Dumb Witness (Hercule Poirot 16) - Page 117
“A most handsome affair,” I agreed.
“It is true that it does not gleam and reflect the light, but all the same you are prepared to admit that that brooch could be seen plainly from some distance away?”
“I’ve never doubted it.”
“Quite so. Doubt is not your strong point. Simple faith is more characteristic of you. And now, Hastings, be so good as to remove your coat.”
Wondering a little, I did so. Poirot divested himself of his own coat and slipped on mine, turning away a little as he did so.
“And now,” he said. “Regard how the brooch—the brooch with your initials—becomes me?”
He whisked round. I stared at him—for the moment uncomprehendingly. Then I saw the point.
“What a blithering fool I am! Of course. It’s H.A. in the brooch, not A.H. a
t all.”
Poirot beamed on me, as he reassumed his own clothes and handed me mine.
“Exactly—and now you see what struck me as wrong with Miss Lawson’s story. She stated that she had seen Theresa’s initials clearly on the brooch she was wearing. But she saw Theresa in the glass. So, if she saw the initials at all, she must have seen them reversed.”
“Well,” I argued, “perhaps she did, and realized that they were reversed.”
“Mon cher, did that occur to you just now? Did you exclaim, ‘Ha! Poirot, you’ve got it wrong. That’s H.A. really—not A.H.’ No, you did not. And yet you are a good deal more intelligent, I should say, than Miss Lawson. Do not tell me that a muddleheaded woman like that woke up suddenly, and still half asleep, realized that A.T. was really T.A. No, that is not at all consistent with the mentality of Miss Lawson.”
“She was determined it should be Theresa,” I said slowly.
“You are getting nearer, my friend. You remember, I hint to her that she could not really see the face of anyone on the stairs, and immediately—what does she do?”
“Remembers Theresa’s brooch and lugs that in—forgetting that the mere fact of having seen it in the glass gave her own story the lie.”
The telephone bell rang sharply. Poirot crossed to it.
He only spoke a few noncommittal words.
“Yes? Yes… certainly. Yes, quite convenient. The afternoon, I think. Yes, two o’clock will do admirably.” He replaced the receiver and turned to me with a smile.
“Dr. Donaldson is anxious to have a talk with me. He is coming here tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. We progress, mon ami, we progress.”
Twenty-six
MRS. TANIOS REFUSES TO SPEAK
When I came round after breakfast the following morning I found Poirot busy at the writing table.
He raised a hand in salutation, then proceeded with his task. Presently he gathered up the sheets, enclosed them in an envelope and sealed them up carefully.
“Well, old boy, what are you doing?” I asked facetiously.
“Writing an account of the case to be placed in safekeeping in case someone bumps you off during the course of the day?”
“You know, Hastings, you are not so far wrong as you think.”
His manner was serious.
“Is our murderer really about to get dangerous?”
“A murderer is always dangerous,” said Poirot gravely.
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