Dumb Witness hp-16 Read online

  "I see. She thought it was better Miss Arundell shouldn't be told?"

  "That's what she said, sir. She said, 'He's sure to come back. He always does, but she might worry and that would never do.' So we didn't say anything."

  "Was Bob fond of Miss Lawson?"

  "Well, he was rather contemptuous of her if you know what I mean, sir. Dogs can be. She was kind to him. Called him a good doggie and a nice doggie, but he used to look at her kind of scornful like and he didn't pay any attention at all to what she told him to do."

  Poirot nodded. "I see," he said.

  Suddenly he did something which startled me.

  He pulled a letter from his pocket – the letter he had received this morning.

  "Ellen," he said, "do you know anything about this?"

  The change that came over Ellen's face was remarkable.

  Her jaw dropped and she stared at Poirot with an almost comical expression of bewilderment.

  "Well," she ejaculated. "I never did!"

  The observation lacked coherency, perhaps, but it left no doubt of Ellen's meaning.

  Gathering her wits about her she said slowly:

  "Are you the gentleman that letter was written to, then?"

  "I am. I am Hercule Poirot."

  Like most people, Ellen had not glanced at the name on the order Poirot had held out to her on his arrival. She nodded her head slowly.

  "That was it," she said. "Hercules Poirot." She added an S to the Christian name and sounded the T of the surname.

  "My word!" she exclaimed. "Cook will be surprised."

  Poirot said quickly:

  "Would it not be advisable, perhaps, for us to go to the kitchen and there in company with your friend, we could talk the matter over?"

  "Well – if you don't mind, sir."

  Ellen sounded just a little doubtful. This particular social dilemma was clearly new to her. But Poirot's matter-of-fact manner reassured her and we departed forthwith to the kitchen, Ellen elucidating the situation to a large, pleasant-faced woman who was just lifting a kettle from a gas ring.

  "You'll never believe it, Annie. This is actually the gentleman that letter was to. You know, the one I found in the blotter."

  "You must remember I am in the dark," said Poirot. "Perhaps you will tell me how the letter came to be posted so late in the day?"

  "Well, sir, to tell the truth I didn't know what to do. Neither of us did, did we?"

  "Indeed, we didn't," the cook confirmed.

  "You see, sir, when Miss Lawson was turning out things after the mistress's death a good lot of things were given away or thrown away. Among them was a little, paper-maché, I think they call it, blotter. Very pretty it was, with a lily of the valley on it. The mistress always used it when she wrote in bed. Well, Miss Lawson didn't want it, so she gave it to me along with a lot of other little odds and ends that had belonged to the mistress. I put it away in a drawer, and it wasn't till yesterday that I took it out. I was going to put some new blotting-paper in it so that it was ready for me to use. There was a sort of pocket inside and I just slipped my hand in it when what should I find but a letter in the mistress's handwriting, tucked away.

  "Well, as I say, I didn't know rightly what to do about it. It was the mistress's hand all right, and I saw as she'd written it and slipped it in there waiting to post it the next day and then she'd forgot, which is the kind of thing she did many a time, poor dear. Once it was a dividend warrant to her bank and no one could think where it had got to, and at last it was found pushed right back in the pigeon-holes of the desk."

  "Was she untidy?"

  "Oh, no, sir, just the opposite. She was always putting things away and clearing them up. That was half the trouble. If she'd left things about it would really have been better. It was their being tidied away and then forgotten that was always happening."

  "Things like Bob's ball, for instance?" asked Poirot with a smile.

  The sagacious terrier had just trotted in from outdoors and greeted us anew in a very friendly manner.

  "Yes, indeed, sir. As soon as Bob finished playing with his ball she'd put it away. But that was all right because it had its own place – in the drawer I showed you."

  "I see. But I interrupted you. Pray go on. You discovered the letter in the blotter?"

  "Yes, sir, that was the way of it, and I asked Annie what she thought I'd better do. I didn't like to put it in the fire – and, of course, I couldn't take upon myself to open it, and neither Annie nor I could see that it was any business of Miss Lawson's, so after we'd talked it over a bit, I just put a stamp on it and ran out to the post box and posted it."

  Poirot turned slightly to me.

  "Voilà," he murmured.

  I could not help saying maliciously:

  "Amazing how simple an explanation can be!"

  I thought he looked a little crestfallen and rather wished I hadn't been so quick to try and rub it in.

  He turned again to Ellen.

  "As my friend says: How simple an explanation can be! You understand, when I received a letter dated over two months ago I was somewhat surprised."

  "Yes, I suppose you must have been, sir. We didn't think of that."

  "Also -" Poirot coughed. "I am in a little dilemma. That letter, you see – it was a commission with which Miss Arundell wished to entrust me. A matter of a somewhat private character." He cleared his throat importantly.

  "Now that Miss Arundell is dead I am in some doubt how to act. Would Miss Arundell have wished me to undertake the commission in these circumstances or not? It is difficult – very difficult."

  Both women were looking at him respectfully.

  "I shall have, I think, to consult Miss Arundell's lawyer. She had a lawyer, did she not?"

  Ellen answered quickly:

  "Oh, yes, sir. Mr Purvis from Harchester."

  "He knew all her affairs?"

  "I think so, sir. He's done everything for her ever since I can remember. It was him she sent for after the fall she had."

  "The fall down the stairs?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now let me see, when was that exactly?"

  The cook broke in.

  "Day after Bank Holiday it was. I remember that well. I stayed in to oblige on Bank Holiday, seeing she had all those people staying, and I had the day on Wednesday instead."

  Poirot had whipped out his pocket almanac.

  "Precisely – precisely. Easter Bank Holiday, I see, fell on the thirteenth this year. Then Miss Arundell had her accident on the fourteenth. This letter to me was written three days later. A pity that it was never sent. However, it may still not be too late -" He paused. "I rather fancy that the – er – commission she wished me to perform was connected with one of the – er – guests you mentioned just now."

  This remark, which could only have been a pure shot in the dark, met with immediate response. A quick look of intelligence passed across Ellen's face. She turned to the cook who gave her back an answering glance.

  "That'll be Mr Charles," she said.

  "If you would tell me just who was there -" Poirot suggested.

  "Dr Tanios and his wife. Miss Bella that was, and Miss Theresa and Mr Charles."

  "They were all nephews and nieces?"

  "That's right, sir. Dr Tanios, of course, is no relation. In fact, he's a foreigner, a Greek or something of the sort, I believe. He married Miss Bella, Miss Arundell's niece, her sister's child. Mr Charles and Miss Theresa are brother and sister."

  "Ah, yes, I see. A family party. And when did they leave?"

  "On the Wednesday morning, sir. And Dr Tanios and Miss Bella came down again the next weekend because they were worried about Miss Arundell."

  "And Mr Charles and Miss Theresa?"

  "They came the weekend after. The weekend before she died."

  Poirot's curiosity, I felt, was quite insatiable. I could see no point in these continued questions. He got the explanation of his mystery, and in my opinion the sooner he retired
with dignity the better.

  The thought seemed to go from my brain to his.

  "Eh bien," he said. "This information you have given me is very helpful. I must consult this – Mr Purvis, I think you said? Thank you very much for all your help."

  He stopped and patted Bob. "Brave chien, va! You loved your mistress."

  Bob responded amiably to these overtures and hopeful of a little play went and fetched a large piece of coal. For this he was reproved and the coal removed from him. He sent me a glance in search of sympathy.

  "These women," it seemed to say. "Generous with the food, but not really sportsmen!"

  Chapter 9

  RECONSTRUCTION OF THE DOG'S BALL INCIDENT

  "Well, Poirot," I said as the gate of Littlegreen House closed behind us. "You are satisfied now, I hope!"

  "Yes, my friend. I am satisfied."

  "Thank Heaven for that! All the mysteries explained! The Wicked Companion and the Rich Old Lady myth exploded. The delayed letter and even the famous incident of the dog's ball shown in their true colours. Everything settled satisfactorily and according to Cocker!"

  Poirot gave a dry little cough and said:

  "I would not use the word satisfactorily, Hastings."

  "You did a minute ago."

  "No, no. I did not say the matter was satisfactory. I said that, personally, my curiosity was satisfied. I know the truth of the Dog's Ball incident."

  "And very simple it was too!"

  "Not quite so simple as you think." He nodded his head several times. Then he went on: "You see, I know one little thing which you do not."

  "And what is that?" I asked somewhat sceptically.

  "I know that there is a nail driven into the skirting board at the top of the stairs."

  I stared at him. His face was quite grave.

  "Well," I said after a minute or two. "Why shouldn't there be?"

  "The question is, Hastings, why should there be."

  "How do I know. Some household reason, perhaps. Does it matter?"

  "Certainly it matters. And I can think of no household reason for a nail to be driven in at the top of the skirting board in that particular place. It was carefully varnished, too, so as not to show."

  "What are you driving at, Poirot? Do you know the reason?"

  "I can imagine it quite easily. If you wanted to stretch a piece of strong thread or wire across the top of the stairs about a foot from the ground, you could tie it one side to the banisters, but on the inner wall side you would need something like a nail to attach the thread to."

  "Poirot!" I cried. "What on earth are you driving at?"

  "Mon cher ami, I am reconstructing the incident of the Dog's Ball! Would you like to hear my reconstruction?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Eh bien, here it is. Some one had noticed the habit Bob had of leaving his ball at the top of the stairs. A dangerous thing to do – it might lead to an accident." Poirot paused a minute, then said in a slightly different tone, "If you wished to kill some one, Hastings, how would you set about it?"

  "I – well, really – I don't know. Fake up some alibi or something, I suppose."

  "A proceeding, I assure you, both difficult and dangerous. But then you are not the type of a cold-blooded cautious murderer. Does it not strike you that the easiest way of removing some one you want to remove from your path is to take advantage of accident? Accidents are happening all the time. And sometimes – Hastings – they can be helped to happen!"

  He paused a minute, then went on:

  "I think the dog's ball left so fortuitously at the top of the stairs gave our murderer an idea. Miss Arundell was in the habit of coming out of her room in the night and wandering about – her eyesight was not good; it was quite within the bounds of probability that she might stumble over it and fall headlong down those stairs. But a careful murderer does not leave things to chance. A thread stretched across the top of the stairs would be a much better way. It would send her pitching head foremost. Then, when the household came rushing out – there, plain to see, is the cause of the accident – Bob's ball."

  "How horrible!" I cried.

  Poirot said gravely:

  "Yes, it was horrible… It was also unsuccessful… Miss Arundell was very little hurt, though she might easily have broken her neck. Very disappointing for our unknown friend! But Miss Arundell was a sharp-witted old lady. Everyone told her she had slipped on the ball, and there the ball was as evidence, but she herself, recalling the happening, felt that the accident had arisen differently. She had not slipped on the ball. And in addition she remembered something else. She remembered hearing Bob barking for admission at five o'clock the next morning.

  "This, I admit, is something in the way of guess-work, but I believe I am right. Miss Arundell had put away Bob's ball herself the evening before in its drawer. After that he went out and did not return. In that case it was not Bob who put that ball on the top of the stairs."

  "That is pure guess-work, Poirot," I objected.

  He demurred.

  "Not quite, my friend. There are the significant words uttered by Miss Arundell when she was delirious – something about Bob's ball and a 'picture ajar.' You see the point, do you not?"

  "Not in the least."

  "Curious. I know your language well enough to realize that one does not talk of a picture being ajar. A door is ajar. A picture is awry."

  "Or simply crooked."

  "Or simply crooked, as you say. So I realized at once that Ellen has mistaken the meaning of the words she heard. It is not ajar – but a or the jar that was meant. Now in the drawing-room there is a rather noticeable china jar. There is, I have already observed, a picture of a dog on it. With the remembrance of these delirious ravings in my mind I go up and examine it more closely. I find that it deals with the subject of a dog who has been out all night. You see the trend of the feverish woman's thoughts? Bob was like the dog in the picture on the jar – out all night – so it was not he who left the ball on the stairs."

  I cried out, feeling some admiration in spite of myself.

  "You're an ingenious devil, Poirot! How you think of these things beats me!"

  "I do not 'think of them.' They are there – plain – for any one to see. Eh bien, you realize the position? Miss Arundell, lying in bed after her fall, becomes suspicious. That suspicion she feels is perhaps fanciful and absurd, but there it is. 'Since the incident of the Dog's Ball I have been increasingly uneasy.' And so – and so she writes to me, and by a piece of bad luck her letter does not reach me until over two months have gone by. Tell me, does her letter not fit in perfectly with these facts?"

  "Yes," I admitted. "It does."

  Poirot went on:

  "There is another point worthy of consideration.

  Miss Lawson was exceedingly anxious that the fact of Bob's being out all night should not get to Miss Arundell's ears."

  "You think that she -"

  "I think that the fact should be noted very carefully."

  I turned the thing over in my mind for a minute or two.

  "Well," I said at last with a sigh, "it's all very interesting – as a mental exercise, that is. And I take off my hat to you. It's been a masterful piece of reconstruction. It's almost a pity really that the old lady has died."

  "A pity – yes. She wrote to me that some one had attempted to murder her (that is what it amounts to, after all) and a very short time after, she was dead."

  "Yes," I said, "and it's a grand disappointment to you that she died a natural death, isn't it? Come, admit it."

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  "Or perhaps you think she was poisoned," I said maliciously.

  Poirot shook his head somewhat despondently.

  "It certainly seems," he admitted, "as though Miss Arundell died from natural causes."

  "And therefore," I said, "we return to London with our tail between our legs."

  "Pardon, my friend, but we do not return to London."

  "What
do you mean, Poirot?" I cried.

  "If you show the dog the rabbit, my friend, does he return to London? No, he goes into the rabbit hole."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot hunts murderers. We have here a murderer – a murderer whose crime failed, yes, perhaps, but nevertheless a murderer. And I, my friend, am going into the burrow after him – or her as the case may be."

  He turned sharply in at the gate.

  "Where are you off to, Poirot?"

  "Into the burrow, my friend. This is the house of Dr Grainger who attended Miss Arundell in her last illness."

  Dr Grainger was a man of sixty odd. His face was thin and bony with an aggressive chin, bushy eyebrows, and a pair of very shrewd grey eyes. He looked keenly from me to Poirot.

  "Well, what can I do for you?" he asked abruptly.

  Poirot swept into speech in the most flamboyant manner.

  "I must apologize. Dr Grainger, for this intrusion. I must confess straightaway that I do not come to consult you professionally."

  Dr Grainger said drily:

  "Glad to hear it. You look healthy enough!"

  "I must explain the purpose of my visit," went on Poirot. "The truth of the matter is that I am writing a book – the life of the late General Arundell, who I understand lived in Market Basing for some years before his death."

  The doctor looked rather surprised.

  "Yes, General Arundell lived here till his death. At Littlegreen House – just up the road past the Bank – you've been there perhaps?"

  Poirot nodded assent. "But you understand that was a good bit before my time. I came here in 1919."

  "You knew his daughter, however, the late Miss Arundell?"

  "I knew Emily Arundell well."

  "You comprehend, it has been a severe blow to me to find that Miss Arundell has recently died."

  "End of April."

  "So I discovered. I counted, you see, on her giving me various personal details and reminiscences of her father."

  "Quite – quite. But I don't see what I can do about it."

  Poirot asked: