Dumb Witness

  “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. a
t 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.”

  Twenty-six

  MRS. TANIOS REFUSES TO SPEAK

  When I came round after breakfast the following morning I found Poirot busy at the writing table.

  He raised a hand in salutation, then proceeded with his task. Presently he gathered up the sheets, enclosed them in an envelope and sealed them up carefully.

  “Well, old boy, what are you doing?” I asked facetiously.

  “Writing an account of the case to be placed in safekeeping in case someone bumps you off during the course of the day?”

  “You know, Hastings, you are not so far wrong as you think.”

  His manner was serious.

  “Is our murderer really about to get dangerous?”

  “A murderer is always dangerous,” said Poirot gravely.

  “Astonishing how often that fact is overlooked.”

  “Any news?”

  “Dr. Tanios rang up.”

  “Still no trace of his wife?”

  “No.”

  “Then that’s all right.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Dash it all, Poirot, you don’t think she’s been bumped off, do you?”

  Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

  “I confess,” he murmured, “that I should like to know where she is.”

  “Oh, well,” I said. “She’ll turn up.”

  “Your cheerful optimism never fails to delight me, Hastings!”

  “My goodness, Poirot, you don’t think she’ll turn up in parcels or dismembered in a trunk?”

  Poirot said slowly:

  “I find the anxiety of Dr. Tanios somewhat excessive—but no more of that. The first thing to do is to interview Miss Lawson.”

  “Are you going to point out that little error over the brooch?”

  “Certainly not. That little fact remains up my sleeve until the right moment comes.”

  “Then what are you going to say to her?”

  “That, mon ami, you will hear in due course.”

  “More lies, I suppose?”

  “You are really offensive sometimes, Hastings. Anybody would think I enjoyed telling lies.”

  “I rather think you do. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  “It is true that I sometimes compliment myself upon my ingenuity,” Poirot confessed naively.

  I could not help giving a shout of laughter. Poirot looked at me reproachfully and we set off for Clanroyden Mansions.

  We were shown into the same crowded sitting room and Miss Lawson came bustling in, her manner even more incoherent than usual.

  “Oh, dear, M. Poirot, good morning. Such a to-do—rather untidy, I’m afraid. But then, everything is at sixes and sevens this morning. Ever since Bella arrived—”

  “What is that you say? Bella?”

  “Yes, Bella Tanios. She turned up half an hour ago—and the children—completely exhausted, poor soul! Really, I don’t know what to do about it. You see, she’s left her husband.”

  “Left him?”

  “So she says. Of course, I’ve no doubt she’s fully justified, poor thing.”

  “She has confided in you?”

  “Well—not exactly that. In fact, she won’t say anything at all. Just repeats that she’s left him and that nothing will induce her to go back to him!”

  “That is a very serious step to take?”

  “Of course it is! In fact, if he’d been an Englishman, I would have advised her—but there, he isn’t an Englishman… And she looks so peculiar, poor thing, so—well, so scared. What can he have been doing to her? I believe Turks are frightfully cruel sometimes.”

  “Dr. Tanios is a Greek.”

  “Yes, of course, that’s the other way about—I mean, they’re usually the ones who get massacred by the Turks—or am I thinking of Armenians? But all the same, I don’t like to think of it. I don’t think she ought to go back to him, do you, M. Poirot? Anyway, I mean, she says she won’t… She doesn’t even want him to know where she is.”

  “As bad as that?”

  “Yes, you see it’s the children. She’s so afraid he could take them back to Smyrna. Poor soul, she really is in a terrible way. You see, she’s got no money—no money at all. She doesn’t know where to go or what to do. She wants to try and earn her living but really, you know, M. Poirot, that’s not so easy as it sounds. I know that. It’s not as though she were trained for anything.”

  “When did she leave her husband?”

  “Yesterday. She spent last night in a little hotel near Paddington. She came to me because she couldn’t think of anyone else to go to, poor thing.”

  “And are you going to help her? That is very good of you.”

  “Well, you see, M. Poirot, I really feel it’s my duty. But of course, it’s all very difficult. This is a very small flat and there’s no room—and what with one thing and another.”

  “You could send her to Littlegreen House?”

  “I suppose I could—but you see, her husband might think of that. Just for the moment I’ve got her rooms at the Wellington Hotel in Queen’s Road. She’s staying there under the name of Mrs. Peters.”

  “I see,” said Poirot.

  He paused for a minute, then said:

  “I would like to see Mrs. Tanios. You see, she called at my flat yesterday but I was out.”

  “Oh, did she? She didn’t tell me that. I’ll tell her, shall I?”

  “If you would be so good.”

  Miss Lawson hurried out of the room. We could hear her voice.

  “Bella—Bella—my dear, will you come and see M. Poirot?”

  We did not hear Mrs. Tanios’ reply, but a minute or two later she came into the room.

  I was really shocked at her appearance. There were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were completely destitute of colour, but what struck me far more than this was her obvious air of terror. She started at the least provocation, and she seemed to be continually listening.

  Poirot greeted her in his most soothing manner. He came forward, shook hands, arranged a chair for her and handed her a cushion. He treated the pale, frightened woman as though she had been a queen.

  “And now, madame, let us have a little chat. You came to see me yesterday, I believe?”

  She nodded.

  “I regret very much that I was away from home.”

  “Yes—yes, I wish y
ou had been there.”

  “You came because you wanted to tell me something?”

  “Yes, I—I meant to—”

  “Eh bien, I am here, at your service.”

  Mrs. Tanios did not respond. She sat quite still, twisting a ring round and round on her finger.

  “Well, madame?”

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, she shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “I daren’t.”

  “You daren’t, madame?”

  “No. I—if he knew—he’d—Oh, something would happen to me!”

  “Come, come, madame—that is absurd.”

  “Oh, but it isn’t absurd—it isn’t absurd at all. You don’t know him….”

  “By him, you mean your husband, madame?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Poirot was silent a minute or two, then he said:

  “Your husband came to see me yesterday, madame.”

  A quick look of alarm sprang up in her face.

  “Oh, no! You didn’t tell him—but of course you didn’t! You couldn’t. You didn’t know where I was. Did he—did he say I was mad?”

  Poirot answered cautiously.

  “He said that you were—highly nervous.”

  But she shook her head, undeceived.

  “No, he said that I was mad—or that I was going mad! He wants to shut me up so that I shan’t be able to tell anyone ever.”

  “Tell anyone—what?”

  But she shook her head. Twisting her fingers nervously round and round, she muttered:

  “I’m afraid….”

  “But madame, once you have told me—you are safe! The secret is out! That fact will protect you automatically.”

  But she did not reply. She went on twisting—twisting at her ring.

  “You must see that yourself,” said Poirot gently.

  She gave a sort of gasp.

  “How am I to know… Oh, dear, it’s terrible. He’s so plausible! And he’s a doctor! People will believe him and not me. I know they will. I should myself. Nobody will believe me. How could they?”

  “You will not even give me the chance?”

  She shot a troubled glance at him.

  “How do I know? You may be on his side.”

  “I am on no one’s side, madame. I am—always—on the side of truth.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Tanios hopelessly. “Oh, I don’t know.” She went on, her words gathering volume, tumbling over each other.