Dumb Witness hp-16 Read online

  In the circumstances as I am sure you will be the first to appreciate, it is quite impossible for me to consult any one in Market Basing (I glanced back at the heading of the letter. Littlegreen House, Market Basing, Berks), but at the same time you will naturally understand that I feel uneasy (uneasy underlined.) During the last few days I have reproached myself with being unduly fanciful (fanciful underlined three times) but have only felt increasingly perturbed. I may be attaching undue importance to what is, after all, a trifle (trifle underlined twice) but my uneasiness remains. I feel definitely that my mind must be set at rest on the matter. It is actually preying on my mind and affecting my health, and naturally I am in a difficult position as I can say nothing to any one (nothing to any one underlined with heavy lines). In your wisdom you may say, of course, that the whole thing is nothing but a mare's nest. The facts may be capable of a perfectly innocent explanation (innocent underlined).

  Nevertheless, however trivial it may seem, ever since the incident of the dog's ball, I have felt increasingly doubtful and alarmed. I should therefore welcome your views and counsel on the matter. It would, I feel sure, take a great weight off my mind. Perhaps you would kindly let me know what your fees are and what you advise me to do in the matter?

  I must impress on you again that nobody here knows anything at all. The facts are, I know, very trivial and unimportant, but my health is not too good and my nerves (nerves underlined three times) are not what they used to be. Worry of this kind, I am convinced, is very bad for me, and the more I think over the matter, the more I am convinced that I was quite right and no mistake was possible. Of course, I shall not dream of saying anything (underlined) to anyone (underlined).

  Hoping to have your advice in the matter at an early date,

  I remain,

  Yours faithfully,

  Emily Arundell."

  I turned the letter over and scanned each page closely.

  "But, Poirot," I expostulated, "what is it all about?"

  My friend shrugged his shoulders.

  "What, indeed?"

  I tapped the sheets with some impatience.

  "What a woman! Why can't Mrs – or Miss Arundell -"

  "Miss, I think. It is typically the letter of a spinster."

  "Yes," I said. "A real fussy old maid. Why can't she say what she's talking about?"

  Poirot sighed.

  "As you say – a regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental processes, and without order and method, Hastings -"

  "Quite so," I interrupted hastily. "Little grey cells practically nonexistent."

  "I would not say that, my friend."

  "I would! What's the sense of writing a letter like that?"

  "Very little – that is true," Poirot admitted.

  "A long rigmarole all about nothing," I went on. "Probably some upset to her fat lapdog – an asthmatic pug or a yapping Pekingese!"

  I looked at my friend curiously.

  "And yet you read that letter through twice. I do not understand you, Poirot."

  Poirot smiled.

  "You, Hastings, you would have put it straight in the waste-paper basket?"

  "I'm afraid I should." I frowned down on the letter. "I suppose I'm being dense, as usual, but I can't see anything of interest in this letter!"

  "Yet there is one point in it of great interest – a point that struck me at once."

  "Wait," I cried. "Don't tell me. Let me see if I can't discover it for myself."

  It was childish of me, perhaps. I examined the letter very thoroughly. Then I shook my head.

  "No, I don't see it. The old lady's got the wind up, I realize that – but then, old ladies often do! It may be about nothing – it may conceivably be about something, but I don't see that you can tell that that is so. Unless your instinct -"

  Poirot raised an offended hand.

  "Instinct! You know how I dislike that word. 'Something seems to tell me' – that is what you infer. Jamais de la vie! Me, I reason. I employ the little grey cells. There is one interesting point about that letter which you have overlooked utterly, Hastings."

  "Oh, well," I said wearily. "I'll buy it."

  "Buy it? Buy what?"

  "An expression. Meaning that I will permit you to enjoy yourself by telling me just where I have been a fool."

  "Not a fool, Hastings, merely unobservant."

  "Well, out with it. What's the interesting point? I suppose, like the 'incident of the dog in the nighttime,' the point is that there is no interesting point!"

  Poirot disregarded this sally on my part.

  He said quietly and calmly:

  "The interesting point is the date."

  "The date?"

  I picked up the letter. On the top lefthand corner was written April 17th.

  "Yes," I said slowly. "That is odd. April 17th."

  "And we are today June 28th. C'est curieux, n'est-ce pas? Over two months ago."

  I shook my head doubtfully.

  "It probably doesn't mean anything. A slip. 'She meant to put June and wrote April instead."

  "Even then it would be ten or eleven days old – an odd fact. But actually you are in error. Look at the colour of the ink. That letter was written more than ten or eleven days ago. No, April 17th is the date assuredly. But why was the letter not sent?"

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  "That's easy. The old pussy changed her mind."

  "Then why did she not destroy the letter" Why keep it over two months and post it now?"

  I had to admit that that was harder to answer. In fact, I couldn't think of a really satisfactory answer. I merely shook my head and said nothing.

  Poirot nodded.

  "You see – it is a point! Yes, decidedly a curious point."

  He went over to his writing-table and took up a pen.

  "You are answering the letter?" I asked.

  "Oui, mon ami."

  The room was silent except for the scratching of Poirot's pen. It was a hot, airless morning. A smell of dust and tar came in through the window.

  Poirot rose from his desk, the completed letter in his hand. He opened a drawer and drew out a little square box. From this he took out a stamp. Moistening this with a little sponge, he prepared to affix it to the letter.

  Then suddenly he paused, stamp in hand, shaking his head with vigour.

  "Non!" he exclaimed. "That is the wrong thing I do." He tore the letter across and threw it into the waste-paper basket.

  "Not so must we tackle this matter! We will go, my friend."

  "You mean to go down to Market Basing?"

  "Precisely. Why not? Does not one stifle in London today? Would not the country air be agreeable?"

  "Well, if you put it like that," I said. "Shall we go in the car?"

  I had acquired a second-hand Austin.

  "Excellent. A very pleasant day for motoring. One will hardly need the muffler. A light overcoat, a silk scarf -"

  "My dear fellow, you're not going to the North Pole!" I protested.

  "One must be careful of catching the chill," said Poirot setentiously.

  "On a day like this?"

  Disregarding my protests, Poirot proceeded to don a fawn-coloured overcoat and wrap his neck up with a white silk handkerchief.

  Having carefully placed the wetted stamp face downwards on the blotting-paper to dry, we left the room together.

  Chapter 6

  WE GO TO LITTLEGREEN HOUSE

  I don't know what Poirot felt like in his coat and muffler, but I myself felt roasted before we got out of London. An open car in traffic is far from being a refreshing place on a hot summer's day.

  Once we were outside London, however, and getting a bit of pace on the Great West Road my spirits rose.

  Our drive took us about an hour and a half, and it was close upon twelve o'clock when we came into the little town of Market Basing. Originally on the main road, a modern by-pass now left it some three miles to the north of the main stream of traffi
c and in consequence it had kept an air of old-fashioned dignity and quietude about it. Its one wide street and ample market square seemed to say, "I was a place of importance once and to any person of sense and breeding I am still the same. Let this modern speeding world dash along their new-fangled road; I was built to endure in a day when solidarity and beauty went hand in hand."

  There was a parking area in the middle of the big square, though there were only a few cars occupying it. I duly parked the Austin, Poirot divested himself of his superfluous garments, assured himself that his moustaches were in their proper condition of symmetrical flamboyance, and we were then ready to proceed.

  For once in a way our first tentative inquiry did not meet with the usual response, "Sorry, but I'm a stranger in these parts."

  It would seem indeed probable that there were no strangers in Market Basing! It had that effect! Already, I felt, Poirot and myself (and especially Poirot) were somewhat noticeable. We tended to stick out from the mellow background of an English market town secure in its traditions.

  "Littlegreen House?" The man, a burly, ox-eyed fellow looked us over thoughtfully. "You go straight up the High Street and you can't miss it. On your left. There's no name on the gate, but it's the first big house after the bank." He repeated again, "You can't miss it."

  His eyes followed us as we started on our course.

  "Dear me," I complained. "There is something about this place that makes me feel extremely conspicuous. As for you, Poirot, you look positively exotic."

  "You think it is noticed that I am a foreigner – yes?"

  "The fact cries aloud to heaven," I assured him.

  "And yet my clothes are made by an English tailor," mused Poirot.

  "Clothes are not everything," I said. "It cannot be denied, Poirot, that you have a noticeable personality. I have often wondered that it has not hindered you in your career."

  Poirot sighed.

  "That is because you have the mistaken idea implanted in your head that a detective is necessarily a man who puts on a false beard and hides behind a pillar! The false beard, it is vieux jeu, and shadowing is only done by the lowest branch of my profession. The Hercule Poirots, my friend, need only to sit back in a chair and think."

  "Which explains why we are walking along this exceedingly hot street on an exceedingly hot morning."

  "That is very neatly replied, Hastings. For once, I admit, you have made the score off me."

  We found Littlegreen House easily enough, but a shock awaited us – a houseagent's board.

  As we were staring at it, a dog's bark attracted my attention.

  The bushes were thin at that point and the dog could be easily seen. He was a wire-haired terrier, somewhat shaggy as to coat.

  His feet were planted wide apart, slightly to one side, and he barked with an obvious enjoyment of his own performance that showed him to be actuated by the most amiable motives.

  "Good watchdog, aren't I?" he seemed to be saying. "Don't mind me! This is just my fun! My duty too, of course. Just have to let 'em know there's a dog about the place! Deadly dull morning. Quite a blessing to have something to do. Coming into our place? Hope so. It's darned dull. I could do with a little conversation."

  "Hallo, old man," I said, and shoved forward a fist.

  Craning his neck through the railings, he sniffed suspiciously, then gently wagged his tail and gave a few short, staccato barks.

  "Not been properly introduced, of course, have to keep this up! But I see you know the proper advances to make."

  "Good old boy," I said.

  "Wuff," said the terrier amiably.

  "Well, Poirot?" I said, desisting from this conversation and turning to my friend. There was an odd expression on his face – one that I could not quite fathom. A kind of deliberately suppressed excitement seems to describe it best.

  "The Incident of the Dog's Ball," he murmured. "Well, at least, we have here a dog."

  "Wuff," observed our new friend. Then he sat down, yawned widely and looked at us hopefully.

  "What next?" I asked.

  The dog seemed to be asking the same question.

  "Parbleu, to Messrs. – what is it – Messrs. Gabler and Stretcher."

  "That does seem indicated," I agreed.

  We turned and retraced our steps, our canine acquaintance sending a few disgusted barks after us.

  The premises of Messrs. Gabler and Stretcher were situated in the Market Square. We entered a dim outer office where we were received by a young woman with adenoids and a lack-lustre eye.

  "Good-morning," said Poirot politely.

  The young woman was at the moment speaking into a telephone, but she indicated a chair and Poirot sat down. I found another and brought it forward.

  "I couldn't say, I'm sure," said the young woman into the telephone vacantly. "No, I don't know what the rates would be… Pardon? Oh, main water, I think, but, of course, I couldn't be certain… I'm very sorry, I'm sure… No, he's out… No, I couldn't say… Yes, of course I'll ask him… Yes… 8135? I'm afraid I haven't quite got it. Oh… 8935… 39… Oh, 5135… Yes, I'll ask him to ring you… after six… Oh, pardon, before six… Thank you so much."

  She replaced the receiver, scribbled 5319 on the blotting-pad and turned a mildly inquiring but uninterested gaze on Poirot.

  Poirot began briskly.

  "I observe that there is a house to be sold just on the outskirts of this town. Littlegreen House, I think is the name."

  "Pardon?"

  "A house to be let or sold," said Poirot loudly and distinctly. "Littlegreen House."

  "Oh, Littlegreen House," said the young woman vaguely. "Littlegreen House, did you say?"

  "That is what I said."

  "Littlegreen House," said the young woman, making a tremendous mental effort. "Oh, well, I expect Mr Gabler would know about that."

  "Can I see Mr Gabler?"

  "He's out," said the young woman with a kind of faint, anaemic satisfaction as of one who says, "A point to me."

  "Do you know when he will be in?"

  "I couldn't say, I'm sure," said the young woman.

  "You comprehend, I am looking for a house in this neighborhood," said Poirot.

  "Oh, yes," said the young woman, uninterested.

  "And Littlegreen House seems to me just what I am looking for. Can you give me particulars?"

  "Particulars?" The young woman seemed startled.

  "Particulars of Littlegreen House."

  Unwillingly she opened a drawer and took out an untidy file of papers.

  Then she called "John."

  A lanky youth sitting in a corner looked up.

  "Yes, miss."

  "Have we got any particulars of – what did you say?"

  "Littlegreen House," said Poirot distinctly.

  "You've got a large bill of it here," I remarked, pointing to the wall.

  She looked at me coldly. Two to one, she seemed to think, was an unfair way of playing the game. She called up her own reinforcements.

  "You don't know anything about Littlegreen House, do you, John?"

  "No, miss. Should be in the file."

  "I'm sorry," said the young woman without looking so in the least. "I rather fancy we must have sent all the particulars out."

  "C'est dammage."

  "Pardon?"

  "A pity."

  "We've a nice bungalow at Hemel End, two bed, one sit."

  She spoke without enthusiasm, but with the air of one willing to do her duty by her employer.

  "I thank you, no."

  "And a semi-detached with small conservatory. I could give you particulars of that."

  "No, thank you. I desired to know what rent you were asking for Littlegreen House."

  "It's not to be rented," said the young woman, abandoning her position of complete ignorance of anything to do with Littlegreen House in the pleasure of scoring a point. "Only to be sold outright."

  "The board says, 'To be Let or Sold.'"

  "I co
uldn't say as to that, but it's for sale only."

  At this stage in the battle the door opened and a grey-haired, middle-aged man entered with a rush. His eye, a militant one, swept over us with a gleam. His eyebrows asked a question of his employee.

  "This is Mr Gabler," said the young woman.

  Mr Gabler opened the door of an inner sanctum with a flourish.

  "Step in here, gentlemen." He ushered us in, an ample gesture swept us into chairs and he himself was facing us across a flat-topped desk.

  "And now what can I do for you?"

  Poirot began again perseveringly.

  "I desired a few particulars of Littlegreen House -"

  He got no further. Mr Gabler took command.

  "Ah! Littlegreen House – there's a property! An absolute bargain. Only just come into the market. I can tell you, gentlemen, we don't often get a house of that class going at the price. Taste's swinging round. People are fed up with jerry-building. They want sound stuff. Good, honest building. A beautiful property – character – feeling – Georgian throughout. That's what people want nowadays – there's a feeling for period houses if you understand what I mean. Ah, yes, Littlegreen House won't be long in the market. It'll be snapped up. Snapped up! A member of Parliament came to look at it only last Saturday. Liked it so much he's coming down again this weekend. And there's a stock exchange gentleman after it too. People want quiet nowadays when they come to the country, want to be well away from main roads. That's all very well for some people, but we attract class here. And that's what that house has got. Class! You've got to admit, they knew how to build for gentlemen in those days. Yes, we shan't have Littlegreen long on our books."

  Mr Gabler, who, it occurred to me, lived up to his name very happily, paused for breath.

  "Has it changed hands often in the last few years?" inquired Poirot.

  "On the contrary. Been in one family over fifty years. Name of Arundell. Very much respected in the town. Ladies of the old school."

  He shot up, opened the door and called:

  "Particulars of Littlegreen House, Miss Jenkins. Quickly now."

  He returned to the desk.

  "I require a house about this distance from London," said Poirot. "In the country, but not in the dead country, if you understand me -"

  "Perfectly – perfectly. Too much in the country doesn't do. Servants don't like it for one thing. Here, you have the advantages of the country but not the disadvantages." Miss Jenkins flitted in with a typewritten sheet of paper which she placed in front of her employer, who dismissed her with a nod.