Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [80]
The last we saw of Miss Lawson was her rather sheeplike face gazing after us from the front doorstep.
Twenty-three
DR. TANIOS CALLS ON US
No sooner had we left the house than Poirot’s manner changed. His face was grim and set.
“Dépêchons nous, Hastings,” he said. “We must get back to London as soon as possible.”
“I’m willing.” I quickened my pace to suit his. I stole a look at his grave face.
“Who do you suspect, Poirot?” I asked. “I wish you’d tell me. Do you believe it was Theresa Arundell on the stairs or not?”
Poirot did not reply to my questions. Instead he asked a question of his own.
“Did it strike you—reflect before you answer—did it strike you that there was something wrong with that statement of Miss Lawson’s?”
“How do you mean—wrong with it?”
“If I knew that I should not be asking you!”
“Yes, but wrong in what way?”
“That is just it. I cannot be precise. But as she was talking I had, somehow, a feeling of unreality…as though there was something—some small point that was wrong—that was, yes, that was the feeling—something that was impossible.…”
“She seemed quite positive it was Theresa!”
“Yes, yes.”
“But after all, the light couldn’t have been very good. I don’t see how she can be quite so sure.”
“No, no, Hastings, you are not helping me. It was some small point—something connected with—yes, I am sure of it—with the bedroom.”
“With the bedroom?” I repeated, trying to recall the details of the room. “No,” I said at last. “I can’t help you.”
Poirot shook his head, vexedly.
“Why did you bring up that spiritualistic business again?” I asked.
“Because it is important.”
“What is important? Miss Lawson’s luminous ‘ribbon development?’”
“You remember the Misses Tripp’s description of the séance?”
“I know they saw a halo round the old lady’s head.” I laughed in spite of myself. “I shouldn’t think she was a saint by all accounts! Miss Lawson seems to have been terrified by her. I felt quite sorry for the poor woman when she described how she lay awake, worried to death because she might get into trouble over ordering too small a sirloin of beef.”
“Yes, it was an interesting touch that.”
“What are we going to do when we get to London?” I asked as we turned into the George and Poirot asked for the bill.
“We must go and see Theresa Arundell immediately.”
“And find out the truth? But won’t she deny the whole thing anyway?”
“Mon cher, it is not a criminal offence to kneel upon a flight of stairs! She may have been picking up a pin to bring her luck—something of that sort!”
“And the smell of varnish?”
We could say no more just then, as the waiter arrived with the bill.
On the way to London we talked very little. I am not fond of talking and driving, and Poirot was so busy protecting his moustaches with his muffler from the disastrous effects of wind and dust that speech was quite beyond him.
We arrived at the flat at about twenty to two.
George, Poirot’s immaculate and extremely English manservant, opened the door.
“A Dr. Tanios is waiting to see you, sir. He has been here for half an hour.”
“Dr. Tanios? Where is he?”
“In the sitting room, sir. A lady also called to see you, sir. She seemed very distressed to find you were absent from home. It was before I received your telephone message, sir, so I could not tell her when you would be returning to London.”
“Describe this lady.”
“She was about five foot seven, sir, with dark hair and light blue eyes. She was wearing a grey coat and skirt and a hat worn very much to the back of the head instead of over the right eye.”
“Mrs. Tanios,” I ejaculated in a low voice.
“She seemed in a condition of great nervous excitement, sir. Said it was of the utmost importance she should find you quickly.”
“What time was this?”
“About half past ten, sir.”
Poirot shook his head as he passed on towards the sitting room.
“That is the second time I have missed hearing what Mrs. Tanios has to say. What would you say, Hastings? Is there a fate in it?”
“Third time lucky,” I said consolingly.
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
“Will there be a third