We were kept waiting a few minutes and then a girl entered the room and looked at us inquiringly.
Theresa Arundell looked about twentyeight or nine. She was tall and very slender, and she looked rather like an exaggerated drawing in black and white. Her hair was jet black–her face heavily made-up, dead pale. Her eyebrows, freakishly plucked, gave her an air of mocking irony. Her lips were the only spot of colour, a brilliant gash of scarlet in a white face. She also conveyed the impression–how I do not quite know, for her manner was almost wearily indifferent –of being at least twice as much alive as most people. There hung about her the restrained energy of a whiplash.
With an air of cool inquiry she looked from me to Poirot.
Wearied (I hoped) of deceit, Poirot had on this occasion sent in his own card. She was holding it now in her fingers, twirling it to and fro.
“I suppose,” she said, “you’re M. Poirot?” Poirot bowed in his best manner.
“At your service, mademoiselle. You permit me to trespass for a few moments of your valuable time?” With a faint imitation of Poirot5 s manner, she replied: “Enchanted, M. Poirot. Pray sit down.” Poirot sat, rather gingerly, on a low square easy-chair. I took an upright one of webbing and chromium. Theresa sat negligently on a low stool in front of the fireplace. She offered us both cigarettes. We refused and she lighted one herself.
“You know my name perhaps, mademoiselle?”
She nodded.
“Little friend of Scotland Yard. That’s right, isn’t it?” Poirot, I think, did not much relish this description. He said with some importance: “I concern myself with problems of crime, mademoiselle.” “How frightfully thrilling,” said Theresa Arundell in a bored voice. “And to think I’ve lost my autograph book!” “The matter with which I concern myself is this,” continued Poirot. “Yesterday I received a letter from your aunt.” Her eyes–very long, almond-shaped eyes–opened a little. She puffed smoke in a cloud.
“From my aunt, M. Poirot?” “That is what I said, mademoiselle.” She murmured: “I’m sorry if I’m spoiling sport in any way, but really, you know, there isn’t any such person! All my aunts are mercifully dead.
The last died two months ago.” “Miss Emily Arundell?” “Yes, Miss Emily Arundell. You don’t receive letters from corpses, do you, M.
Poirot?” “Sometimes I do, mademoiselle.” “How macabre!” But there was a new note in her voice– a note suddenly alert and watchful.
“And what did my aunt say, M. Poirot?” “That, mademoiselle, I can hardly tell you just at present. It was, you see, a somewhat”–he coughed–“delicate matter.” There was silence for a minute or two.
Theresa Arundell smoked. Then she said: “It all sounds delightfully hush-hush. But where exactly do I come in?” “I hoped, mademoiselle, that you might consent to answer a few questions.” “Questions? What about?” “Questions of a family nature.” Again I saw her eyes widen.
“That sounds rather pompous! Supposing you give me a specimen.” “Certainly. Can you tell me the present address of your brother Charles?” The eyes narrowed again. Her latent energy was less apparent. It was as though she withdrew into a shell.
“I’m afraid I can’t. We don’t correspond much. I rather think he has left England.” “I see.” Poirot was silent for a minute or two.
“Was that all you wanted to know?” “Oh, I have other questions. For one– are you satisfied with the way in which your aunt disposed of her fortune? For another –how long have you been engaged to Dr.
Donaldson?” “You do jump about, don’t you?” “Eh bien?” “Eh bien–since we are so foreign!–my answer to both those questions is that they are none of your business! Cq ne vous regarde pas, M. Hercule Poirot” Poirot studied her for a moment or two attentively. Then, with no trace of disappointment, he got up.
“So it is like that! Ah, well, perhaps it is not surprising. Allow me, mademoiselle, to congratulate you upon your French accent.
And to wish you a very good morning.
Come, Hastings.” We had reached the door when the girl spoke. The simile of a whiplash came again into my mind. She did not move from her position, but the two words were like the flick of a whip.