Dumb Witness (Hercule Poirot 16)

“Please tell Miss Peabody that we come from Dr. Grainger,” said Poirot.

After a wait of a few minutes the door opened and a short fat woman waddled into the room. Her sparse, white hair was neatly parted in the middle. She wore a black velvet dress, the nap of which was completely rubbed off in various places, and some really beautiful fine point lace was fastened at her neck with a large cameo brooch.

She came across the room peering at us shortsightedly. Her first words were somewhat of a surprise.

“Got anything to sell?”

“Nothing, madame,” said Poirot.

“Sure?”

“But absolutely.”

“No vacuum cleaners?”

“No.”

“No stockings?”

“No.”

“No rugs?”

“No.”

“Oh, well,” said Miss Peabody, settling herself in a chair. “I suppose it’s all right. You’d better sit down then.”

We sat obediently.

“You’ll excuse my asking,” said Miss Peabody with a trace of apology in her manner. “Got to be careful. You wouldn’t believe the people who come along. Servants are no good. They can’t tell. Can’t blame ’em either. Right voices, right clothes, right names. How are they to tell? Commander Ridgeway, Mr. Scot Edgerton, Captain d’Arcy Fitzherbert. Nice-looking fellows, some of ’em. But before you know where you are they’ve shoved a cream-making machine under your nose.”

Poirot said earnestly:

“I assure you, madame, that we have nothing whatever of that kind.”

“Well, you should know,” said Miss Peabody.

Poirot plunged into his story. Miss Peabody heard him out without comment, blinking once or twice out of her small eyes. At the end she said:

“Goin’ to write a book, eh?”

&n

bsp; “Yes.”

“In English?”

“Certainly—in English.”

“But you’re a foreigner. Eh? Come now, you’re a foreigner, aren’t you?”

“That is true.”

She transferred her gaze to me.

“You are his secretary, I suppose?”

“Er—yes,” I said doubtfully.