Part 15 (2/2)

Poirot said in his oiliest voice: J ”My dear doctor, you must allow me to explain--” ”Allow you?

Allow you? d.a.m.n it, I'll force you to explain! You're a detective, that's what you are! A nosing, prying detective!

Coming round to me and feeding me up with a pack of lies about writing old General Arundell's biography! More fool me to be taken in by such a d.a.m.n fool story.” ”Who told you of my ident.i.ty?” asked Poirot.

”Who told me? Miss Peabody told me. She saw through you all right!” ”Miss Peabody--yes.”

Poirot sounded reflective.

”I rather thought--” Dr. Grainger cut in angrily.

”Now then, sir, I'm waiting for your explanation!”

”Certainly. My explanation is very simple. Attempted murder ” ”What? What's that?” - Poirot said quietly: ”Miss Arundell had a fall, did she not? A fall down the stairs shortly before her death?” ”Yes, what of it? She slipped on that d.a.m.ned dog's ball.” Poirot shook his head.

”No, Doctor, she did not. A thread was fastened across the top of the stairs so as to trip her up.”

Dr. Grainger stared.

”Then why didn't she tell me so?” he demanded.

”Never said a word to me about it.” ”That is perhaps understandable--if it were a member of her own family who placed that thread there!” ”H'm--I see.” Grainger cast a sharp glance at Poirot, then threw himself into a chair. ”Well?” he said. ”How did you come to be mixed up in this affair?” ”Miss Arundell wrote to me, stressing the utmost secrecy. Unfortunately the letter was delayed.” Poirot proceeded to give certain carefully edited details and explained the finding of the nail driven into the skirting-board.

The doctor listened with a grave face. His anger had abated.

”You can comprehend my position was a difficult one,” Poirot finished. ”I was employed, you see, by a dead woman. But I counted the obligation none the less strong for that.” Dr. Grainger5 s brows were drawn together in thought.

”And you've no idea who it was stretched that thread across the head of the stairs?” he asked.

”I have no evidence as to who it was. I will not say I have no idea.” ”It's a nasty story,” said Grainger, his face grim.”Yes. You can understand, can you not, that to begin with I was uncertain whether there had or had not been a sequel?” ”Eh? What's that?” ”To all intents and purposes Miss Arundell died a natural death, but could one be sure of that? There had been one attempt on her life. How could I be sure that there had not been a second? And this time a successful one!” Grainger nodded thoughtfully.

”I suppose you are sure, Dr. Grainger-- please do not get angry--that Miss ArundelFs death was a natural one? I have come across certain evidence today--” He detailed the conversation he had had with old Angus, Charles ArundelFs interest in the weed-killer, and finally the old man's surprise at the emptiness of the tin.

Grainger listened with keen attention.

When Poirot had finished he said quietly: ”I see your point. Many a case of a.r.s.enical >oisoning has been diagnosed as acute gastric enteritis and a certificate given--especially when there are no suspicious contributing circ.u.mstances. In any case, a.r.s.enical poisoning presents certain difficulties--it has so many different forms. It may be acute, subacute, nervous or chronic. There may be vomiting and abdominal pain--these symptoms may be entirely absent--the person may fall suddenly to the ground and expire shortly afterwards--there may be narcotism and paralysis. The symptoms vary widely.” Poirot said: ^Eh bien, taking the facts into account, what is your opinion?” Dr. Grainger was silent for a minute or two. Then he said slowly: ”Taking everything into account, and without any bias whatever, I am of the opinion that no form of a.r.s.enical poisoning could account for the symptoms in Miss ArundelFs case. She died, I am quite convinced, of yellow atrophy of the liver. I have, as you know, attended her for many years, and she has suffered previously from attacks similar to that which caused her death. That is my considered opinion, M. Poirot.” And there, perforce, the matter had to rest.

It seemed rather an anti-climax when somewhat apologetically, Poirot produced the package of Liver Capsules he had bought at the druggist's.

”Miss Arundell took these, I believe?” he said. ”I suppose they could not be injurious in any way?” ”That stuff? No harm in it. Aloes-- podophyllin--all quite mild and harmless,” said Grainger. ”She liked trying the stuff. I didn't mind.” He got up.

”You dispensed certain medicines for her yourself?” asked Poirot.

”Yes--a mild liver pill to be taken after food.” His eyes twinkled. ”She could have taken a boxful without hurting herself. I'm not given to poisoning my patients, M.

Poirot.” Then, with a smile, he shook hands with us both and departed.

Poirot undid the package he had purchased at the druggist's. The medicament consisted of transparent capsules, three quarters full of a dark brown powder.

”They look like a seasick remedy I once took,” I remarked.

Poirot opened a capsule, examined its contents and tasted it gingerly with his tongue.

He made a grimace.”Well,” I said, throwing myself back in my chair and yawning. ”Everything seems harmless enough. Dr. Loughbarrow's specialities, and Dr. Grainger's pills! And Dr.

Grainger seems definitely to negative the a.r.s.enic theory. Are you convinced at last, my stubborn Poirot.” ”It is true that I am pig-headed--that is your expression, I think? Yes, definitely I have the head of the pig,” said my friend meditatively.

”Then, in spite of having the druggist, the nurse and the doctor against you, you still think that Miss Arundell was murdered?” Poirot said quietly: ”That is what I believe. No--more than believe. I am sure of it, Hastings.” ”There's one way of proving it, I suppose,” I said slowly.

”Exhumation.” Poirot nodded.

”Is that the next step?” ”My friend, I have to go carefully.” ”Why?” ”Because,” his voice dropped, ”I am afraid of a second tragedy.” ”You mean--?” ”I am afraid, Hastings, I am afraid.

Let us leave it at that.”

XXII The Woman on the Stairs on the following morning a note arrived by hand. It was in a rather weak, uncertain handwriting slanting very much uphill.

Dear M. Poirot, I hear from Ellen that you were at Littlegreen House yesterday. I shall be much obliged if you could call and see me sometime today.

Yours truly, Wilhelmina Lawson.

”So she's down here,” I remarked.

”Yes.” ”Why has she come, I wonder?” Poirot smiled.

”I do not suppose there is any sinister reason. After all, the house belongs to her.” ”Yes, that's true, of course. You know, )irot, that's the worst of this game of ours.

Every single little thing that any one does is open to the most sinister constructions.” ”It is true that I myself have enjoined upon you the motto, 'suspect every one.5 ” ”Are you still in that state yourself?” ”No--for me it has boiled down to this.

I suspect one particular person.” ”Which one?” ”Since, at the moment, it is only suspicion and there is no definite proof, I think I must leave you to draw your own deductions, Hastings.

Arid do not neglect the psychology-- that is important. The character of the murder--implying as it does a certain temperament in the murderer--that is an essential clue to the crime.” ”I can't consider the character of the murderer if I don't know who the murderer is!” ”No, no, you have not paid attention to what I have just said. If you reflect sufficiently on the character--the necessary character of the murder--then you will realize who the murderer is!” ”Do you really know, Poirot?” I asked curiously.

”I cannot say I know because I have no proofs. That is why I cannot say more at the present. But I am quite sure--yes, my friend, in my own mind I am very sure.

”Well,” I said, laughing, ”mind he doesn't get you! That would be a tragedy!” Poirot started alittle. He did not take the matter as a joke. Instead he murmured: ”You are right. I must be careful--extremely careful.” ”You ought to wear a coat of chain mail,” I said chafflngly. ”And employ a taster in case of poison! In fact, you ought to have a regular band of gunmen to protect you!” ”Merci, Hastings, I shall rely on my wits.” He then wrote a note to Miss Lawson saying that he would call at Littlegreen House at eleven o'clock.

After that we breakfasted and then strolled out into the Square. It was about a quarter past ten and a hot sleepy morning.

I was looking into the window of the antique shop at a very nice set of Hepplewhite chairs when I received a highly painful lunge in the ribs, and a sharp, penetrating voice said: ”Hi!” I spun round indignantly to find myself face to face with Miss Peabody. In her hand (the instrument of her a.s.sault upon me) was a large and powerful umbrella with a spiked point.

Apparently completely callous to the severe pain she had inflicted, she observed in a satisfied voice: ”Ha! Thought it was you. Don't often make a mistake.” I said rather coldly: ”Er--good-morning. Can I do anything for you?” ”You can tell me how that friend of yours is getting on with his book--Life of General Arundell?” ”He hasn't actually started to write it yet,” I said.

Miss Peabody indulged in a little silent but apparently satisfying laughter. She shook like a jelly.

Recovering from that attack, she remarked: ”No, I don't suppose he will be starting to write it.” I said, smiling: ”So you saw through our little fiction?” ”What d'you take me for--a fool?” asked Miss Peabody. ”I saw soon enough what your downy friend was after! Wanted me to talk! Well, / didn't mind. I like talking.

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