Dumb Witness (Hercule Poirot 16)

Poirot patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

“It was the narrow squeak—yes. Now, madame, you are to listen to me very carefully.”

“I can’t tell you anything more, M. Poirot. It wouldn’t be right. You—you know what I think—what I believe. You—you must be satisfied with that.”

“I asked you to listen, madame. Supposing—this is a supposition only—that I already know the facts of the case. Supposing that what you could tell me I have already guessed—that would make a difference, would it not?”

She looked at him doubtfully. Her eyes were painful in their intensity.

“Oh, believe me, madame, I am not trying to trap you into saying what you do not wish to. But it would make a difference—yes?”

“I—I suppose it would.”

“Good. Then let me say this. I, Hercule Poirot, know the truth. I am not going to ask you to accept my word for it. Take this.” He thrust upon her the bulky envelope I had seen him seal up that morning. “The facts are there. After you have read them, if they satisfy you, ring me up. My number is on the notepaper.”

Almost reluctantly she accepted the envelope.

Poirot went on briskly:

“And now, one more point, you must leave this hotel at once.”

“But why?”

“You will go to the Coniston Hotel near Euston. Tell no one where you are going.”

“But surely—here—Minnie Lawson won’t tell my husband where I am.”

“You think not?”

“Oh, no—she’s entirely on my side.”

“Yes, but your husband, madame, is a very clever man. He will not find it difficult to turn a middle-aged lady inside out. It is essential—essential, you understand, that your husband should not know where you are.”

She nodded dumbly.

Poirot held out a sheet of paper.

“Here is the address. Pack up and drive there with the children as soon as possible. You understand?”

She nodded.

“I understand.”

“It is the children you must think of, madame, not yourself. You love your chldren.”

He had touched the right note.

A little colour crept into her cheeks, her head went back. She looked, not a frightened drudge, but an arrogant, almost handsome woman.

“It is arranged, then,” said Poirot.

He shook hands and he and I departed. But not far. From the shelter of a convenient café, we sipped coffee and watched the entrance of the hotel. In about five minutes we saw Dr. Tanios walking down the street. He did not even glance up at the Wellington. He passed it, his head bowed in thought, then he turned into the Underground station.

About ten minutes later we saw Mrs. Tanios and the children get into the taxi with their luggage and drive away.

“Bien,” said Poirot, rising with the check in his hand. “We have done our part. Now it is

on the knees of the gods.”