CHAPTER 25. I Lie Back and Reflect

No, I thought, as I hurried after Poirot, there was no doubt about it now. Miss Arundell had been murdered and Theresa knew it. But was she herself the criminal or was there another explanation?

She was afraid—yes. But was she afraid for herself or for someone else? Could that someone be the quiet, precise young doctor with the calm, aloof manner?

Had the old lady died of genuine disease artificially induced?

Up to a point it all fitted in—Donaldson’s ambitions, his belief that Theresa would inherit money at her aunt’s death. Even the fact that he had been at dinner there on the evening of the accident. How easy to leave a convenient window open and return in the dead of night to tie the murderous thread across the staircase. But then, what about the placing of the nail in position?

No, Theresa must have done that. Theresa, his fiancee and accomplice. With the two of them working in together, the whole thing seemed clear enough. In that case it was probably Theresa who had actually placed the thread in position. The first crime, the crime that failed, had been her work. The second crime, the crime that had succeeded, was Donaldson’s more scientific masterpiece.

Yes—it all fitted in.

Yet even now there were loose strands. Why had Theresa blurted out those facts about inducing liver disease in human beings? It was almost as though she did not realize the truth… But in that case—and I felt my mind growing bewildered, and I interrupted my speculations to ask:

‘Where are we going, Poirot?’

‘Back to my flat. It is possible that we may find Mrs Tanios there.’

My thoughts switched off on a different track.

Mrs Tanios! That was another mystery! If Donaldson and Theresa were guilty, where did Mrs Tanios and her smiling husband come in? What did the woman want to tell Poirot and what was Tanios’ anxiety to prevent her doing so?

‘Poirot,’ I said humbly. ‘I’m getting rather muddled. They’re not all in it, are they?’

‘Murder by a syndicate? A family syndicate? No, not this time. There is the mark of one brain and one brain only in this. The psychology is very clear.’

‘You mean that either Theresa or Donaldson did it—but not both of them? Did he get her to hammer that nail in on some entirely innocent pretext, then?’

‘My dear friend, from the moment I heard Miss Lawson’s story I realized that there were three possibilities. (1) That Miss Lawson was telling the exact truth. (2) That Miss Lawson had invented the story for reasons of her own. (3) That Miss Lawson actually believed her own story, but that her identification rested upon the brooch—and as I have already pointed out to you—a brooch is easily detachable from its owner.’

‘Yes, but Theresa insists that the brooch did not leave her possession.’

‘And she is perfectly right. I had overlooked a small but intensely significant fact.’

‘Very unlike you, Poirot,’ I said solemnly.

‘N’est ce pas? But one has one’s lapses.’

‘Age will tell!’

‘Age has nothing to do with it,’ said Poirot coldly.

‘Well, what is the significant fact?’ I asked as we turned in at the entrance of the Mansions.

‘I will show you.’

We had just reached the flat.

George opened the door to us. In reply to Poirot’s anxious question he shook his head.

‘No, sir. Mrs Tanios has not called. Neither has she telephoned.’ Poirot went into the sitting-room. He paced up and down for a few minutes. Then he picked up the telephone. He got first on to the Durham Hotel.

‘Yes—yes, please. Ah, Dr Tanios, this is Hercule Poirot speaking. Your wife has returned? Oh, not returned. Dear me… Taken her luggage, you say… And the children… You have no idea where she has gone… Yes, quite… Oh, perfectly… If my professional services are of any use to you? I have certain experience in these matters… Such things can be done quite discreetly… No, of course not… Yes, of course that is true… Certainly—certainly. I shall respect your wishes in the matter.’

He hung up the receiver thoughtfully.

‘He does not know where she is,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I think that is quite genuine. The anxiety in his voice is unmistakable. He does not want to go to the police, that is understandable. Yes, I understand that. He does not want my assistance either. That is, perhaps, not quite so understandable… He wants her found—but he does not want me to find her… No, definitely he does not want me to find her… He seems confident that he can manage the matter himself. He does not think she can remain long hidden, for she has very little money with her. Also she has the children. Yes, I fancy he will be able to hunt her down before long. But, I think, Hastings, that we shall be a little quicker than he is. It is important, I think, that we should be.’

‘Do you think it’s true that she is slightly batty?’ I asked.

‘I think that she is in a highly nervous, overwrought condition.’

‘But not to such a point that she ought to be in a mental home?’

‘That, very definitely, no.’

‘You know, Poirot, I don’t quite understand all this.’

‘If you will pardon my saying so, Hastings, you do not understand at all!’

‘There seem so many—well—side issues.’

‘Naturally there are side issues. To separate the main issue from the side issues is the first task of the orderly mind.’

‘Tell me, Poirot, have you realized all along that there were eight possible suspects and not seven?’

Poirot replied drily:

‘I have taken that fact into consideration from the moment that Theresa Arundell mentioned that the last time she saw Dr Donaldson was when he dined at Littlegreen House on April 14 th.’

‘I can’t quite see—’ I broke off.

‘What is it you cannot quite see?’

‘Well, if Donaldson had planned to do away with Miss Arundell by scientific means—by inoculation, that is to say—I can’t see why he resorted to such a clumsy device as a string across the stairs.’

‘En vérité, Hastings, there are moments when I lose patience with you! One method is a highly scientific one needing fully-specialized knowledge. That is so, is it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the other is a homely simple method—“the kind that mother makes”—as the advertisements say. Is that not right?’

‘Yes, exactly.’

‘Then think, Hastings—think. Lie back in your chair, close the eyes, employ the little grey cells.’

I obeyed. That is to say, I leant back in the chair and closed my eyes and endeavoured to carry out the third part of Poirot’s instructions. The result, however, did not seem to clarify matters much.

I opened my eyes to find Poirot regarding me with the kindly attention a nurse might display towards a childish charge.

‘Eh bien?

I made a desperate attempt to emulate Poirot’s manner.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it seems to me that the kind of person who laid the original booby-trap is not the kind of person to plan out a scientific murder.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And I doubt if a mind trained to scientific complexities would think of anything so childish as the accident plan—it would be altogether too haphazard.’

‘Very clearly reasoned.’

Emboldened, I went on:

‘Therefore, the only logical solution seems to be this—the two attempts were planned by two different people. We have here to deal with murder attempted by two entirely different people.’

‘You do not think that is too much of a coincidence?’

‘You said yourself once that one coincidence is nearly always found in a murder case.’

‘Yes, that is true. I have to admit it.’

‘Well, then.’

‘And who do you suggest for your villains?’

‘Donaldson and Theresa Arundell. A doctor is clearly indicated for the final successful murder. On the other hand we know that Theresa Arundell is concerned in the first attempt. I think it’s possible that they acted quite independently of each other.’

‘You are so fond of saying, “we know,” Hastings. I can assure you that no matter what you know, I do not know that Theresa was implicated.’

‘But Miss Lawson’s story.’

‘Miss Lawson’s story is Miss Lawson’s story. Just that.’

‘But she says—’

‘She says—she says… Always you are so ready to take what people say for a proved and accepted fact. Now listen, mon cher, I told you at the time, did I not, that something struck me as wrong about Miss Lawson’s story?’

‘Yes, I remember your saying so. But you couldn’t get hold of what it was.’

‘Well, I have done so now. A little moment and I will show you what I, imbecile that I am, ought to have seen at once.’ He went over to the desk and opening a drawer took out a sheet of cardboard. He cut into this with a pair of scissors, motioning to me not to overlook what he was doing.

‘Patience, Hastings, in a little moment we will proceed to our experiment.’

I averted my eyes obligingly.

In a minute or two Poirot uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He put away the scissors, dropped the fragments of cardboard into the waste-paper basket and came across the room to me.

‘Now, do not look. Continue to avert the eyes while I pin something to the lapel of your coat.’

I humoured him. Poirot completed the proceeding to his satisfaction, then, propelling me gently to my feet he drew me across the room, and into the adjoining bedroom.

‘Now, Hastings, regard yourself in the glass. You are wearing, are you not, a fashionable brooch with your initials on it—only, bien entendu, the brooch is made not of chromium nor stainless steel, nor gold, nor platinum—but of humble cardboard!’

I looked at myself and smiled. Poirot is uncommonly neat with his fingers. I was wearing a very fair representation of Theresa Arundell’s brooch—a circle cut out of cardboard and enclosing my initials. A.H.

‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘You are satisfied? You have there, have you not, a very smart brooch with your initials?’

‘A most handsome affair,’ I agreed.

‘It is true that it does not gleam and reflect the light, but all the same you are prepared to admit that that brooch could be seen plainly from some distance away?’

‘I’ve never doubted it.’

‘Quite so. Doubt is not your strong point. Simple faith is more characteristic of you. And now, Hastings, be so good as to remove your coat.’

Wondering a little, I did so. Poirot divested himself of his own coat and slipped on mine, turning away a little as he did so.

‘And now,’ he said. ‘Regard how the brooch—the brooch with your initials—becomes me?’

He whisked round. I stared at him—for the moment uncomprehendingly. Then I saw the point.

‘What a blithering fool I am! Of course. It’s H.A. in the brooch, not A.H. at all.’

Poirot beamed on me, as he reassumed his own clothes and handed me mine.

‘Exactly—and now you see what struck me as wrong with Miss Lawson’s story. She stated that she had seen Theresa’s initials clearly on the brooch she was wearing. But she saw Theresa in the glass. So, if she saw the initials at all, she must have seen them reversed.’’

‘Well,’ I argued, ‘perhaps she did, and realized that they were reversed.’

‘Mon cher, did that occur to you just now? Did you exclaim, “Ha! Poirot, you’ve got it wrong. That’s H.A. really—not A.H.” No, you did not. And yet you are a good deal more intelligent, I should say, than Miss Lawson. Do not tell me that a muddle-headed woman like that woke up suddenly, and still half-asleep, realized that A.T. was really T.A. No, that is not at all consistent with the mentality of Miss Lawson.’

‘She was determined it should be Theresa,’ I said slowly.

‘You are getting nearer, my friend. You remember, I hint to her that she could not really see the face of anyone on the stairs, and immediately—what does she do?’

‘Remembers Theresa’s brooch and lugs that in—forgetting that the mere fact of having seen it in the glass gave her own story the lie.’

The telephone bell rang sharply. Poirot crossed to it.

He only spoke a few non-committal words.

‘Yes? Yes… certainly. Yes, quite convenient. The afternoon, I think. Yes, two o’clock will do admirably.’ He replaced the receiver and turned to me with a smile.

‘Dr Donaldson is anxious to have a talk with me. He is coming here tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. We progress, mon ami, we progress.’