Dumb Witness (13 page)

“Theresa,” said Charles, “doesn't trust anybody.”

He put an arm round her.

“She doesn't trust me.”

“Anyone who trusted you, my sweet, would be mentally deficient,” said Theresa kindly.

The brother and sister moved apart and looked at Poirot.

Poirot bowed and moved to the door.

“I am—as you say—on the job! It is difficult, but mademoiselle is right. There is always a way. Ah, by the way, this Miss Lawson, is she the kind that might conceivably lose her head under cross-examination in court?”

Charles and Theresa exchanged glances.

“I should say,” said Charles, “that a really bullying K.C. could make her say black was white!”

“That,” said Poirot, “may be very useful.”

He skipped out of the room and I followed him. In the hall he picked up his hat, moved to the front door, opened it and shut it again quickly with a bang. Then he tiptoed to the door of the sitting room and unblushingly applied his ear to the crack. At whatever school Poirot was educated, there were clearly no unwritten rules about eavesdropping. I was horrified but powerless. I made urgent signs to Poirot but he took no notice.

And then, clearly, in Theresa Arundell's deep, vibrant voice, there came two words:

“You fool!”

There was the noise of footsteps along the passage and Poirot quickly seized me by the arm, opened the front door and passed through, closing it noiselessly behind him.

“P
oirot,” I said. “Have we
got
to listen at doors?”

“Calm yourself, my friend. It was only I who listened! It was not you who put your ear to the crack. On the contrary, you stood bolt upright like a soldier.”

“But I heard just the same.”

“True. Mademoiselle was hardly whispering.”

“Because she thought that we had left the flat.”

“Yes, we practised a little deception there.”

“I don't like that sort of thing.”

“Your moral attitude is irreproachable! But let us not repeat ourselves. This conversation has occurred on previous occasions. You are about to say that it is not playing the game. And my reply is that murder is not a game.”

“But there is no question of murder here.”

“Do not be sure of that.”

“The
intention,
yes, perhaps. But after all, murder, and
attempted
murder are not the same thing.”

“Morally they are exactly the same thing. But what I meant was, are you so sure that it is only
attempted
murder that occupies our attention?”

I stared at him.

“But old Miss Arundell died a perfectly natural death.”

“I repeat again—
are you so sure?
”

“Everyone says so!”

“Everyone? Oh,
là, là!
”

“The doctor says so,” I pointed out. “Dr. Grainger. He ought to know.”

“Yes, he ought to know.” Poirot's voice was dissatisfied. “But remember, Hastings, again and again a body is exhumed—and in each case a certificate has been signed in all good faith by the doctor attending the case.”

“Yes, but in this case, Miss Arundell died of a long-standing complaint.”

“It seems so—yes.”

Poirot's voice was still dissatisfied. I looked at him keenly.

“Poirot,” I said, “I'll begin a sentence with Are you sure! Are you sure
you
are not being carried away by professional zeal? You
want
it to be murder and so you think it
must
be murder.”

The shadow on his brow deepened. He nodded his head slowly.

“It is clever what you say, there, Hastings. It is a weak spot on which you put your finger. Murder is my business. I am like a great surgeon who specializes in—say—appendicitis or some rarer operation. A patient comes to him and he regards that patient solely from the standpoint of his own specialized subject. Is there any possible reason for thinking this man suffers from so and so…? Me, I
am like that, too. I say to myself always, ‘Can this possibly be murder?' And you see, my friend, there is nearly always a possibility.”

“I shouldn't say there was much possibility here,” I remarked.

“But she died, Hastings! You cannot get away from that fact. She
died!
”

“She was in poor health. She was past seventy. It all seems perfectly natural to me.”

“And does it also seem natural to you that Theresa Arundell should call her brother a fool with that degree of intensity?”

“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?”