Dumb Witness (Hercule Poirot 16)

Dr. Tanios seemed a little embarrassed.

“It occurred to me that my wife might have—or may yet—come to you with some extraordinary tale. She may conceivably say that she is in danger from me—something of the kind.”

“But why should she come to me?”

Dr. Tanios smiled—it was a charming smile—genial yet wistful.

“You are a celebrated detective, M. Poirot. I saw—I could see at once—that my wife was very impressed at meeting you yesterday. The mere fact of meeting a detective would make a powerful impression on her in her present state. It seems to me highly probable that she might seek you out and—and—well, confide in you. That is the way these nervous affections go! There is a tendency to turn against those nearest and dearest to you.”

“Very distressing.”

“Yes, indeed. I am very fond of my wife.” There was a rich tenderness in his voice. “I always feel it was so brave of her to marry me—a man of another race—to come out to a far country—to leave all her own friends and surroundings. For the last few days I have been really distraught… I can see only one thing for it….”

“Yes?”

“Perfect rest and quiet—and suitable psychological treatment. There is a splendid home

I know of run by a first-class man. I want to take her there—it is in Norfolk—straightaway. Perfect rest and isolation from outside influence—that is what is needed. I feel convinced that once she has been there a month or two under skilled treatment there will be a change for the better.”

“I see,” said Poirot.

He uttered the words in a matter-of-fact manner without any clue to the feelings that prompted him.

Tanios again shot a quick glance at him.

“That is why, if she should come to you, I should be obliged if you will let me know at once.”

“But certainly. I will telephone you. You are at the Durham Hotel still?”

“Yes. I am going back there now.”

“And your wife is not there?”

“She went out directly after breakfast.”

“Without telling you where she was going?”

“Without saying a word. That is most unlike her.”

“And the children?”

“She took them with her.”

“I see.”

Tanios got up.

“I thank you so much, M. Poirot. I need hardly say that if she does tell you any high-flown stories of intimidation and persecution pay no attention to them. It is, unfortunately, a part of her malady.”

“Most distressing,” said Poirot with sympathy.

“It is indeed. Although one knows, medically speaking, that it is part of a recognized mental disease, yet one cannot help being hurt when a person very near and dear to you turns against you and all their affection changes to dislike.”

“You have my deepest sympathy,” said Poirot as he shook hands with his guest.

“By the way—” Poirot’s voice recalled Tanios just as he was at the door.

“Yes?”