Poirot was sniffing at a large bouquet of roses on the doctor’s table.
“Delicious,” he murmured.
“Yes, I suppose so. Can’t smell ’em myself. Lost my sense of smell when I had flu four years ago. Nice admission for a doctor, eh? ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ Damned nuisance. Can’t enjoy a smoke as I used to.”
“Unfortunate, yes. By the way, you will give me young Arundell’s address?”
“I can get it for you, yes.” He ushered us out into the hall and called: “Donaldson.”
“My partner,” he explained. “He should have it all right. He’s by way of being engaged to Charles’s sister, Theresa.”
He called again: “Donaldson.”
A young man came out from a room at the back of the house. He was of medium height and of rather colourless appearance. His manner was precise. A greater contrast to Dr. Grainger could not be imagined.
The latter explained what he wanted.
Dr. Donaldson’s eyes, very pale blue eyes slightly prominent, swept over us appraisingly. When he spoke it was in a dry, precise manner.
“I don’t know exactly where Charles is to be found,” he said. “I can give you Miss Theresa Arundell’s address. Doubtless she will be able to put you in touch with her brother.”
Poirot assured him that that would do perfectly.
The doctor wrote down an address on a page of his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Poirot. Poirot thanked him and said good-bye to both doctors. As we went out of the door I was conscious of Dr. Donaldson standing in the hall peering after us with a slightly startled look on his face.
Ten
VISIT TO MISS PEABODY
“Is it really necessary to tell such elaborate lies, Poirot?” I asked as we walked away.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“If one is going to tell a lie at all—and I notice, by the way, that your nature is very much averse to lying—now, me, it does not trouble at all—”
“So I’ve noticed,” I interjected.
“—As I was remarking, if one is going to tell a lie at all, it might as well be an artistic lie, a romantic lie, a convincing lie!”
“Do you consider this a convincing lie? Do you think Dr. Donaldson was convinced?”
“That young man is of a sceptical nature,” admitted Poirot, thoughtfully.
“He looked definitely suspicious to me.”
“I do not see why he should be so. Imbeciles are writing the lives of other imbeciles every day. It is as you say, done.”
“First time I’ve heard you call yourself an imbecile,” I said, grinning.
“I can adopt a rôle, I hope, as well as anyone,” said Poirot coldly. “I am sorry you do not think my little fiction well imagined. I was rather pleased with it myself.”
I changed the subject.
“What do we do next?”
“That is easy. We get into your car and pay a visit to Morton Manor.”
Morton Manor proved to be an ugly substantial house of the Victorian period. A decrepit butler received us somewhat doubtfully and presently returned to ask if “we had an appointment.”