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 would 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, Poirot, that’s the worst of this game of ours. Every single little thing that anyone does is open to the most sinister constructions.”
“It is true that I myself have enjoined upon you the motto, ‘suspect everyone.’”
“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. And 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 a little. 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, chaffingly. “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 assault 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: