Dumb Witness (Hercule Poirot 16)

Poirot did not reply. His silence seemed to disquiet her.

“Of course we are,” she repeated sharply. And then she added, “You—have you seen him?”

“I saw him yesterday—at Market Basing.”

“Why? What did you say to him?”

“I said nothing. I only asked him for your brother’s address.”

“Charles?” Her voice was sharp again. “What did you want with Charles?”

“Charles? Who wants Charles?”

It was a new voice—a delightful, man’s voice.

A bronze-faced young man with an agreeable grin strolled into the room.

“Who is talking about me?” he asked. “I heard my name in the hall, but I didn’t eavesdrop. They were very particular about eavesdropping at Borstal. Now then, Theresa my girl, what’s all this? Spill the beans.”

Fourteen

CHARLES ARUNDELL

I must confess that from the moment I set eyes on him I entertained a sneaking liking for Charles Arundell. There was something so debonair and carefree about him. His eyes had an agreeable and humorous twinkle and his grin was one of the most disarming I have ever encountered.

He came across the room and sat down on the arm of one of the massive, upholstered chairs.

“What’s it all about, old girl?” he asked.

“This is M. Hercule Poirot, Charles. He is prepared to—er—do some dirty work for us in return for a small consideration.”

“I protest,” cried Poirot. “Not dirty work—shall we say a little harmless deception of some kind—so that the original intention of the testator is carried out? Let us put it that way.”

“Put it anyway you like,” said Charles agreeably. “What made Theresa think of you, I wonder?”

“She did not,” said Poirot quickly. “I came here of my own accord.”

“Offering your services?”

“Not quite that. I was asking for you. Your sister told me you had gone abroad.”

“Theresa,” said Charles, “is a very careful sister. She hardly ever makes a mistake. In fact, she’s suspicious as the devil.”

He smiled at her affectionately but she did not smile back. She looked worried and thoughtful.

“Surely,” said Charles. “We’ve got things the wrong way round? Isn’t M. Poirot famous for tracking down criminals? Surely not for aiding and abetting them?”

“We’re not criminals,” said Theresa sharply.

“But we’re willing to be,” said Charles affably. “I’d thought of a spot of forgery myself—that’s rather my line. I got sent down from Oxford because of a little misunderstanding about a cheque. That was childishly simple, though—merely a question of adding a nought. Then there was another little fracas with Aunt Emily and the local bank. Foolish on my part, of course. I ought to have realized the old lady was sharp as needles. However, all these incidents have been very small fry—fivers and tenners—that class. A deathbed will would be admittedly risky. One would have to get hold of the stiff and starched Ellen and—is suborn the word?—anyway, induce her to say she had witnessed it. It would take some doing, I fear. I might even marry her and then she wouldn’t be able to give evidence against me afterwards.”

He grinned amiably at Poirot.

“I feel sure you’ve installed a secret dictaphone and Scotland Yard is listening in,” he said.

“Your problem interests me,” said Poirot with a touch of reproof in his manner. “Naturally I could not connive at anything against the law. But there are more ways than one—” he stopped significantly.

Charles Arundell shrugged his graceful shoulders.