Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [18]
“Miss Lawson is anxious to sell, I gather.”
Mr. Gabler lowered his voice confidentially.
“That’s just it. The place is larger than she wants—one middle-aged lady living by herself. She wants to get rid of this and take a house in London. Quite understandable. That’s why the place is going so ridiculously cheap.”
“She would be open, perhaps, to an offer?”
“That’s the idea, sir. Make an offer and set the ball rolling. But you can take it from me that there will be no difficulty in getting a price very near the figure named. Why, it’s ridiculous! To build a house like that nowadays would cost every penny of six thousand, let alone the land value and the valuable frontages.”
“Miss Arundell died very suddenly, didn’t she?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Anno domini—anno domini. She had passed her threescore and ten some time ago. And she’d been ailing for a long time. The last of her family—you know something about the family, perhaps?”
“I know some people of the same name who have relations in this part of the world. I fancy it must be the same family.”
“Very likely. Four sisters there were. One married fairly late in life and the other three lived on here. Ladies of the old school. Miss Emily was the last of them. Very highly thought of in the town.”
He leant forward and handed Poirot the orders.
“You’ll drop in again and let me know what you think of it, eh? Of course, it may need a little modernizing here and there. That’s only to be expected. But I always say, ‘What’s a bathroom or two? That’s easily done.’”
We took our leave and the last thing we heard was the vacant voice of Miss Jenkins saying:
“Mrs. Samuels rang up, sir. She’d like you to ring her—Holland 5391.”
As far as I could remember that was neither the number Miss Jenkins had scribbled on her pad nor the number finally arrived at through the telephone.
I felt convinced that Miss Jenkins was having her revenge for having been forced to find the particulars of Littlegreen House.
Seven
LUNCH AT THE GEORGE
As we emerged into the market square, I remarked that Mr. Gabler lived up to his name! Poirot assented with a smile.
“He’ll be rather disappointed when you don’t return,” I said. “I think he feels he has as good as sold you that house already.”
“Indeed, yes, I fear there is a deception in store for him.”
“I suppose we might as well have lunch here before returning to London, or shall we lunch at some more likely spot on our way back?”
“My dear Hastings, I am not proposing to leave Market Basing so quickly. We have not yet accomplished that which we came to do.”
I stared.
“Do you mean—but, my dear fellow, that’s all a washout. The old lady is dead.”
“Exactly.”
The tone of that one word made me stare at him harder than ever. It was evident that he had some bee in his bonnet over this incoherent letter.
“But if she’s dead, Poirot,” I said gently, “what’s the use? She can’t tell you anything now. Whatever the trouble was, it’s over and finished with.”
“How lightly and easily you put the matter aside! Let me tell you that no matter is finished with until Hercule Poirot ceases to concern himself with it!”
I should have known from experience that to argue with Poirot is quite useless. Unwarily I proceeded.
“But since she is dead—”
“Exactly, Hastings. Exactly—exactly—exactly… You keep repeating the significant point with a magnificently obtuse disregard of its significance. Do you not see the importance of the point? Miss Arundell is dead.”
“But my dear Poirot, her death was perfectly natural and ordinary! There wasn’t anything odd or unexplained about it. We have old Gabler’s word for that.”
“We have his word that Littlegreen House is a bargain at £2,850. Do you accept that as gospel also?”
“No, indeed.