Poor soul, she really is in a terrible way. You see, she’s got no money–no money at all.
She doesn’t know where to go or what to do.
She wants to try and earn her living, but, really, you know, M. Poirot, that’s not so easy as it sounds. I know that. It’s not as though she were trained for anything.” “When did she leave her husband?” “Yesterday. She spent last night in a little hotel near Paddington. She came to me because she couldn’t think of any one else to go to, poor thing.” “And are you going to help her? That is very good of you.” “Well, you see, M. Poirot, I really feel it’s my duty. But, of course, it’s all very difficult.
This is a very small flat and there’s no room–and what with one thing and another.”
“You could send her to Littlegreen House?” “I suppose I could–but, you see, her husband might think of that. Just for the moment I’ve got her rooms at the Wellington Hotel in Queen’s Road. She’s staying there under the name of Mrs. Peters.” “I see,” said Poirot.
He paused for a minute, then said: “I would like to see Mrs. Tanios. You see, she called at my flat yesterday but I was out.” “Oh, did she? She didn’t tell me that. I’ll tell her, shall I?” “If you would be so good.” Miss Lawson hurried out of the room. We could hear her voice.
“Bella–Bella–my dear, will you come and see M. Poirot?” We did not hear Mrs. Tanios’s reply, but a minute or two later she came into the room.
I was really shocked at her appearance.
There were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were completely destitute of colour, but what struck me far more than this was her obvious air of terror. She started at the least provocation, and she seemed to be continually listening.
Poirot greeted her in his most soothing manner. He came forward, shook hands, arranged a chair for her and handed her a cushion. He treated the pale, frightened woman as though she had been a queen.
“And now, madame, let us have a little chat. You came to see me yesterday, I believe?”
She nodded.
“I regret very much that I was away from home.” “Yes–yes, I wish you had been there.” “You came because you wanted to tell me something?” “Yes, I–I meant to–” “Rh bien. I am here, at your service.
Mrs. Tamos did not respond. She sat quite still? twisting a ring round and round on her finser.
“Well, madame?” Slowly, almost reluctantly, she shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I daren’t.” B| il “You daren’t, madame?” “No. I–if he knew–he’d– Oh, something would happen to me!” “Come, come, madame–that is absurd.” “Oh, but it isn’t absurd–it isn’t absurd at all. You don’t know him….” “By him, you mean your husband, madame?” “Yes, of course.” Poirot was silent a minute or two, then he said: “Your husband came to see me yesterday, madame.” A quick look of alarm sprang up in her face.
“Oh, no! You didn’t tell him–but of course you didn’t! You couldn’t. You didn’t know where I was. Did he–did he say I was mad?” Poirot answered cautiously.
“He said that you were–highly nervous.” But she shook her head, undeceived.
“No, he said that I was mad–or that I was going mad! He wants to shut me up so that I shan’t be able to tell any one ever.” “Tell any one–what?” But she shook her head. Twisting her fingers nervously round and round, she muttered:
“I’m afraid….” “But, madame, once you have told me– you are safe! The secret is out! The fact will protect you automatically.” But she did not reply. She went on twisting–twisting at her ring.
“You must see that yourself,” said Poirot gently.
She gave a sort of gasp.
“How am I to know?… Oh, dear, it’s terrible. He’s so plausible! And he’s a doctor!
People will believe him and not me. I know they will. I should myself. Nobody will believe me. How could they?” “You will not even give me the chance?” She shot a troubled glance at him.