Part 9 (1/2)
”I suppose,” she said, ”you're M. Poirot?” Poirot bowed in his best manner.
”At your service, mademoiselle. You permit me to trespa.s.s 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 aremercifully 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 sh.e.l.l.
”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.
”Come back!” she said.
Poirot obeyed slowly. He sat down again and looked at her inquiringly.
”Let's stop playing the fool,” she said.
”It's just possible that you might be useful to me, M. Hercule Poirot.” ”Delighted, mademoiselle--and how?” Between two puffs of cigarette smoke she said very quietly and evenly: ”Tell me how to break that will.” ”Surely a lawyer--” ”Yes, a lawyer, perhaps--if I knew the right lawyer. But the only lawyers I know are respectable meni Their advice is that the will holds goodin law and that any attempt to contest it will be useless expense.” ”But you do not believe them.”
”I believe there is always a way to do things--if you don't mind being unscrupulous and are prepared to pay. Well, I am prepared to pay.” ”And you take it for granted that I am prepared to be unscrupulous if I am paid?” ”I've found that to be true of most people!
I don't see why you should be an exception.
People always protest about their honesty and their rect.i.tude to begin with, of course.” ”Just so, that is part of the game, eh? But what, given that I was prepared to be- unscrupulous-do you think I could do?” ”I don't know. But you're a clever man.
Every one knows that. You could think out some scheme.” ”Such as?” Theresa Arundell shrugged her shoulders.
”That's your business. Steal the will and subst.i.tute a forgery.... Kidnap the Lawson woman and frighten her into saying she bullied Aunt Emily into making it. Produce a later will made on old Emily's deathbed.” ”Your fertile imagination takes my breath away, mademoiselle!” ”Well, what is your answer? I've been frank enough. If it's righteous refusal, there's the door.” ”It is not righteous refusal-yet-” said Poirot.
Theresa Arundell laughed. She looked at me.
”Your friend,” she observed, ”looks shocked. Shall we send him out to chase himself round the block?” Poirot addressed himself to me with some slight irritation.
”Control, I pray of you, your beautiful and upright nature, Hastings. I demand pardon for my friend, mademoiselle. He is, as you have perceived, honest. But he is also faithful. His loyalty to myself is absolute. In any case, let me emphasize this point--” he looked at her very hard--”whatever we are about to do will be strictly within the law.” She raised her eyebrows slightly.
”The law,” said Poirot thoughtfully, ”has a lot of lat.i.tude.” ”I see.” She smiled faintly. ”All right, we'll let that be understood. Do you want to discuss your share of the booty--if there turns out to be any booty?” ”That, also, can be understood. Some nice little pickings--that is all I ask.”
”Done,” said Theresa.
Poirot leant forward.
”Now listen, mademoiselle, usually--in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred cases, shall we say, I am on the side of the law.
The hundredth--well, the hundredth is different.
For one thing, it is usually much more lucrative.... But it has to be done very quietly, you understand--very, very quietly. My reputation, it must not suffer.
I have to be careful.” Theresa Arundell nodded.
”And I must have all the facts of the case!
I must have the truth! You comprehend that once one knows the truth it is an easier matter toknow just what lies to tell!” ”That seems eminently reasonable.” ”Very well then. Now, on what date was this will made?” ”On April 21st.” ”And the previous will?” ”Aunt Emily made a will five years ago.” ”Its provisions being--?” ”After a legacy to Ellen and one to a former cook, all her property was to be divided between the children of her brother Thomas and the children of her sister Arabella.” ”Was this money left in trust?” ”No, it was left to us absolutely.” ”Now be careful. Did you all know the provisions of this will?” ”Oh, yes. Charles and I knew--and Bella knew too. Aunt Emily made no secret of it.
In fact, if any of us asked for a loan she would usually say, 'You'll have all my money when I'm dead and gone. Be content with that fact.5 ” ”Would she have refused a loan if there had been a case of illness or any dire necessity?”
”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 fas.h.i.+on.
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.”