Dumb Witness (23 page)

“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.”

D
onaldson 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.

“T
hat 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, Hastings! 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.”

“But what's happened, Miss Lawson? Is is just that Mrs. Tanios left the hotel without telling you?”

“Oh, no, it's not
that!
Oh, dear me, no. If that were all it would be
quite
all right. Though I do think it was
odd,
you know. Dr. Tanios did say that he was afraid she wasn't quite—not
quite
—if you know what I mean. Persecution mania, he called it.”

“Yes.” (Damn the woman!) “But what's
happened?
”

“Oh, dear—it is terrible. Died in her sleep. An overdose of some sleeping stuff. And those
poor
children! It all seems so dreadfully
sad!
I've done nothing but cry since I heard.”

“How did you hear? Tell me all about it.”

Out of the tail of my eye I noticed that Poirot had stopped opening his letters. He was listening to my side of the conversation. I did not like to cede my place to him. If I did it seemed highly probable that Miss Lawson would start with lamentations all over again.

“They rang me up. From the hotel. The Coniston it's called. It seems they found my name and address in her bag. Oh, dear, M. Poirot—Captain Hastings, I mean,
isn't it terrible?
Those poor children left motherless.”

“Look here,” I said. “Are you sure it's an accident? They didn't think it could be suicide?”

“Oh, what a
dreadful
idea, Captain Hastings! Oh, dear, I don't know, I'm sure. Do you think it could be? That would be
dreadful.
Of course she
did
seem very depressed. But she needn't have. I mean there wouldn't have been any difficulty about
money.
I was going to
share
with her—indeed I was. Dear Miss Arundell would have wished it. I'm sure of that! It seems so awful to think of her taking her own life—but perhaps she didn't… The hotel people seemed to think it was an accident?”

“What did she take?”

“One of those sleeping things. Veronal, I think. No, chloral. Yes, that was it. Chloral. Oh, dear, Captain Hastings, do you think—”

Unceremoniously I banged down the receiver. I turned to Poirot.

“Mrs. Tanios—”

He raised a hand.

“Yes, yes, I know what you are going to say. She is dead, is she not?”

“Yes. Overdose of sleeping draught. Chloral.”

Poirot got up.

“Come, Hastings, we must go there at once.”

“Is this what you feared—last night? When you said you were always nervous towards the end of a case?”

“I feared another death—yes.”

Poirot's face was set and stern. We said very little as we drove towards Euston. Once or twice Poirot shook his head.

I said timidly:

“You don't think—? Could it be an accident?”

“No, Hastings—no. It was not an accident.”

“How on earth did he find out where she had gone?”

Poirot only shook his head without replying.

The Coniston was an unsavoury-looking place quite near Euston station. Poirot, with his card, and a suddenly bullying manner, soon fought his way into the manager's office.

The facts were quite simple.

Mrs. Peters as she had called herself and her two children had arrived about half past twelve. They had had lunch at one o'clock.

At four o'clock a man had arrived with a note for Mrs. Peters. The note had been sent up to her. A few minutes later she had come down with the two children and a suitcase. The children had then left with the visitor. Mrs. Peters had gone to the office and explained that she should only want the one room after all.

She had not appeared exceptionally distressed or upset, indeed she had seemed quite calm and collected. She had had dinner about seven thirty and had gone to her room soon afterwards.

On calling her in the morning the chambermaid had found her dead.

A doctor had been sent for and had pronounced her to have been dead for some hours. An empty glass was found on the table by the bed. It seemed fairly obvious that she had taken a sleeping draught, and by mistake, taken an overdose. Chloral hydrate, the doctor said, was a somewhat uncertain drug. There were no indications of suicide. No letter had been left. Searching for means of notifying her relations, Miss Lawson's name and address had been found and she had been communicated with by telephone.

Poirot asked if anything had been found in the way of letters or
papers. The letter, for instance, brought by the man who had called for the children.

No papers of any kind had been found, the man said, but there was a pile of charred paper on the hearth.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

As far as anyone could say, Mrs. Peters had had no visitors and no one had come to her room—with the solitary exception of the man who had called for the two children.

I questioned the porter myself as to his appearance, but the man was very vague. A man of medium height—he thought fair-haired—rather military build—of somewhat nondescript appearance. No, he was positive the man had no beard.

“It wasn't Tanios,” I murmured to Poirot.

“My dear Hastings! Do you really believe that Mrs. Tanios, after all the trouble she was taking to get the children away from their father, would quite meekly hand them over to him without the least fuss or protest? Ah, that, no!”

“Then who was the man?”

“Clearly it was someone in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence or rather it was someone sent by a third person in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence.”

“A man of medium height,” I mused.

“You need hardly trouble yourself about his appearance, Hastings. I am quite sure that the man who actually called for the children was some quite unimportant personage. The real agent kept himself in the background!”

“And the note was from this third person?”

“Yes.”

“Someone in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence?”

“Obviously.”

“And the note is now burnt?”

“Yes, she was instructed to burn it.”

“What about that résumé of the case that you gave her?”

Poirot's face looked unusually grim.

“That, too, is burned. But that does not matter!”

“No?”

“No. For you see—it is all in the head of Hercule Poirot.”

He took me by the arm.

“Come, Hastings, let us leave here. Our concern is not with the dead but with the living. It is with them I have to deal.”