by Mark Place
"I suppose," she said, "you're M. Poirot?" Poirot bowed in his best manner.
"At your service, mademoiselle. You permit me to trespass for a few moments of your valuable time?" With a faint imitation of Poirot’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 are mercifully 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 shell.
"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! Ca 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 men Their advice is that the will holds good in 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 rectitude 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. Everyone knows that. You could think out some scheme."
"Such as?" Theresa Arundell shrugged her shoulders.
"That's your business. Steal the will and substitute 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 latitude." "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 to know 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."
"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 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 someday-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—I’ve 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-off act 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."
XIV Charles Arundell
I must confess that from the moment I set eyes on him I entertained a sneaking liking for Charles Arundell. There was something so debonair and carefree about him. His eyes had an agreeable and humorous twinkle and his grin was one of the most disarming I have ever encountered. He came across the room and sat down on the arm of one of the massive, upholstered chairs.
"What's it all about, old girl?" he asked.
"This is M. Hercule Poirot, Charles. He is prepared to--er--do some dirty work for us in return for a small consideration."
"I protest," cried Poirot. "Not dirty work--shall we say a little harmless deception of some kind--so that the original intention of the testator is carried out? Let us put it that way."
"Put it any way you like," said Charles agreeably.
"What made Theresa think of you, I wonder?"
"She did not," said Poirot quickly. "I came here of my own accord."
"Offering your services?"
"Not quite that. I was asking for you. Your sister told me you had gone abroad."
"Theresa," said Charles, "is a very careful sister. She hardly ever makes a mistake. In fact, she's suspicious as the devil." He smiled at her affectionately, but she did not smile back. She looked worried and thoughtful.
"Surely," said Charles, "we've got things the wrong way round? Isn't M. Poirot famous for tracking down criminals? Surely not for aiding and abetting them?"
"We're not criminals," said Theresa sharply.
"But we're quite willing to be," said Charles affably. "I'd thought of a spot of forgery myself--that's rather my line. I got sent down from Oxford because of a little misunderstanding about a cheque. That was childishly simple, though--merely a question of adding a nought. Then there was another little fracas with Aunt Emily and the local bank. Foolish on my part, of course. I ought to have realized the old lady was sharp as needles. However, all these incidents have been very small fry--fivers or tenners--that class. A deathbed will would be admittedly risky. One would have to get hold of the stiff and starched Ellen and--is suborn the word?--anyway, induce her to say she had witnessed it. It would take some doing, I fear. I might even marry her and then she wouldn't be able to give evidence against me afterwards." He grinned amiably at Poirot.
"I feel sure you've installed a secret dictaphone and Scotland Yard is listening in," he said.
"Your problem interests me," said Poirot with a touch of reproof in his manner.
"Naturally I could not connive at anything against the law. But there are more ways than one-" He stopped significantly.
Charles Arundell shrugged his graceful shoulders. "I've no doubt there's an equal choice of devious ways inside the law," he said agreeably.
"You should know."
"By whom was the will witnessed? I mean the one made on April 21st?"
"Purvis brought down his clerk and the second witness was the gardener."
"It was signed then in Mr. Purvis's presence?"
"It was."
"And Mr. Purvis, I fancy, is a man of the highest respectability?"
"Purvis, Purvis, Charlesworth and once more Purvis are just about as respectable and impeccable as the Bank of England," said Charles.
"He didn't like making the will," said Theresa. "In an ultra-correct fashion I believe he even tried to dissuade Aunt Emily from making it."
Charles said sharply: “Did he tell you that, Theresa?"
"Yes. I went to see him again yesterday."
"It's no good, my sweet--you ought to realize that. Only piles up the six and eightpences." Theresa shrugged her shoulders.
Poirot said: "I will ask of you to give me as much information as you can about the last weeks of Miss Arundell’s life. Now, to begin with, I understand that you and your brother and also Dr. Tanios and his wife stayed there for Easter?"
"Yes, we did."
"Did anything happen of significance during that weekend?"
"I don't think so."
"Nothing? But I thought- -" Charles broke in.
"What a self-centred creature you are, Theresa. Nothing of significance happened to you! Wrapped in love's young dream! Let me tell you, M. Poirot, that Theresa has a blue-eyed boy in Market Basing. One of the local sawbones. She's got rather a faulty sense of proportion in consequence. As a matter of fact, my r
evered aunt took a header down the stairs and nearly passed out. Wish she had. It would have saved all this fuss."
"She fell down the stairs?"
"Yes, tripped over the dog's ball. Intelligent little brute left it at the top of the stairs and she took a header over it in the night."
"This was--when?"
"Let me see--Tuesday--the evening before we left."
"Your aunt was seriously injured?"
"Unfortunately she didn't fall on her head. If she had we might have pleaded softening of the brain--or whatever it's called scientifically. No, she was hardly hurt at all.”
Poirot said drily: "Very disappointing for you!"
"Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, as you say, very disappointing. Tough nuts, these old ladies."
"And you all left on the Wednesday morning?"
"That's right." "That was Wednesday, the fifteenth. When did you next see your aunt?"
"Well, it wasn't the next week-end. It was the weekend after that."
"That would be--let me see--the twentyfifth, would it not?" "Yes, I think that was the date."
"And your aunt died--when?"
"The following Friday."
"Having been taken ill on the Monday night?"
"Yes."
"That was the Monday that you left?"
"Yes."
"You did not return during her illness?"
"Not until the Friday. We didn't realize she was really bad." "You got there in time to see her alive?"
"No, she died before we arrived."
Poirot shifted his glance to Theresa Arundell. "You accompanied your brother on both these occasions?"