“No, I don’t think she would,” said Theresa slowly.
“But she considered you all had enough to live on?” “She considered so–yes.” There was bitterness in that voice.
“But you–did not?” Theresa waited a minute or two before speaking. Then she said: “My father left us thirty thousand pounds each. The interest on that, safely invested, amounts to about twelve hundred a year.
Income-tax takes another wedge off it. A nice little income on which one can manage very prettily. But I–” her voice changed, her slim body straightened, her head went back–all that wonderful aliveness I had sensed in her came to the fore–“but I want something better than that out of life! I want the best! The best food, the best clothes– something with line to it–beauty–not just suitable covering in the prevailing fashion.
I want to live and enjoy–to go to the Mediterranean and lie in the warm summer sea –to sit round a table and play with exciting wads of money–to give parties–wild, absurd, extravagant parties–I want everything that’s going in this rotten world–and I don’t want it some day–I want it now!” Her voice was wonderfully exciting, warm, exhilarating, intoxicating.
Poirot was studying her intently.
“And you have, I fancy, had it now?” “Yes, Hercule–Fve had it!” “And how much of the thirty thousand is left?” She laughed suddenly.
“Two hundred and twenty-one pounds, fourteen and sevenpence. That’s the exact balance. So you see, little man, you’ve got to be paid by results. No results–no fees.” “In that case,” said Poirot in a matter-offact manner, “there will certainly be results.”
“You’re a great little man, Hercule. I’m glad we got together.” Poirot went on in a business-like way: “There are a few things that are actually necessary that I should know. Do you drug?” “No, never.” “Drink?” “Quite heavily–but not for the love of it.
My crowd drinks and I drink with them, but I could give it up tomorrow.” “That is very satisfactory.” She laughed.
“I shan’t give the show away in my cups, Hercule.” Poirot proceeded: “Love affairs?” “Plenty in the past.” “And the present?” “Only Rex.” “That is Dr. Donaldson?” “Yes.” “He seems, somehow, very alien from the life you mention.” “Oh, he is.” “And yet you care for him. Why, I wonder?”
“Oh, what are reasons? Why did Juliet fall for Romeo?” “Well, for one thing, with all due deference to Shakespeare, he happened to be the first man she had seen.” Theresa said slowly: “Rex wasn’t the first man I saw–not by a long way.” She added in a lower voice, “But I think–I feel–he’ll be the last man I’ll ever see.” “And he is a poor man, mademoiselle.” She nodded.
“And he, too, needs money?” “Desperately. Oh, not for the reasons I did. He doesn’t want luxury–or beauty– or excitement–or any of these things. He’d wear the same suit until it went into holes –and eat a congealed chop every day for lunch quite happily, and wash in a cracked tin bath. If he had money it would all go on test-tubes and a laboratory and all the rest of it. He’s ambitious. His profession means everything to him. It means more to him than–I do.” “He knew that you would come into money when Miss Arundell died?” “I told him so. Oh! after we were engaged.
He isn’t really marrying me for my money if that is what you are getting at.” “You are still engaged?” “Of course we are.” Poirot did not reply. His silence seemed to disquiet her.
“Of course we are,” she repeated sharply.
And then she added, “You–have you seen him?” “I saw him yesterday–at Market Basing.”
“Why? What did you say to him?” “I said nothing. I only asked him for your brother’s address.” “Charles?” Her voice was sharp again.
“What did you want with Charles?” “Charles? Who wants Charles?” It was a new voice–a delightful, man’s voice.
A bronze-faced young man with an agreeable grin strolled into the room.
“Who is talking about me?” he asked. “I heard my name in the hall, but I didn’t eavesdrop. They were very particular about eavesdropping at Borstal. Now then, Theresa my girl, what’s all this? Spill the beans.”