Dumb Witness by Agatha Christie
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s Bob’s fault. He leaves his ball there. And you can’t see it against the dark carpet. Death of someone some day it’ll be. The poor mistress had a nasty fall through it. Might easily have been the death of her.”
Poirot stopped suddenly on the stairs.
“She had an accident you say?”
“Yes, sir. Bob left his ball there, as he often did, and the mistress came out of her room and fell over it and went right down the stairs. Might have been killed.”
“Was she much hurt?”
“Not as much as you’d think. Very lucky she was, Dr. Grainger said. Cut her head a little, and strained her back, and of course there were bruises and it was a nasty shock. She was in bed for about a week, but it wasn’t serious.”
“Was this long ago?”
“Just a week or two before she died.”
Poirot stooped to recover something he had dropped.
“Pardon—my fountain pen—ah, yes, there it is.”
He stood up again.
“He is careless, this Master Bob,” he observed.
“Ah well, he don’t know no better, sir,” said the woman in an indulgent voice. “Nearly human he may be, but you can’t have everything. The mistress, you see, usedn’t to sleep well at night and often she’d get up and wander downstairs and round and about the house.”
“She did that often?”
“Most nights. But she wouldn’t have Miss Lawson or anyone fussing after her.”
Poirot had turned into the drawing room again.
“A beautiful room this,” he observed. “I wonder, would there be space in this recess for my bookcase? What do you think, Hastings?”
Quite fogged I remarked cautiously that it would be difficult to say.
“Yes, sizes are so deceptive. Take, I pray you, my little rule and measure the width of it and I will write it down.”
Obediently I took the folding rule that Poirot handed me and took various measurements under his direction whilst he wrote on the back of an envelope.
I was just wondering why he adopted such an untidy and uncharacteristic method instead of making a neat entry in his little pocketbook when he handed the envelope to me, saying:
“That is right, is it not? Perhaps you had better verify it.”
There were no figures on the envelope. Instead was written: “When we go upstairs again, pretend to remember an appointment and ask if you can telephone. Let the woman come with you and delay her as long as you can.”
“That’s all right,” I said, pocketing the envelope. “I should say both bookcases would go in perfectly.”
“It is as well to be sure though. I think, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to look at the principal bedroom again. I am not quite sure of the wall space there.”
“Certainly, sir. It’s no trouble.”
We went up again. Poirot measured a portion of wall, and was just commenting aloud on the respective possible positions of bed, wardrobe and writing table, when I looked at my watch, gave a somewhat exaggerated start and exclaimed:
“By Jove, do you know it’s three o’clock already? What will Anderson think? I ought to telephone to him.” I turned to the woman. “I wonder if I might use your telephone if you have one.”
“Why, certainly, sir. It’s in the little room off the hall. I’ll show you.”
She bustled down with me, indicating the instrument, and then I got her to help me in finding a number in the telephone directory. In the end I made a call—to a Mr. Anderson in the neighbouring town of Harchester. Fortunately he was out and I was able to leave a message saying it was unimportant and that I would ring up later!
When I emerged Poirot had descended the staircase and was standing in the hall. His eyes had a slightly green tinge. I had no clue to his excitement but I realized that he was excited.
Poirot said:
“That fall from the top of the stairs must have given your mistress a great shock. Did she seem perturbed about Bob and his ball after it?”
“It’s funny your saying that, sir. It worried her a lot. Why, just as she was dying, she was delirious and she rambled on a lot about Bob and his ball and something about a picture that was ajar.”
“A picture that was ajar,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“Of course, it didn’t make sense, sir, but she was rambling, you see.”
“One moment—I must just go into the drawing room once more.”
He wandered round the room examining the ornaments. In especial, one big jar with a lid on it seemed to attract him. It was not, I fancy, a particularly good bit of china. A piece of Victorian humour—it had on it a rather crude picture of a bulldog sitting outside a front door with a mournful expression on its face. Below was written: Out all night and no key.
Poirot, whose taste I have always been convinced, is hopelessly Bourgeois, seemed lost in admiration.
“Out all night and no key,” he murmured. “It is amusing, that! Is that true of our Master Bob? Does he sometimes stay out all night?”
“Very occasional, sir. Oh, very occasional. He’s a very good dog, Bob is.”
“I am sure he is. But even the best of dogs—”
“Oh, it’s quite true, sir. Once or twice he’s gone off and come home perhaps at four in the morning. Then he sits down on the step and barks till he’s let in.”
“Who lets him in—Miss Lawson?”
“Well, anyone who hears him, sir. It was Miss Lawson, sir, last time. It was the night of the mistress’s accident. And Bob came home about five. Miss Lawson hurried down to let him in before he could make a noise. She was afraid of waking up the mistress and hadn’t told her Bob was missing for fear of worrying her.”
“I see. She thought it was better Miss Arundell shouldn’t be told?”
“That’s what she said, sir. She said, ‘He’s sure to come back. He always does, but she might worry and that would never do.’ So we didn’t say anything.”
“Was Bob fond of Miss Lawson?”
“Well, he was rather contemptuous of her if you know what I mean, sir. Dogs can be. She was kind to him. Called him a good doggie and a nice doggie, but he used to look at her kind of scornful like and he didn’t pay any attention at all to what she told him to do.”
Poirot nodded. “I see,” he said.
Suddenly he did something which startled me.
He pulled a letter from his pocket—the letter he had received this morning.
“Ellen,” he said, “do you know anything about this?”
The change that came over Ellen’s face was remarkable.
Her jaw dropped and she stared at Poirot with an almost comical expression of bewilderment.
“Well,” she ejaculated. “I never did!”
The observation lacked coherency, perhaps, but it left no doubt of Ellen’s meaning.
Gathering her wits about her she said slowly:
“Are you the gentleman that letter was written to then?”
“I am. I am Hercule Poirot.”
Like most people, Ellen had not glanced at the name on the order Poirot had held out to her on his arrival. She nodded her head slowly.
“That was it,” she said. “Hercules Poirot.” She added an S to the Christian name and sounded the T of the surname.
“My word!” she exclaimed. “Cook will be surprised.”
Poirot said, quickly:
“Would it not be advisable, perhaps, for us to go to the kitchen and there in company with your friend, we could talk this matter over?”
“Well—if you don’t mind, sir.”
Ellen sounded just a little doubtful. This particular social dilemma was clearly new to her. But Poirot’s matter-of-fact manner reassured her and we departed forthwith to the kitchen, Ellen elucidating the situation to a large, pleasant-faced woman who was just lifting a kettle from a gas ring.
“You’ll never believe it, Annie. This is actually the gentleman that letter was to. You know, the one I found
“You must remember I am in the dark,” said Poirot. “Perhaps you will tell me how the letter came to be posted so late in the day?”
“Well, sir, to tell the truth I didn’t know what to do. Neither of us did, did we?”
“Indeed, we didn’t,” the cook confirmed.
“You see, sir, when Miss Lawson was turning out things after the mistress’s death a good lot of things were given away or thrown away. Among them was a little papier-mâché, I think they call it, blotter. Very pretty it was, with a lily of the valley on it. The mistress always used it when she wrote in bed. Well, Miss Lawson didn’t want it so she gave it to me along with a lot of other little odds and ends that had belonged to the mistress. I put it away in a drawer, and it wasn’t till yesterday that I took it out. I was going to put some new blotting paper in it so that it was ready for me to use. There was a sort of pocket inside and I just slipped my hand in it when what should I find but a letter in the mistress’s handwriting, tucked away.
“Well, as I say I didn’t know rightly what to do about it. It was the mistress’s hand all right, and I saw as she’d written it and slipped it in there waiting to post it the next day and then she’d forgot, which is the kind of thing she did many a time, poor dear. Once it was a dividend warrant to her bank and no one could think where it had got to, and at last it was found pushed right back in the pigeonholes of the desk.”
“Was she untidy?”
“Oh, no, sir, just the opposite. She was always putting things away and clearing them up. That was half the trouble. If she’d left things about it would really have been better. It was their being tidied away and then forgotten that was always happening.”
“Things like Bob’s ball, for instance?” asked Poirot with a smile.
The sagacious terrier had just trotted in from outdoors and greeted us anew in a very friendly manner.
“Yes, indeed, sir. As soon as Bob finished playing with his ball she’d put it away. But that was all right because it had its own place—in the drawer I showed you.”
“I see. But I interrupted you. Pray go on. You discovered the letter in the blotter?”
“Yes, sir, that was the way of it, and I asked Annie what she thought I’d better do. I didn’t like to put it in the fire—and of course, I couldn’t take upon myself to open it, and neither Annie nor I could see that it was any business of Miss Lawson’s so after we’d talked it over a bit, I just put a stamp on it and ran out to the postbox and posted it.”
Poirot turned slightly to me.
“Voilà,” he murmured.
I could not help saying, maliciously:
“Amazing how simple an explanation can be!”
I thought he looked a little crestfallen, and rather wished I hadn’t been so quick to try and rub it in.
He turned again to Ellen.
“As my friend says: How simple an explanation can be! You understand, when I received a letter dated over two months ago, I was somewhat surprised.”
“Yes, I suppose you must have been, sir. We didn’t think of that.”
“Also—” Poirot coughed. “I am in a little dilemma. That letter, you see—it was a commission with which Miss Arundell wished to entrust me. A matter of a somewhat private character.” He cleared his throat importantly. “Now that Miss Arundell is dead I am in some doubt how to act. Would Miss Arundell have wished me to undertake the commission in these circumstances or not? It is difficult—very difficult.”
Both women were looking at him respectfully.
“I shall have, I think, to consult Miss Arundell’s lawyer. She had a lawyer, did she not?”
Ellen answered, quickly.
“Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Purvis from Harchester.”
“He knew all her affairs?”
“I think so, sir. He’s done everything for her ever since I can remember. It was him she sent for after the fall she had.”
“The fall down the stairs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now let me see when was that exactly?”
The cook broke in.
“Day after Bank Holiday it was. I remember that well. I stayed in to oblige on Bank Holiday seeing she had all those people staying and I had the day on Wednesday instead.”
Poirot whipped out his pocket almanac.
“Precisely—precisely. Easter Bank Holiday, I see, fell on the thirteenth this year. Then Miss Arundell had her accident on the fourteenth. This letter to me was written three days later. A pity it was never sent. However, it may still not be too late—” he paused. “I rather fancy that the—er—commission she wished me to perform was connected with one of the—er—guests you mentioned just now.”
This remark, which could only have been a pure shot in the dark, met with immediate response. A quick look of intelligence passed across Ellen’s face. She turned to the cook who gave her back an answering glance.
“That’ll be Mr. Charles,” she said.
“If you would tell me just who was there—” Poirot suggested.
“Dr. Tanios and his wife, Miss Bella that was, and Miss Theresa and Mr. Charles.”
“They were all nephews and nieces?”
“That’s right, sir. Dr. Tanios, of course, is no relation. In fact he’s a foreigner, a Greek or something of the sort, I believe. He married Miss Bella, Miss Arundell’s niece, her sister’s child. Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa are brother and sister.”
“Ah, yes, I see. A family party. And when did they leave?”
“On the Wednesday morning, sir. And Dr. Tanios and Miss Bella came down again the next weekend because they were worried about Miss Arundell.”
“And Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa?”
“They came the weekend after. The weekend before she died.”
Poirot’s curiosity, I felt, was quite insatiable. I could see no point in these continued questions. He got the explanation of his mystery, and in my opinion the sooner he retired with dignity the better.
The thought seemed to go from my brain to his.
“Eh bien,” he said. “This information you have given me is very helpful. I must consult this Mr. Purvis, I think you said? Thank you very much for all your help.”
He stooped and patted Bob.
“Brave chien, va! You loved your mistress.”
Bob responded amiably to these overtures and, hopeful of a little play, went and fetched a large piece of coal. For this he was reproved and the coal removed from him. He sent me a glance in search of sympathy.
“These women,” he seemed to say. “Generous with the food, but not really sportsmen!”
Nine
RECONSTRUCTION OF THE DOG’S BALL INCIDENT
“Well, Poirot,” I said, as the gate of Littlegreen House closed behind us. “You are satisfied now, I hope!”
“Yes, my friend. I am satisfied.”
“Thank heavens for that! All the mysteries explained! The Wicked Companion and the Rich Old Lady myth exploded. The delayed letter and even the famous incident of the dog’s ball shown in their true colours. Everything settled satisfactorily and according to Cocker!”
Poirot gave a dry little cough and said:
“I would not use the word satisfactorily, Hastings.”
“You did a minute ago.”
“No, no. I did not say the matter was satisfactory. I said that, personally, my curiosity was satisfied. I know the truth of the Dog’s Ball incident.”
“And very simple it was too!”
“Not quite so simple as you think.” He nodded his head several times. Then he went on: “You see, I know one little thing which you do not.”
“And what is that?” I asked somewhat sceptically.
“I know that there is a nail driven into the skirting board at the top of the stairs.”
I stared at him. His face was quite grave.
“Well,” I said after a minute or two. “Why shouldn’t there be?”
“The question is, Hastings, why should there be.”
“How do I know. Some household reason, perhaps. Does it matter?”
“Certainly it matters. And I think of no household reason for a nail to be driven in at the top of the skirting board in that particular place. It was carefully varnished, too, so as not to show.”
“What are you driving at, Poirot? Do you know the reason?”
“I can imagine it quite easily. If you wanted to stretch a piece of strong thread or wire across the top of the stairs about a foot from the ground, you could tie it on one side to the balusters, but on the inner wall side you would need something like a nail to attach the thread to.”
“Poirot!” I cried. “What on earth are you driving at?”
“Mon cher ami, I am reconstructing the incident of the Dog’s Ball! Would you like to hear my reconstruction?”
“Go ahead.”
“Eh bien, here it is. Someone had noticed the habit Bob had of leaving his ball at the top of the stairs. A dangerous thing to do—it might lead to an accident.” Poirot paused a minute, then said in a slightly different tone. “If you wished to kill someone, Hastings, how would you set about it?”
“I—well really—I don’t know. Fake up some alibi or something, I suppose.”
“A proceeding, I assure you, both difficult and dangerous. But then you are not the type of a cold-blooded cautious murderer. Does it not strike you that the easiest way of removing someone you want to remove from your path is to take advantage of accident? Accidents are happening all the time. And sometimes—Hastings—they can be helped to happen!”
He paused a minute then went on:
“I think the dog’s ball left so fortuitously at the top of the stairs gave our murderer an idea. Miss Arundell was in the habit of coming out of her room in the night and wandering about—her eyesight was not good, it was quite within the bounds of probability that she might stumble over it and fall headlong down those stairs. But a careful murderer does not leave things to chance. A thread stretched across the top of the stairs would be a much better way. It would send her pitching head foremost. Then, when the household come rushing out—there, plain to see, is the cause of the accident—Bob’s ball!”
“How horrible!” I cried.
Poirot said, gravely: