“M. Poirot, is this true?” she asked.
“It is true enough, but–there are ways of avoiding such a contingency, mademoiselle.”
“Then avoid it!” Her voice sank almost to a whisper. It was urgent, compelling.
“Avoid it at all costs!” Poirot rose to his feet.
“Those are your instructions?” His voice was formal.
“Those are my instructions.” “But, Tessa–” Donaldson interrupted.
I She whirled round on her fiance. ^ “Be quiet! She was my aunt, wasn’t she?
Why should my aunt be dug up? Don’t you know there will be paragraphs in the papers and gossip and general unpleasantness?” She swung round again on Poirot.
“You must stop it! I give you carte blanche. Do anything you like, but stop it!” Poirot bowed formally.
“I will do what I can. Au revoir, mademoiselle, au revoir, Doctor.” “Oh, go away!” cried Theresa. “And take St. Leonards with you. I wish I’d never set eyes on either of you.” We left the room. Poirot did not this time deliberately place his ear to the crack, but he dallied–yes, he dallied.
And not in vain. Theresa’s voice rose clear and defiant: “Don’t look at me like that. Rex.” And then suddenly, with a break in her voice: “Darling.” Dr. Donaldson’s precise voice answered her.
He said very clearly: “That man means mischief.” Poirot grinned suddenly. He drew me through the front door.
“Come, St. Leonards,” he said. “C’est drole, qa!’9 Personally I thought the joke a particularly stupid one.
XXV Lie Back and Reflect
No, I thought, as I hurried after Poirot, there was no doubt about it now. Miss Arundell had been murdered and Theresa knew it. But was she herself the criminal or was there another explanation?
She was afraid–yes. But was she afraid for herself or for some one else? Could that some one be the quiet, precise young doctor with the calm, aloof manner?
Had the old lady died of genuine disease artificially induced?
Up to a point it all fitted in–Donaldson’s ambitions, his belief that Theresa would inherit money at her aunt’s death. Even the fact that he had been at dinner there on the evening of the accident. How easy to leave a convenient window open and return in the dead of night to tie the murderous thread across the staircase. But then, what about ^e placing of the nail in position?
No, Theresa must have done that. Theresa, his fiancee and accomplice. With the two of them working it together, the whole thing seemed clear enough. In that case it was probably Theresa who had actually placed the thread in position. The/im crime, the crime that failed, had been her work. The second crime, the crime that had succeeded, was Donaldson’s more scientific masterpiece.
Yes–it all fitted in.
Yet even now there were loose strands.
Why had Theresa blurted out those facts about inducing liver disease in human beings? It was almost as though she did not realize the truth…. But in that case–and I felt my mind growing bewildered, and I interrupted my speculations to ask: “Where are we going, Poirot?” “Back to my flat. It is possible that we may find Mrs. Tanios there.” My thoughts switched off on a different track.
Mrs. Tanios! That was another mystery!
If Donaldson and Theresa were guilty, where did Mrs. Tanios and her smiling husband come in? What did the woman want to tell Poirot and what was Tanios’s anxiety to prevent her doing so?
“Poirot,” I said humbly, “I’m getting rather muddled. They’re not all in it, are they?” “Murder by a syndicate? A family syndicate?
No, not this time. There is the mark of one brain and one brain only in this. The psychology is very clear.” “You mean that either Theresa or Donlaldson did it–but not both of them? Did he get her to hammer that nail in on some entirely innocent pretext, then?” “My dear friend, from the moment I heard Miss Lawson’s story I realized that there were three possibilities: (1) That Miss Lawson was telling the exact truth. (2) That Miss Lawson had invented the story for reasons of her own. (3) That Miss Lawson actually believed her own story, but that her identification rested upon the brooch–and I as I have already pointed out to you–a brooch is easily detachable from its owner.” “Yes, but Theresa insists that the brooch did not leave her possession.” “And she is perfectly right. I had overlooked a small but intensely significant fact.” “Very unlike you, Poirot,” I said solemnly.