Mrs. Tanios began to run down the steps, stumbling and clutching at the bannisters.
Poirot steadied her with a hand under her arm.
“Du caime–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 / 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.”
XXVII Visit of Dr. Donaldson
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 ie 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.