny, teeny legacy—though of course, there was no reason she should have left me even that. I’d not been with her so very long. But this—it was like—it was like a fairy story! Even now I can’t quite believe in it, if you know what I mean. And sometimes—well sometimes—I don’t feel altogether comfortable about it. I mean—well, I mean—”

  She knocked off her pince-nez, picked them up, fumbled with them and went on even more incoherently.

  “Sometimes I feel that—well, flesh and blood is flesh and blood after all, and I don’t feel quite comfortable at Miss Arundell’s leaving all her money away from her family. I mean, it doesn’t seem right, does it? Not all of it. Such a large fortune, too! Nobody had any idea! But—well—it does make one feel uncomfortable—and everyone saying things, you know—and I’m sure I’ve never been an ill-natured woman! I mean I wouldn’t have dreamed of influencing Miss Arundell in any way! And it’s not as though I could, either. Truth to tell, I was always just a teeny weeny bit afraid of her! She was so sharp, you know, so inclined to jump on you. And quite rude sometimes! ‘Don’t be a downright fool,’ she’d snap. And really, after all, I had my feelings and sometimes I’d feel quite upset… And then to find out that all the time she’d really been fond of me—well, it was very wonderful, wasn’t it? Only of course, as I say, there’s been a lot of unkindness, and really in some ways one feels—I mean, well, it does seem a little hard, doesn’t it, on some people?”

  “You mean that you would prefer to relinquish the money?” asked Poirot.

  Just for a moment I fancied a flicker of some quite different expression showed itself in Miss Lawson’s dull, pale blue eyes. I imagined that, just for a moment, a shrewd, intelligent woman sat there instead of an amiable, foolish one.

  She said with a little laugh.

  “Well—of course, there is the other side of it too… I mean there are two sides to every question. What I say is, Miss Arundell meant me to have the money. I mean if I didn’t take it I should be going against her wishes. And that wouldn’t be right, either, would it?”

  “It is a difficult question,” said Poirot, shaking his head. “Yes, indeed, I have worried over it a great deal. Mrs. Tanios—Bella—she is such a nice woman—and those dear children! I mean, I feel sure Miss Arundell wouldn’t have wanted her to—I feel, you see, that dear Miss Arundell intended me to use my discretion. She didn’t want to leave any money outright to Bella because she was afraid that man would get hold of it.”

  “What man?”

  “Her husband. You know, Mr. Poirot, the poor girl is quite under his thumb. She does anything he tells her. I daresay she’d murder someone if he told her to! And she’s afraid of him. I’m quite sure she’s afraid of him. I’ve seen her look simply terrified once or twice. Now that isn’t right, Mr. Poirot—you can’t say that’s right.”

  Poirot did not say so. Instead he inquired:

  “What sort of man is Dr. Tanios?”

  “Well,” said Miss Lawson, hesitating, “he’s a very pleasant man.”

  She stopped, doubtfully.

  “But you don’t trust him?”

  “Well—no, I don’t. I don’t know,” went on Miss Lawson doubtfully, “that I’d trust any man very much! Such dreadful things one hears! And all their poor wives go through! It’s really terrible! Of course, Dr. Tanios pretends to be very fond of his wife and he’s quite charming to her. His manners are really delightful. But I don’t trust foreigners. They’re so artful! And I’m quite sure dear Miss Arundell didn’t want her money to get into his hands!”

  “It is hard on Miss Theresa Arundell and Mr. Charles Arundell also to be deprived of their inheritance,” Poirot suggested.

  A spot of colour came into Miss Lawson’s face.

  “I think Theresa has quite as much money as is good for her!” she said sharply. “She spends hundreds of pounds on her clothes, alone. And her underclothing—it’s wicked! When one thinks of so many nice, well-bred girls who have to earn their own living—”

  Poirot gently completed the sentence.

  “You think it would do no harm for her to earn hers for a bit?”

  Miss Lawson looked at him solemnly.

  “It might do her a lot of good,” she said. “It might bring her to her senses. Adversity teaches us many things.”

  Poirot nodded slowly. He was watching her intently.

  “And Charles?”

  “Charles doesn’t deserve a penny,” said Miss Lawson, sharply. “If Miss Arundell cut him out of her will, it was for a very good cause—after his wicked threats.”

  “Threats?” Poirot’s eyebrows rose.

  “Yes, threats.”

  “What threats? When did he threaten her?”

  “Let me see, it was—yes, of course, it was at Easter. Actually on Easter Sunday—which made it even worse!”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked her for money and she refused to give it him! And then he told her that it wasn’t wise of her. He said if she kept up that attitude he would—now what was the phrase—a very vulgar American one—oh, yes, he said he would bump her off!”

  “He threatened to bump her off?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did Miss Arundell say?”

  “She said: ‘I think you’ll find, Charles, that I can look after myself.’”

  “You were in the room at the time?”

  “Not exactly in the room,” said Miss Lawson after a momentary pause.

  “Quite, quite,” said Poirot, hastily. “And Charles, what did he say to that?”

  “He said: ‘Don’t be too sure.’”

  Poirot said slowly:

  “Did Miss Arundell take this threat seriously?”

  “Well, I don’t know… She didn’t say anything to me about it… But then she wouldn’t do that, anyway.”

  Poirot said quietly:

  “You knew, of course, that Miss Arundell was making a new will?”

  “No, no. I’ve told you, it was a complete surprise. I never dreamt—”

  Poirot interrupted.

  “You did not know the contents. But you knew the fact—that there was a will being made?”

  “Well—I suspected—I mean her sending for the lawyer when she was laid up—”

  “Exactly. That was after she had a fall, was it not?”

  “Yes, Bob—Bob was the dog—he had left his ball at the top of the stairs—and she tripped over it and fell.”

  “A nasty accident.”

  “Oh, yes, why, she might easily have broken her leg or her arm. The doctor said so.”

  “She might quite easily have been killed.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Her answer seemed quite natural and frank.

  Poirot said, smiling:

  “I think I saw Master Bob at Littlegreen House.”

  “Oh, yes, I expect you did. He’s a dear little doggie.” Nothing annoys me more than to hear a sporting terrier called a dear little doggie. No wonder, I thought, that Bob despised Miss Lawson and refused to do anything she told him.

  “And he is very intelligent?” went on Poirot.

  “Oh, yes, very.”

  “How upset he’d be if he knew he had nearly killed his mistress?”

  Miss Lawson did not answer. She merely shook her head and sighed.

  Poirot asked:

  “Do you think it possible that that fall influenced Miss Arundell to remake her will?”

  We were getting perilously near the bone here, I thought
, but Miss Lawson seemed to find the question quite natural.

  “You know,” she said, “I shouldn’t wonder if you weren’t right. It gave her a shock—I’m sure of that. Old people never like to think there’s any chance of their dying. But an accident like that makes one think. Or perhaps she might have had a premonition that her death wasn’t far off.”

  Poirot said casually:

  “She was in fairly good health, was she not?”

  “Oh, yes. Very well, indeed.”

  “Her illness must have come on very suddenly?”

  “Oh, it did. It was quite a shock. We had had some friends that evening—” Miss Lawson paused.

  “Your friends, the Misses Tripp. I have met those ladies. They are quite charming.”

  Miss Lawson’s face flushed with pleasure.

  “Yes, aren’t they? Such cultured women! Such wide interests! And so very spiritual! They told you, perhaps—about our sittings? I expect you are a sceptic—but indeed, I wish I could tell you the inexpressible joy of getting into touch with those who’ve passed over!”

  “I am sure of it. I am sure of it.”

  “Do you know, Mr. Poirot, my mother has spoken to me—more than once. It is such a joy to know that one’s dear ones are still thinking of one and watching over one.”

  “Yes, yes, I can well understand that,” said Poirot, gently. “And was Miss Arundell also a believer?”

  Miss Lawson’s face clouded over a little.

  “She was willing to be convinced,” she said, doubtfully. “But I do not think she always approached the matter in the right frame of mind. She was sceptical and unbelieving—and once or twice her attitude attracted a most undesirable type of spirit! There were some very ribald messages—all due, I am convinced, to Miss Arundell’s attitude.”

  “I should think very likely due to Miss Arundell,” agreed Poirot.

  “But on that last evening—” continued Miss Lawson, “perhaps Isabel and Julia told you?—there were distinct phenomena. Actually the beginning of a materialization. Ectoplasm—you know what ectoplasm is perhaps?”

  “Yes, yes, I am acquainted with its nature.”

  “It proceeds, you know, from the medium’s mouth in the form of a ribbon and builds itself up into a form. Now I am convinced, Mr. Poirot, that unknown to herself Miss Arundell was a medium. On that evening I distinctly saw a luminous ribbon issuing from dear Miss Arundell’s mouth! Then her head became enveloped in a luminous mist.”