Dumb Witness (Hercule Poirot 16)

We arrived at the George and took a couple of rooms. Then we strolled off in the direction of Littlegreen House.

When we rang the bell, Bob immediately answered the challenge. Dashing across the hall, barking furiously, he flung himself against the front door.

“I’ll have your liver and your lights!” he snarled. “I’ll tear you limb from limb! I’ll teach you to try and get into this house! Just wait until I get my teeth into you.”

A soothing murmur added itself to the clamour.

“Now then, boy. Now then, there’s a good doggie. Come in here.”

Bob, dragged by the collar, was immured in the morning room much against his will.

“Always spoiling a fellow’s sport,” he grumbled. “First chance I’ve had of giving anyone a really good fright for ever so long. Just aching to get my teeth into a trouser leg. You be careful of yourself without me to protect you.”

The door of the morning room was shut on him, and Ellen drew back bolts and bars and opened the front door.

“Oh, it’s you, sir,” she exclaimed.

She drew the door right back. A look of highly pleasurable excitement spread over her face.

“Come in, sir, if you please, sir.”

We entered the hall. From beneath the door on the left, loud snuffling sounds proceeded, interspersed with growls. Bob was endeavouring to “place” us correctly.

“You can let him out,” I suggested.

“I will, sir. He’s quite all right, really, but he makes such a noise and rushes at people so it frightens them. He’s a splendid watchdog though.”

She opened the morning room door, and Bob shot through like a suddenly projected cannonball.

“Who is it? Where are they? Oh, there you are. Dear me, don’t I seem to remember—” sniff—sniff—sniff—prolonged snort. “Of course! We have met!”

“Hullo, old man,” I said. “How goes it?”

Bob wagged his tail perfunctorily.

“Nicely, thank you. Let me just see—” he resumed his researches. “Been

talking to a spaniel lately, I smell. Foolish dogs, I think. What’s this? A cat? That is interesting. Wish we had her here. We’d have rare sport. H’m—not a bad bull terrier.”

Having correctly diagnosed a visit I had lately paid to some doggy friends, he transferred his attention to Poirot, inhaled a noseful of benzine and walked away reproachfully.

“Bob,” I called.

He threw me a look over his shoulder.

“It’s all right. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“The house is all shut up. I hope you’ll excuse—” Ellen hurried into the morning room and began to unfasten the shutters.

“Excellent, this is excellent,” said Poirot, following her in and sitting down. As I was about to join him, Bob reappeared from some mysterious region, ball in mouth. He dashed up the stairs and sprawled himself on the top step, his ball between his paws. His tail wagged slowly.

“Come on,” he said. “Come on. Let’s have a game.”

My interest in detection momentarily eclipsed, we played for some minutes, then with a feeling of guilt I hurried into the morning room.

Poirot and Ellen seemed to be well away on the subject of illness and medicines.

“Some little white pills, sir, that’s all she used to take. Two or three after every meal. That was Dr. Grainger’s orders. Oh, yes, she was very good about it. Tiny little things they were. And then there was some stuff Miss Lawson swore by. Capsules, they were, Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules. You can see advertisements of them on all the hoardings.”