Dumb Witness

  “It’s been so awful—for years now. I’ve seen things happening again and again. And I couldn’t say anything or do anything. There have been the children. It’s been like a long nightmare. And now this… But I won’t go back to him. I won’t let him have the children! I’ll go somewhere where he can’t find me. Minnie Lawson will help me. She’s been so kind—so wonderfully kind. Nobody could have been kinder.” She stopped, then shot a quick look at Poirot and asked:

  “What did he say about me? Did he say I had delusions?”

  “He said, madame, that you had—changed towards him.”

  She nodded.

  “And he said I had delusions. He did say that, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, madame, to be frank, he did.”

  “That’s it, you see. That’s what it will sound like. And I’ve no proof—no real proof.”

  Poirot leaned back in his chair. When he next spoke it was with an entire change of manner.

  He spoke in a matter-of-fact, businesslike voice with as little emotion as if he had been discussing some dry matter of business.

  “Do you suspect your husband of doing away with Miss Emily Arundell?”

  Her answer came quickly—a spontaneous flash.

  “I don’t suspect—I know.”

  “Then, madame, it is your duty to speak.”

  “Ah, but it isn’t so easy—no, it isn’t so easy.”

  “How did he kill her?”

  “I don’t know exactly—but he did kill her.”

  “But you don’t know the method he employed?”

  “No—it was something—something he did that last Sunday.”

  “The Sunday he went down to see her?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know what it was?”

  “No.”

  “Then how, forgive me, madame, can you be so sure?”

  “Because he—” she stopped and said slowly, “I am sure!”

  “Pardon, madame, but there is something you are keeping back. Something you have not yet told me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come, then.”

  Bella Tanios got up suddenly.

  “No. No. I can’t do that. The children. Their father. I can’t. I simply can’t….”

  “But madame—”

  “I can’t, I tell you.”

  Her voice rose almost to a scream. The door opened and Miss Lawson came in, her head cocked on one side with a sort of pleasurable excitement.

  “May I come in? Have you had your little talk? Bella, my dear, don’t you think you ought to have a cup of tea, or some soup, or perhaps a little brandy even?”

  Mrs. Tanios shook her head.

  “I’m quite all right.” She gave a weak smile. “I must be getting back to the children. I have left them to unpack.”

  “Dear little things,” said Miss Lawson. “I’m so fond of children.”

  Mrs. Tanios turned to her suddenly.

  “I don’t know what I should do without you,” she said. “You—you’ve been wonderfully kind.”

  “There, there, my dear, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right. You shall come round and see my lawyer—such a nice man, so sympathetic, and he’ll advise you the best way to get a divorce. Divorce is so simple nowadays, isn’t it, everybody says so? Oh, dear, there’s the bell. I wonder who that is.”

  She left the room hurriedly. There was a murmur of voices in the hall. Miss Lawson reappeared. She tiptoed in and shut the door carefully behind her. She spoke in an excited whisper, mouthing the words exaggeratedly.

  “Oh, dear, Bella, it’s your husband. I’m sure I don’t know—”

  Mrs. Tanios gave one bound towards a door at the other end of the room. Miss Lawson nodded her head violently.

  “That’s right, dear, go in there, and then you can slip out when I’ve brought him in here.”

  Mrs. Tanios whispered:

  “Don’t say I’ve been here. Don’t say you’ve seen me.”

  “No, no, of course I won’t.”

  Mrs. Tanios slipped through the door. Poirot and I followed hastily. We found ourselves in a small dining room.

  Poirot crossed to the door into the hall, opened it a crack and listened. Then he beckoned.

  “All is clear. Miss Lawson has taken him into the other room.”

  We crept through the hall and out by the front door. Poirot drew it to as noiselessly as possible after him.

  Mrs. Tanios began to run down the steps, stumbling and clutching at the banisters. Poirot steadied her with a hand under her arm.

  “Du calme—du calme. All is well.”

  We reached the entrance hall.

  “Come with me,” said Mrs. Tanios piteously. She looked as though she might be going to faint.

  “Certainly I will come,” said Poirot reassuringly.

  We crossed the road, turned a corner, and found ourselves in Queen’s Road. The Wellington was a small, inconspicuous hotel of the boardinghouse variety.

  When we were inside Mrs. Tanios sank down on a plush sofa. Her hand was on her beating heart.

  Poirot patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

  “It was the narrow squeak—yes. Now, madame, you are to listen to me very carefully.”

  “I can’t tell you anything more, M. Poirot. It wouldn’t be right. You—you know what I think—what I believe. You—you must be satisfied with that.”

  “I asked you to listen, madame. Supposing—this is a supposition only—that I already know the facts of the case. Supposing that what you could tell me I have already guessed—that would make a difference, would it not?”

  She looked at him doubtfully. Her eyes were painful in their intensity.

  “Oh, believe me, madame, I am not trying to trap you into saying what you do not wish to. But it would make a difference—yes?”

  “I—I suppose it would.”

  “Good. Then let me say this. I, Hercule Poirot, know the truth. I am not going to ask you to accept my word for it. Take this.” He thrust upon her the bulky envelope I had seen him seal up that morning. “The facts are there. After you have read them, if they satisfy you, ring me up. My number is on the notepaper.”

  Almost reluctantly she accepted the envelope.

  Poirot went on briskly:

  “And now, one more point, you must leave this hotel at once.”

  “But why?”

  “You will go to the Coniston Hotel near Euston. Tell no one where you are going.”

  “But surely—here—Minnie Lawson won’t tell my husband where I am.”

  “You think not?”

  “Oh, no—she’s entirely on my side.”

  “Yes, but your husband, madame, is a very clever man. He will not find it difficult to turn a middle-aged lady inside out. It is essential—essential, you understand, that your husband should not know where you are.”

  She nodded dumbly.

  Poirot held out a sheet of paper.

  “Here is the address. Pack up and drive there with the children as soon as possible. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  “I understand.”

  “It is the children you must think of, madame, not yourself. You love your chldren.”

  He had touched the right note.

  A little colour crept into her cheeks, her head went back. She looked, not a frightened drudge, but an arrogant, almost handsome woman.

  “It is arranged, then,” said Poirot.

  He shook hands and he and I departed. But not far. From the shelter of a convenient café, we sipped coffee and watched the entrance of the hotel. In about five minutes we saw Dr. Tanios walking down the street. He did not even glance up at the Wellington. He passed it, his head bowed in thought, then he turned into the Underground station.

  About ten minutes later we saw Mrs. Tanios and the children get into the taxi with their luggage and drive away.

  “Bien,” said Poirot, rising with the check in his hand. “We have done our part. Now it is
on the knees of the gods.”

  Twenty-seven

  VISIT OF DR. DONALDSON

  Donaldson arrived punctually at two o’clock. He was as calm and precise as ever.

  The personality of Donaldson had begun to intrigue me. I had started by regarding him as a rather nondescript young man. I had wondered what a vivid, compelling creature like Theresa could see in him. But I now began to realize that Donaldson was anything but negligible. Behind that pedantic manner there was force.

  After our preliminary greetings were over, Donaldson said:

  “The reason for my visit is this. I am at a loss to understand exactly what your position is in this matter, M. Poirot?”

  Poirot replied guardedly:

  “You know my profession, I think?”

  “Certainly. I may say that I have taken the trouble to make inquiries about you.”

  “You are a careful man, doctor.”

  Donaldson said drily:

  “I like to be sure of my facts.”

  “You have the scientific mind!”

  “I may say that all reports on you are the same. You are obviously a very clever man in your profession. You have also the reputation of being a scrupulous and honest one.”

  “You are too flattering,” murmured Poirot.

  “That is why I am at a loss to explain your connection with this affair.”

  “And yet it is so simple!”

  “Hardly that,” said Donaldson. “You first present yourself as a writer of biographies.”

  “A pardonable deception, do you not think? One cannot go everywhere announcing the fact that one is a detective—though that, too, has its uses sometimes.”

  “So I should imagine.” Again Donaldson’s tone was dry. “Your next proceeding,” he went on, “was to call on Miss Theresa Arundell and represent to her that her aunt’s will might conceivably be set aside.”

  Poirot merely bowed his head in assent.

  “That, of course, was ridiculous.” Donaldson’s voice was sharp. “You knew perfectly well that that will was valid in law and that nothing could be done about it.”

  “You think that is the case?”

  “I am not a fool, M. Poirot—”

  “No, Dr. Donaldson, you are certainly not a fool.”

  “I know something—not very much, but enough—of the law. That will can certainly not be upset. Why did you pretend it could? Clearly for reasons of your own—reasons which Miss Theresa Arundell did not for a moment grasp.”

  “You seem very certain of her reactions.”

  A very faint smile passed across the young man’s face.

  He said unexpectedly:

  “I know a good deal more about Theresa than she suspects. I have no doubt that she and Charles think they have enlisted your aid in some questionable business. Charles is almost completely amoral. Theresa has a bad heredity and her upbringing has been unfortunate.”

  “It is thus you speak of your fiancée—as though she was a guinea pig?”

  Donaldson peered at him through his pince-nez.

  “I see no occasion to blink the truth. I love Theresa Arundell and I love her for what she is and not for any imagined qualities.”

  “Do you realize that Theresa Arundell is devoted to you and that her wish for money is mainly in order that your ambitions should be gratified?”

  “Of course I realize it. I’ve already told you I’m not a fool. But I have no intention of allowing Theresa to embroil herself in any questionable situation on my account. In many ways Theresa is a child still. I am quite capable of furthering my career by my own efforts. I do not say that a substantial legacy would not have been acceptable. It would have been most acceptable. But it would merely have provided a shortcut.”

  “You have, in fact, full confidence in your own abilities?”

  “It probably sounds conceited, but I have,” said Donaldson composedly.

  “Let us proceed, then. I admit that I gained Miss Theresa’s confidence by a trick. I let her think that I would be—shall we say, reasonably dishonest—for money. She believed that without the least difficulty.”

  “Theresa believes that anyone would do anything for money,” said the young doctor in the matter-of-fact tone one uses when stating a self-evident truth.

  “True. That seems to be her attitude—her brother’s also.”

  “Charles probably would do anything for money!”

  “You have no illusions, I see, about your future brother-in-law.”

  “No. I find him quite an interesting study. There is, I think, some deep-seated neurosis—but that is talking shop. To return to what we are discussing. I have asked myself why you should act in the way you have done, and I have found only one answer. It is clear that you suspect either Theresa or Charles of having a hand in Miss Arundell’s death. No, please don’t bother to contradict me! Your mention of exhumation was, I think, a mere device to see what reaction you would get. Have you, in actual fact, taken any steps towards getting a Home Office order for exhumation?”

  “I will be frank with you. As yet, I have not.”

  Donaldson nodded.

  “So I thought. I suppose you have considered the possibility that Miss Arundell’s death may turn out to be from natural causes?”

  “I have considered the fact that it may appear to be so—yes.”

  “But your own mind is made up?”

  “Very definitely. If you have a case of—say—tuberculosis that looks like tuberculosis, behaves like tuberculosis, and in which the blood gives a positive reaction—eh bien, you consider it is tuberculosis, do you not?”

  “You look at it that way? Then what exactly are you waiting for?”

  “I am waiting for a final piece of evidence.”

  The telephone bell rang. At a gesture from Poirot I got up and answered it. I recognized the voice.

  “Captain Hastings? This is Mrs. Tanios speaking. Will you tell M. Poirot that he is perfectly right. If he will come here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, I will give him what he wants.”

  “At ten o’clock tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right, I’ll tell him.”

  Poirot’s eyes asked a question. I nodded.

  He turned to Donaldson. His manner had changed. It was brisk—assured.

  “Let me make myself clear,” he said. “I have diagnosed this case of mine as a case of murder. It looked like murder, it gave all the characteristic reactions of murder—in fact, it was murder! Of that there is not the least doubt.”

  “Where then, does the doubt—for I perceive there is a doubt—lie?”

  “The doubt lay in the identity of the murderer—but that is a doubt no longer!”

  “Really? You know?”

  “Let us say that I shall have definite proof in my hands tomorrow.”

  Dr. Donaldson’s eyebrows rose in a slightly ironical fashion.

  “Ah,” he said. “Tomorrow! Sometimes, M. Poirot, tomorrow is a long way off.”

  “On the contrary,” said Poirot, “I always find that it succeeds today with monotonous regularity.”

  Donaldson smiled. He rose.

  “I fear I have wasted your time, M. Poirot.”

  “Not at all. It is always as well to understand each other.”

  With a slight bow Dr. Donaldson left the room.

  Twenty-eight

  ANOTHER VICTIM

  “That is a clever man,” said Poirot thoughtfully.

  “It’s rather difficult to know what he is driving at.”

  “Yes. He is a little inhuman. But extremely perceptive.”

  “That telephone call was from Mrs. Tanios.”

  “So I gathered.”

  I repeated the message. Poirot nodded approval.

  “Good. All marches well. Twenty-four hours, Hastings, and I think we shall know exactly where we stand.”

  “I’m still a little fogged. Who exactly do we suspect?”

  “I really could not say who you suspect, Hasti
ngs! Everybody in turn, I should imagine!”

  “Sometimes I think you like to get me into that state!”

  “No, no, I would not amuse myself in such a way.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  Poirot shook his head, but somewhat absently. I studied him.

  “Is anything the matter?” I asked.

  “My friend, I am always nervous towards the end of a case. If anything should go wrong—”

  “Is anything likely to go wrong?”

  “I do not think so.” He paused—frowning. “I have, I think, provided against every contingency.”

  “Then, supposing we forget crime and go to a show?”

  “Ma foi, Hastings, that is a good idea!”

  We passed a very pleasant evening, though I made the slight mistake of taking Poirot to a crook play. There is one piece of advice I offer all my readers. Never take a soldier to a military play, a sailor to a naval play, a Scotsman to a Scottish play, a detective to a thriller—and an actor to any play whatsoever! The shower of destructive criticism in each case is somewhat devastating. Poirot never ceased to complain of faulty psychology, and the hero detective’s lack of order and method nearly drove him demented. We parted that night with Poirot still explaining how the whole business might have been laid bare in the first half of the first act.

  “But in that case, Poirot, there would have been no play,” I pointed out.

  Poirot was forced to admit that perhaps that was so.

  It was a few minutes past nine when I entered the sitting room the next morning. Poirot was at the breakfast table—as usual neatly slitting open his letters.

  The telephone rang and I answered it.

  A heavy breathing female voice spoke:

  “Is that M. Poirot? Oh, it’s you, Captain Hastings.”

  There was a sort of gasp and a sob.

  “Is that Miss Lawson?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes, such a terrible thing has happened!”

  I grasped the receiver tightly.

  “What is it?”

  “She left the Wellington, you know—Bella, I mean. I went there late in the afternoon yesterday and they said she’d left. Without a word to me, either! Most extraordinary! It makes me feel that perhaps after all, Dr. Tanios was right. He spoke so nicely about her and seemed so distressed, and now it really looks as though he were right after all.”