On the following morning we made our way to the address given us by Dr. Donaldson.
I suggested to Poirot that a visit to the lawyer, Mr. Purvis, might be a good thing, but Poirot negatived the idea strongly.
“No, indeed, my friend. What could we say—what reason could we advance for seeking information?”
“You’re usually pretty ready with reasons, Poirot! Any old lie would do, wouldn’t it?”
“On the contrary, my friend, ‘any old lie,’ as you put it, would not do. Not with a lawyer. We should be—how do you say it—thrown out with the flea upon the ear.”
“Oh, well,” I said. “Don’t let us risk that!”
So, as I have said, we set out for the flat occupied by Theresa Arundell.
The flat in question was situated in a block at Chelsea overlooking the river. It was furnished expensively in the modern style, with gleaming chromium and thick rugs with geometric designs upon them.
We were kept waiting a few minutes and then a girl entered the room and looked at us inquiringly.
Theresa Arundell looked about twenty-eight or nine. She was tall and very slender, and she looked rather like an exaggerated drawing in black and white. Her hair was jet black—her face heavily made-up, dead pale. Her eyebrows, freakishly plucked, gave her an air of mocking irony. Her lips were the only spot of colour, a brilliant gash of scarlet in a white face. She also conveyed the impression—how I do not quite know, for her manner was almost wearily indifferent—of being at least twice as much alive as most people. There hung about her the restrained energy of a whiplash.
With an air of cool inquiry she looked from me to Poirot.
Wearied (I hoped) of deceit, Poirot had on this occasion sent in his own card. She was holding it now in her fingers, twirling it to and for.
“I suppose,” she said, “you’re M. Poirot?”
Poirot bowed in his best manner.
“At your service, mademoiselle. You permit me to trespass for a few moments of your valuable time?”
With a faint imitation of Poirot’s manner she replied:
“Enchanted, M. Poirot. Pray sit down.”
Poirot sat, rather gingerly, on a low square easy chair. I took an upright one of webbing and chromium. Theresa sat negligently on a low stool in front of the fireplace. She offered us both cigarettes. We refused and she lighted one herself.
“You know my name perhaps, mademoiselle?”
She nodded.
“Little friend of Scotland Yard. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Poirot, I think, did not much relish this description. He said with some importance:
“I concern myself with problems of crime, mademoiselle.”
“How frightfully thrilling,” said Theresa Arundell in a bored voice. “And to think I’ve lost my autograph book!”
“The matter with which I concern myself is this,” continued Poirot. “Yesterday I received a letter from your aunt.”
Her eyes—very long, almond-shaped eyes—opened a little. She puffed smoke in a cloud.
“From my aunt, M. Poirot?”
“That is what I said, mademoiselle.”
She murmured:
“I’m sorry if I’m spoiling sport in any way, but really, you know, there isn’t any such person! All my aunts are mercifully dead. The last died two months ago.”