Agatha Christie - Dumb Witness

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 couldn'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."