Agatha Christie: Dumb Witness

"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 bannisters.

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 the 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."

Donaldson arrived punctually at two o'clock. He was as calm and precise as ever.

The personality of Donaldson had begun to intrigue me. I had started by regarding him as a rather nondescript young man. I had wondered what a vivid, compelling creature like Theresa could see in him. But I now began to realize that Donaldson was anything but negligible. Behind that pedantic manner there was force.

After our preliminary greetings were over, Donaldson said:

"The reason for my visit is this. I am at a loss to understand exactly what your position is in this matter, M. Poirot."

Poirot replied guardedly:

"You know my profession, I think?"

"Certainly. I may say that I have taken the trouble to make inquiries about you."

"You are a careful man, Doctor."

Donaldson said drily:

"I like to be sure of my facts."

"You have the scientific mind!"

"I may say that all reports on you are the same. You are obviously a very clever man in your profession. You have also the reputation of being a scrupulous and honest one."

"You are too flattering," murmured Poirot.

"That is why I am at a loss to explain your connection with this affair."

"And yet it is so simple!"

"Hardly that," said Donaldson. "You first present yourself as a writer of biographies."

"A pardonable deception, do you not think? One cannot go everywhere announcing the fact that one is a detective – though that, too, has its uses sometimes."