CHAPTER 26. Mrs Tanios Refuses to Speak

When I came round after breakfast the following morning I found Poirot busy at the writing-table.

He raised a hand in salutation, then proceeded with his task. Presently he gathered up the sheets, enclosed them in an envelope and sealed them up carefully.

‘Well, old boy, what are you doing?’ I asked facetiously. ‘Writing an account of the case to be placed in safe keeping in case someone bumps you off during the course of the day?’

‘You know, Hastings, you are not so far wrong as you think.’

His manner was serious.

‘Is our murderer really about to get dangerous?’

‘A murderer is always dangerous,’ said Poirot gravely. ‘Astonishing how often that fact is overlooked.’

‘Any news?’

‘Dr Tanios rang up.’

‘Still no trace of his wife?’

‘No.’

‘Then that’s all right.’

‘I wonder.’

‘Dash it all, Poirot, you don’t think she’s been bumped off, do you?’

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

‘I confess,’ he murmured, ‘that I should like to know where she is.’

‘Oh, well,’ I said. ‘She’ll turn up.’

‘Your cheerful optimism never fails to delight me, Hastings!’

‘My goodness, Poirot, you don’t think she’ll turn up in parcels or dismembered in a trunk?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘I find the anxiety of Dr Tanios somewhat excessive—but no more of that. The first thing to do is to interview Miss Lawson.’

‘Are you going to point out that little error over the brooch?’

‘Certainly not. That little fact remains up my sleeve until the right moment comes.’

‘Then what are you going to say to her?’

‘That, mon ami, you will hear in due course.’

‘More lies, I suppose?’

‘You are really offensive sometimes, Hastings. Anybody would think I enjoyed telling lies.’

‘I rather think you do. In fact, I’m sure of it.’

‘It is true that I sometimes compliment myself upon my ingenuity,’ Poirot confessed naively.

I could not help giving a shout of laughter. Poirot looked at me reproachfully and we set off for Clanroyden Mansions.

We were shown into the same crowded sitting-room and Miss Lawson came bustling in, her manner even more incoherent than usual.

‘Oh, dear, M. Poirot, good-morning. Such a to do—rather untidy, I’m afraid. But then, everything is at sixes and sevens this morning. Ever since Bella arrived—’

‘What is that you say? Bella?’

‘Yes, Bella Tanios. She turned up half an hour ago—and the children—completely exhausted, poor soul! Really, I don’t know what to do about it. You see, she’s left her husband.’

‘Left him?’

‘So she says. Of course, I’ve no doubt she’s fully justified, poor thing.’

‘She has confided in you?’

‘Well—not exactly that. In fact, she won’t say anything at all. Just repeats that she’s left him and that nothing will induce her to go back to him!’

‘That is a very serious step to take?’

‘Of course it is! In fact, if he’d been an Englishman, I would have advised her—but there, he isn’t an Englishman… And she looks so peculiar, poor thing, so—well, so scared. What can he have been doing to her? I believe Turks are frightfully cruel sometimes.’

‘Dr Tanios is a Greek.’

‘Yes, of course, that’s the other way about—I mean, they’re usually the ones who get massacred by the Turks—or am I thinking of Armenians? But all the same, I don’t like to think of it. I don’t think she ought to go back to him, do you, M. Poirot? Anyway, I mean, she says she won’t… She doesn’t even want him to know where she is.’

‘As bad as that?’

‘Yes, you see it’s the children. She’s so afraid he could take them back to Smyrna. Poor soul, she really is in a terrible way. You see, she’s got no money—no money at all. She doesn’t know where to go or what to do. She wants to try and earn her living but really, you know, M. Poirot, that’s not so easy as it sounds. I know that. It’s not as though she were trained for anything.’

‘When did she leave her husband?’

‘Yesterday. She spent last night in a little hotel near Paddington. She came to me because she couldn’t think of anyone else to go to, poor thing.’

‘And are you going to help her? That is very good of you.’

‘Well, you see, M. Poirot, I really feel it’s my duty. But of course, it’s all very difficult. This is a very small flat and there’s no room—and what with one thing and another.’

‘You could send her to Littlegreen House?’

‘I suppose I could—but you see, her husband might think of that. Just for the moment I’ve got her rooms at the Wellington Hotel in Queen’s Road. She’s staying there under the name of Mrs Peters.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot.

He paused for a minute, then said:

‘I would like to see Mrs Tanios. You see, she called at my flat yesterday but I was out.’

‘Oh, did she? She didn’t tell me that. I’ll tell her, shall I?’

‘If you would be so good.’

Miss Lawson hurried out of the room. We could hear her voice.

‘Bella—Bella—my dear, will you come and see M. Poirot?’

We did not hear Mrs Tanios’ reply, but a minute or two later she came into the room.

I was really shocked at her appearance. There were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were completely destitute of colour, but what struck me far more than this was her obvious air of terror. She started at the least provocation, and she seemed to be continually listening.

Poirot greeted her in his most soothing manner. He came forward, shook hands, arranged a chair for her and handed her a cushion. He treated the pale, frightened woman as though she had been a queen.

‘And now, madame, let us have a little chat. You came to see me yesterday, I believe?’

She nodded.

‘I regret very much that I was away from home.’

‘Yes—yes, I wish you had been there.’

‘You came because you wanted to tell me something?’

‘Yes, I—I meant to—’

‘Eh bien, I am here, at your service.’

Mrs Tanios did not respond. She sat quite still, twisting a ring round and round on her finger.

‘Well, madame?’

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she shook her head.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I daren’t.’

‘You daren’t, madame?’

‘No. I—if he knew—he’d—Oh, something would happen to me!’

‘Come, come, madame—that is absurd.’

‘Oh, but it isn’t absurd—it isn’t absurd at all. You don’t know him…’

‘By him, you mean your husband, madame?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Poirot was silent a minute or two, then he said:

‘Your husband came to see me yesterday, madame.’

A quick look of alarm sprang up in her face.

‘Oh, no! You didn’t tell him—but of course you didn’t! You couldn’t. You didn’t know where I was. Did he—did he say I was mad?’

Poirot answered cautiously.

‘He said that you were—highly nervous.’

But she shook her head, undeceived.

‘No, he said that I was mad—or that I was going mad! He wants to shut me up so that I shan’t be able to tell anyone ever.’

‘Tell anyone—what?’

But she shook her head. Twisting her fingers nervously round and round, she muttered:

‘I’m afraid…’

‘But madame, once you have told me—you are safe! The secret is out! That fact will protect you automatically.’

But she did not reply. She went on twisting—twisting at her ring.

‘You must see that yourself,’ said Poirot gently.

She gave a sort of gasp.

‘How am I to know… Oh, dear, it’s terrible. He’s so plausible! And he’s a doctor! People will believe him and not me. I know they will. I should myself. Nobody will believe me. How could they?’

‘You will not even give me the chance?’

She shot a troubled glance at him.

‘How do I know? You may be on his side.’

‘I am on no-one’s side, madame. I am—always—on the side of the truth.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Tanios hopelessly. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She went on, her words gathering volume, tumbling over each other.

‘It’s been so awful—for years now. I’ve seen things happening again and again. And I couldn’t say anything or do anything. There have been the children. It’s been like a long nightmare. And now this… But I won’t go back to him. I won’t let him have the children! I’ll go somewhere where he can’t find me. Minnie Lawson will help me. She’s been so kind—so wonderfully kind. Nobody could have been kinder.’ She stopped, then shot a quick look at Poirot and asked:

‘What did he say about me? Did he say I had delusions?’

‘He said, madame, that you had—changed towards him.’

She nodded.

‘And he said I had delusions. He did say that, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, madame, to be frank, he did.’

‘That’s it, you see. That’s what it will sound like. And I’ve no proof—no real proof.’

Poirot leaned back in his chair. When he next spoke it was with an entire change of manner.

He spoke in a matter of fact, business-like voice with as little emotion as if he had been discussing some dry matter of business.

‘Do you suspect your husband of doing away with Miss Emily Arundell?’

Her answer came quickly—a spontaneous flash.

‘I don’t suspect—I know.’

‘Then, madame, it is your duty to speak.’

‘Ah, but it isn’t so easy—no, it isn’t so easy.’

‘How did he kill her?’

‘I don’t know exactly—but he did kill her.’

‘But you don’t know the method he employed?’

‘No—it was something—something he did that last Sunday.’

‘The Sunday he went down to see her?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t know what it was?’

‘No.’

‘Then how, forgive me, madame, can you be so sure?’

‘Because he—’ she stopped and said slowly, ‘I am sure!’

‘Pardon, madame, but there is something you are keeping back. Something you have not yet told me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come, then.’

Bella Tanios got up suddenly.

‘No. No. I can’t do that. The children. Their father. I can’t. I simply can’t…’

‘But madame—’

‘I can’t, I tell you.’

Her voice rose almost to a scream. The door opened and Miss Lawson came in, her head cocked on one side with a sort of pleasurable excitement.

‘May I come in? Have you had your little talk? Bella, my dear, don’t you think you ought to have a cup of tea, or some soup, or perhaps a little brandy even?’

Mrs Tanios shook her head.

‘I’m quite all right.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘I must be getting back to the children. I have left them to unpack.’

‘Dear little things,’ said Miss Lawson. ‘I’m so fond of children.’

Mrs Tanios turned to her suddenly.

‘I don’t know what I should do without you,’ she said. ‘You—you’ve been wonderfully kind.’

‘There, there, my dear, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right. You shall come round and see my lawyer—such a nice man, so sympathetic, and he’ll advise you the best way to get a divorce. Divorce is so simple nowadays, isn’t it, everybody says so? Oh, dear, there’s the bell. I wonder who that is.’

She left the room hurriedly. There was a murmur of voices in the hall. Miss Lawson reappeared. She tiptoed in and shut the door carefully behind her. She spoke in an excited whisper, mouthing the words exaggeratedly.

‘Oh, dear, Bella, it’s your husband. I’m sure I don’t know—’

Mrs Tanios gave one bound towards a door at the other end of the room. Miss Lawson nodded her head violently.

‘That’s right, dear, go in there, and then you can slip out when I’ve brought him in here.’

Mrs Tanios whispered:

‘Don’t say I’ve been here. Don’t say you’ve seen me.’

‘No, no, of course I won’t.’

Mrs Tanios slipped through the door. Poirot and I followed hastily. We found ourselves in a small dining-room.

Poirot crossed to the door into the hall, opened it a crack and listened. Then he beckoned.

‘All is clear. Miss Lawson has taken him into the other room.’

We crept through the hall and out by the front door. Poirot drew it to as noiselessly as possible after him.

Mrs Tanios began to run down the steps, stumbling and clutching at the banisters. Poirot steadied her with a hand under her arm.

‘Du calme—du calme. All is well.’

We reached the entrance-hall.

‘Come with me,’ said Mrs Tanios piteously. She looked as though she might be going to faint.

‘Certainly I will come,’ said Poirot reassuringly.

We crossed the road, turned a corner, and found ourselves in Queen’s Road. The Wellington was a small, inconspicuous hotel of the boarding-house variety.

When we were inside Mrs Tanios sank down on a plush sofa. Her hand was on her beating heart.

Poirot patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

‘It was the narrow squeak—yes. Now, madame, you are to listen to me very carefully.’

‘I can’t tell you anything more, M. Poirot. It wouldn’t be right. You—you know what I think—what I believe. You—you must be satisfied with that.’

‘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 children.’

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 cafe, 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.’