by Mark Place
"I felt just as though I'd embezzled the money-and I didn't know what to do. The other day, when Bella came to me, I told her that she should have half of it. I felt sure that then I would feel happy again."
"You see?" said Poirot. "Mrs. Tanios was succeeding in her object. That is why she was so averse to any attempt to contest the will. She had her own plans and the last thing she wanted to do was to antagonize Miss Lawson. She pretended, of course, to fall in at once with her husband's wishes, but she made it quite clear what her real feelings were. She had at that time two objects: to detach herself and her children from Dr. Tanios and to obtain her share of the money. Then she would have what she wanted-a rich contented life in England with her children.”
"As time went on she could no longer conceal her dislike from her husband. In fact, she did not try to. He, poor man, was seriously upset and distressed. Her actions must have seemed quite incomprehensible to him. Really, they were logical enough. She was playing the part of the terrorized woman. If I had suspicions-and she was fairly sure that that must be the case-she wished me to believe that her husband had committed the murder. And at any moment that second murder which I am convinced was already planned in her mind might occur. I knew that she had a lethal dose of chloral in her possession. I feared that she would stage a pretended suicide and confession on his part. And still I had no evidence against her! And then, when I was quite in despair, I got something at last! Miss Lawson told me that she had seen Theresa Arundell kneeling on the stairs on the night of Easter Monday. I soon discovered that Miss Lawson could not have seen Theresa at all clearly--not nearly clearly enough to recognize her features. Yet she was quite positive in her identification. On being pressed she mentioned a brooch with Theresa's initials-T.A.”
"On my request Miss Theresa Arundell showed me the brooch in question. At the same time she absolutely denied having been on the stairs at the time stated. At first I fancied someone else had borrowed her brooch, but when I looked at the brooch in the glass the truth leaped at me. Miss Lawson, waking up, had seen a dim figure with the initials T.A. flashing in the light. She had leapt to the conclusion that it was Theresa. But if in the glass she had seen the initials T.A.--then the real initials must have been A. T., since the glass naturally reversed the order.”
"Of course! Mrs. Tanios's mother was Arabella Arundell. Bella is only a contraction. A. T. stood for Arabella Tanios. There was nothing odd in Mrs. Tanios possessing a similar type of brooch. It had been exclusive last Christmas, but by the spring they were all the rage, and I had already observed that Mrs. Tanios copied her cousin Theresa's hats and clothes as far as she was able with her limited means. "In my own mind, at any rate, my case was proved. Now--what was I to do? Obtain a Home Office order for the exhumation of the body?”
That could doubtless be managed. I might prove that Miss Arundell had been poisoned with phosphorus, though there was a little doubt about that. The body had been buried two months, and I understand that there have been cases of phosphorus poisoning where no lesions have been found and where the post mortem appearances are very indecisive. Even then, could I connect Mrs. Tanios with the purchase or possession of phosphorus? Very doubtful, since she had probably obtained it abroad.”
"At this juncture Mrs. Tanios took a decisive action. She left her husband throwing herself on the pity of Miss Lawson. She also definitely accused her husband of the murder. Unless I acted I felt convinced that he would be her next victim. I took steps to isolate them one from the other on the pretext that it was for her safety. She could not very well contradict that. Really, it was his safety I had in mind. And then--and then" He paused--a long pause. His face had gone rather white. But that was only a temporary measure. I had to make sure that the killer would kill no more. I had to assure the safety of the innocent. So I wrote out my construction of the case and gave it to Mrs. Tanios." There was a long silence.
Dr. Tanios cried out: "Oh, my God, so that's why she killed herself." Poirot said gently: "Was it not the best way? She thought so. There were, you see, the children to consider."
Dr. Tanios buried his face in his hands. Poirot came forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. It had to be. Believe me it was necessary. There would have been more deaths. First yours--then possibly, under certain circumstances, Miss Lawson's. And so it goes on." He paused.
In a broken voice Tanios said: "She wanted me--to take a sleeping draught one night.... There was something in her face--I threw it away. That was when I began to believe her mind was going...." "Think of it that way. It is indeed partly true. But not in the legal meaning of the term. She knew the meaning of her action...."
Dr. Tanios said wistfully: "She was much too good for me--always." A strange epitaph on a self-confessed murderess!
XXX The Last Word
There is very little more to tell. Theresa married her doctor shortly afterwards. I know them fairly well now and I have learnt to appreciate Donaldson--his clarity of vision and the deep, underlying force and humanity of the man. His manner, I may say, is just as dry and precise as ever; Theresa often mimics him to his face. She is, I think, amazingly happy and absolutely wrapped up in her husband's career. He is already making a big name for himself and is an authority on the functions of ductless glands.
Miss Lawson, in an acute attack of conscience, had to be restrained forcibly from denuding herself of every penny. A settlement agreeable to all parties was drawn up by Mr. Purvis whereby Miss Arundell’s fortune was shared out between Miss Lawson, the two Arundell’s and the Tanios children. Charles went through his share in a little over a year and is now, I believe, in British Columbia.
Just two incidents. "You're a downy fellow, ain't you?" said Miss Peabody, stopping us as we emerged from the gate of Littlegreen House one day. "Managed to hush everything up! No exhumation. Everything done decently."
"There seems to be no doubt that Miss Arundell died of yellow atrophy of the liver," said Poirot gently.
"That's very satisfactory," said Miss Peabody.
"Bella Tanios took an overdose of sleeping stuff, I hear."
"Yes, it was very sad."
"She was a miserable kind of woman-- always wanting what she hadn't got. People go a bit queer sometimes when they're like that. Had a kitchen maid once. Same thing. Plain girl. Felt it. Started writing anonymous letters. Queer kinks people get. Ah, well, I dare say it's all for the best."
"One hopes so, madame. One hopes so."
"Well," said Miss Peabody, preparing to resume her walk, "I'll say this for you. You've hushed things up nicely. Very nicely indeed." She walked on. There was a plaintive "Wuff" behind me.
I turned and opened the gate. "Come on, old man." Bob bounced through. There was a ball in his mouth.
"You can't take that for a walk." Bob sighed, turned and slowly ejected the ball inside the gate. He looked at it anxiously, then passed through. He looked up at me.
"If you say so, master, I suppose it's all right." I drew a long breath.
"My word, Poirot, it's good to have a dog again."
"The spoils of war," said Poirot. "But I would remind you, my friend, that it was to me that Miss Lawson presented Bob, not to you." "Possibly," I said. "But you're not really any good with a dog, Poirot. You don't understand dog psychology! Now Bob and I understand each other perfectly, don't we?"
"Woof," said Bob in energetic assent.
Wasps Nest
BY
AGATHA CHRISTIE
Out of the house came John Harrison and stood a moment on the terrace looking out over the garden. He was a big man with a lean, cadaverous face. His aspect was usually somewhat grim but when, as now, the rugged features softened into a smile, there was something very attractive about him.
John Harrison loved his garden, and it had never looked better than it did on this August evening, summery and languorous. The rambler roses were still beautiful; sweet peas scented the air. A well-known creaking sound made Harrison turn his head sharply. Who was coming i
n through the garden gate? In another minute, an expression of utter astonishment came over his face, for the dandified figure coming up the path was the last he expected to see in this part of the world.
“By all that’s wonderful,” cried Harrison. “Monsieur Poirot”
It was, indeed, the famous Hercule Poirot whose renown as a detective had spread over the whole world.
“Yes,” he said, “it is I. You said to me once: If you are ever in this part of the world, come and see me. I take you at your word. I arrive.”
“And I’m delighted,” said Harrison heartily. “Sit down and have a drink.” With a hospitable hand, he indicated a table on the veranda bearing assorted bottles.
“I thank you,” said Poirot, sinking down into a basket chair.
“You have, I suppose, no syrop? No, no, I thought not. A little plain soda water then - no whisky.” And he added in a feeling voice as the other placed the glass beside him: “Alas, my moustache is limp. It is this heat!”
“And what brings you into this quiet spot?” asked Harrison as he dropped into another chair. “Pleasure?”
“No, mon ami, business.”
“Business? In this out-of-the-way place?”
Poirot nodded gravely. “But yes, my friend, all crimes are not committed in crowds, you know?”
The other laughed. “I suppose that was rather an idiotic remark of mine. But what particular crime are you investigating down here, or is that a thing I mustn’t ask?”
“You may ask,” said the detective. “Indeed, I would prefer that you asked.”
Harrison looked at him curiously. He sensed something a little unusual in the other’s manner. “You are investigating a crime, you say?” he advanced rather hesitatingly. “A serious crime?”
“A crime of the most serious there is.”
“You mean…”
“Murder.”
So gravely did Hercule Poirot say that word that Harrison was quite taken aback. The detective was looking straight at him and again there was something so unusual in his glance that Harrison hardly knew how to proceed. At last, he said: “But I have heard of no murder.”
“No,” said Poirot, “you would not have heard of it.”
“Who has been murdered?”
“As yet,” said Hercule Poirot, “nobody.”
“What?”
“That is why I said you would not have heard of it. I am investigating a crime that has not yet taken place.”
“But look here, that is nonsense.”
“Not at all. If one can investigate a murder before it has happened, surely that is very much better than afterwards. One might even - a little idea - prevent it.”
Harrison stared at him. “You are not serious, Monsieur Poirot.”
“But yes, I am serious.”
“You really believe that a murder is going to be committed? Oh, it’s absurd!”
Hercule Poirot finished the first part of the sentence without taking any notice of the exclamation. “Unless we can manage to prevent it. Yes, mon ami, that is what I mean.”
“We?”
“I said we. I shall need your cooperation.”
“Is that why you came down here?” Again Poirot looked at him, and again an indefinable something made Harrison uneasy.
“I came here, Monsieur Harrison because I - well - like you.” And then he added in an entirely different voice: “I see, Monsieur Harrison, that you have a wasps nest there. You should destroy it.”
The change of subject made Harrison frown in a puzzled way. He followed Poirot’s glance and said in rather a bewildered voice: “As a matter of fact, I’m going to. Or rather, young Langton is. You remember Claude Langton? He was at that same dinner where I met you. He’s coming over this evening to take the nest. Rather fancies himself at the job.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “And how is he going to do it?”
“Petrol and the garden syringe. He’s bringing his own syringe over; it’s a more convenient size than mine.”
“There is another way, is there not?” asked Poirot. “With cyanide of potassium?”
Harrison looked a little surprised. “Yes, but that’s rather dangerous stuff. Always a risk having it about the place.”
Poirot nodded gravely. “Yes, it is deadly poison.”
He waited a minute and then repeated in a grave voice. “Deadly poison.”
“Useful if you want to do away with your mother-in-law, eh?” said Harrison with a laugh.
But Hercule Poirot remained grave. “And you are quite sure, Monsieur Harrison, that it is with petrol that Monsieur Langton is going to destroy your wasps nest?”
“Quite sure. Why?”
“I wondered. I was at the chemist’s in Barchester this afternoon. For one of my purchases I had to sign the poison book. I saw the last entry. It was for cyanide of potassium and it was signed for by Claude Langton.”
Harrison stared. “That’s odd,” he said. “Langton told me the other day that he’d never dream of using the stuff; in fact, he said it oughtn’t to be sold for the purpose.”
Poirot looked out over the roses. His voice was very quiet as he asked a question. “Do you like Langton?”
The other started. The question somehow seemed to find him quite unprepared. “I - I - well, I mean - of course, I like him. Why shouldn’t I?”
“I only wondered,” said Poirot placidly, “whether you did.” And as the other did not answer, he went on. “I also wondered if he liked you?”
“What are you getting at, Monsieur Poirot? There’s something in your mind I can’t fathom.”
“I am going to be very frank. You are engaged to be married, Monsieur Harrison. I know Miss Molly Dearie. She is a very charming, a very beautiful girl. Before she was engaged to you, she was engaged to Claude Langton. She threw him over for you.”
Harrison nodded. “I do not ask what her reasons were; she may have been justified. But I tell you this, it is not too much to suppose that Langton has not forgotten or forgiven.”
“You’re wrong, Monsieur Poirot. I swear you’re wrong. Langton’s been a sportsman; he’s taken things like a man. He’s been amazingly decent to me - gone out of his way to be friendly.”
“And that does not strike you as unusual? You use the word "amazingly", but you do not seem to be amazed.”
“What do you mean, M. Poirot?”
“I mean,” said Poirot, and his voice had a new note in it, “that a man may conceal his hate till the proper time comes.”
“Hate?” Harrison shook his head and laughed.
“The English are very stupid,” said Poirot. “They think that they can deceive anyone but that no one can deceive them. The sportsman - the good fellow - never will they believe evil of him. And because they are brave, but stupid, sometimes they die when they need not die.”
“You are warning me,” said Harrison in a low voice. “I see it now - what has puzzled me all along. You are warning me against Claude Langton. You came here today to warn me…”
Poirot nodded. Harrison sprang up suddenly. “But you are mad, Monsieur Poirot. This is England. Things don’t happen like that here. Disappointed suitors don’t go about stabbing people in the back and poisoning them. And you’re wrong about Langton. That chap wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“The lives of flies are not my concern,” said Poirot placidly. “And although you say Monsieur Langton would not take the life of one, yet you forget that he is even now preparing to take the lives of several thousand wasps.”
Harrison did not at once reply. The little detective in his turn sprang to his feet. He advanced to his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. So agitated was he that he almost shook the big man, and, as he did so, he hissed into his ear: “Rouse yourself, my friend, rouse yourself. And look - look where I am pointing. There on the bank, close by that tree root. See you, the wasps returning home, placid at the end of the day? In a little hour, there will be destruction, and they know it not. There is no one to tell them.
They have not, it seems, a Hercule Poirot. I tell you, Monsieur Harrison, I am down here on business. Murder is my business. And it is my business before it has happened as well as afterwards. At what time does Monsieur Langton come to take this wasps nest?”
“Langton would never…”
“At what time?”
“At nine o’clock. But I tell you, you’re all wrong. Langton would never…
“These English!” cried Poirot in a passion. He caught up his hat and stick and moved down the path, pausing to speak over his shoulder. “I do not stay to argue with you. I should only enrage myself. But you understand, I return at nine o’clock?”
Harrison opened his mouth to speak, but Poirot did not give him the chance. “I know what you would say: ‘Langton would never,’ etcetera. Ah, Langton would never, but all the same I return at nine o’clock. But, yes, it will amuse me - put it like that - it will amuse me to see the taking of a wasps nest. Another of your English sports.”
He waited for no reply but passed rapidly down the path and out through the door that creaked. Once outside on the road, his pace slackened. His vivacity died down, his face became grave and troubled. Once he drew his watch from his pocket and consulted it. The hands pointed to ten minutes past eight.