“Do not be sure of that.”
“The intention, yes, perhaps. But after all, murder, and attempted murder are not the same thing.”
“Morally they are exactly the same thing. But what I meant was, are you so sure that it is only attempted murder that occupies our attention?”
I stared at him.
“But old Miss Arundell died a perfectly natural death.”
“I repeat again—are you so sure?”
“Everyone says so!”
“Everyone? Oh, là, là!”
“The doctor says so,” I pointed out. “Dr. Grainger. He ought to know.”
“Yes, he ought to know.” Poirot’s voice was dissatisfied. “But remember, Hastings, again and again a body is exhumed—and in each case a certificate has been signed in all good faith by the doctor attending the case.”
“Yes, but in this case, Miss Arundell died of a long-standing complaint.”
“It seems so—yes.”
Poirot’s voice was still dissatisfied. I looked at him keenly.
“Poirot,” I said, “I’ll begin a sentence with Are you sure! Are you sure you are not being carried away by professional zeal? You want it to be murder and so you think it must be murder.”
The shadow on his brow deepened. He nodded his head slowly.
“It is clever what you say, there, Hastings. It is a weak spot on which you put your finger. Murder is my business. I am like a great surgeon who specializes in—say—appendicitis or some rarer operation. A patient comes to him and he regards that patient solely from the standpoint of his own specialized subject. Is there any possible reason for thinking this man suffers from so and so…? Me, I am like that, too. I say to myself always, ‘Can this possibly be murder?’ And you see, my friend, there is nearly always a possibility.”
“I shouldn’t say there was much possibility here,” I remarked.
“But she died, Hastings! You cannot get away from that fact. She died!”
“She was in poor health. She was past seventy. It all seems perfectly natural to me.”
“And does it also seem natural to you that Theresa Arundell should call her brother a fool with that degree of intensity?”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Everything! Tell me, what did you think of that statement of Mr. Charles Arundell’s—that his aunt had shown him her new will?”
I looked at Poirot, warily.
“What do you make of it?” I asked.
Why should Poirot always be the one to ask the questions?
“I call it very interesting—very interesting indeed. So was Miss Theresa Arundell’s reaction to it. Their passage of arms was suggestive—very suggestive.”
“H’m,” I said, in oracular fashion.
“It opens up two distinct lines of inquiry.”
“They seem a nice pair of crooks,” I remarked. “Ready for anything. The girl’s amazingly good-looking. As for young Charles, he’s certainly an attractive scoundrel.”
Poirot was just hailing a taxi. It drew into the kerb and Poirot gave an address to the driver.