“The dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot hunts murderers. We have here a murderer—a murderer whose crime failed, yes, perhaps, but nevertheless a murderer. And I, my friend, am going into the burrow after him—or her as the case may be.”
He turned sharply in at the gate.
“Where are you off to, Poirot?”
“Into the burrow, my friend. This is the house of Dr. Grainger who attended Miss Arundell in her last illness.”
Dr. Grainger was a man of sixty odd. His face was thin and bony with an aggressive chin, bushy eyebrows, and a pair of very shrewd eyes. He looked keenly from me to Poirot.
“Well, what can I do for you?” he asked abruptly.
Poirot swept into speech in the most flamboyant manner.
“I must apologize, Dr. Grainger, for this intrusion. I must confess straightaway that I do not come to consult you professionally.”
Dr. Grainger said drily:
“Glad to hear it. You look healthy enough!”
“I must explain the purpose of my visit,” went on Poirot. “The truth of the matter is that I am writing a book—the life of the late General Arundell who I understand lived in Market Basing for some years before his death.”
The doctor looked rather surprised.
“Yes, General Arundell lived here till his death. At Littlegreen House—just up the road past the Bank—you’ve been there, perhaps?” Poirot nodded assent. “But you understand that was a good bit before my time. I came here in 1919.”
“You knew his daughter, however, the late Miss Arundell?”
“I knew Emily Arundell well.”
“You comprehend, it has been a severe blow to me to find that Miss Arundell has recently died.”
“End of April.”
“So I discovered. I counted, you see, on her giving me various personal details and reminiscences of her father.”
“Quite—quite. But I don’t see what I can do about it.”
Poirot asked:
“General Arundell has no other sons or daughters living?”
“No. All dead, the lot of them.”
“How many were there?”
“Five. Four daughters, one son.”
“And in the next generation?”
“Charles Arundell and his sister Theresa. You could get onto them. I doubt, though, if it would be much use to you. The younger generation doesn’t take much interest in its grandfathers. And there’s a Mrs. Tanios, but I doubt if you’d get much there either.”
“They might have family papers—documents?”
“They might have. Doubt it, though. A lot of stuff was cleared out and burnt after Miss Emily’s death, I know.”
Poirot uttered a groan of anguish.
Grainger looked at him curiously.