“And the brooch.”
“My dear friend, a brooch is not part of a person’s anatomy! It can be detached from that person. It can be lost—or borrowed—or even stolen.”
“In other words you don’t want to believe Theresa Arundell guilty.”
“I want to hear what she has to say on the matter.”
“And if Mrs. Tanios comes back?”
“I will arrange for that.”
George brought in an omelette.
“Listen, George,” said Poirot. “If that lady comes back, you will ask her to wait. If Dr. Tanios comes while she is here on no account let him in. If he asks if his wife is here, you will tell him she is not. You understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
Poirot attacked the omelette.
“This business complicates itself,” he said. “We must step very carefully. If not—the murderer will strike again.”
“If he did you might get him.”
“Quite possibly, but I prefer the life of the innocent to the conviction of the guilty. We must go very, very carefully.”
Twenty-four
THERESA’S DENIAL
We found Theresa Arundell just preparing to go out.
She was looking extraordinarily attractive. A small hat of the most outrageous fashion descended rakishly over one eye. I recognized with momentary amusement that Bella Tanios had worn a cheap imitation of such a hat yesterday and had worn it—as George had put it—on the back of the head instead of over the right eye. I remembered well how she had pushed it farther and farther back on her untidy hair.
Poirot said, politely:
“Can I have just a minute or two, mademoiselle, or will it delay you too much?”
Theresa laughed.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m always three-quarters of an hour late for everything. I might just as well make it an hour.”
She led him into the sitting room. To my surprise Dr. Donaldson rose from a chair by the window.
“You’ve met M. Poirot already, Rex, haven’t you?”
“We met at Market Basing,” said Donaldson, stiffly.
“You were pretending to write the life of my drunken grandfather, I understand,” said Theresa. “Rex, my angel, will you leave us?”
“Thank you, Theresa, but I think that from every point of view it would be advisable for me to be present at this interview.”
There was a brief duel of eyes. Theresa’s were commanding. Donaldson’s were impervious. She showed a quick flash of anger.
“All right, stay then, damn you!”
Dr. Donaldson seemed unperturbed.
He seated himself again in the chair by the window, laying down his book on the arm of it. It was a book on the pituitary gland, I noticed.