“I doubt it!” said Poirot. “But if you do, you realize, I hope, the supreme importance of that statement.”
He fixed me with a fierce eye.
“Of course. Of course,” I said hurriedly.
“And then,” continued Poirot, “various other things happen. Charles and Theresa come for the weekend, and Miss Arundell shows the new will to Charles—or so he says.”
“Don’t you believe him?”
“I only believe statements that are checked. Miss Arundell does not show it to Theresa.”
“Because she thought Charles would tell her.”
“But he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he?”
“According to Charles himself he did tell her.”
“Theresa said quite positively that he didn’t—a very interesting and suggestive little clash. And when we depart she calls him a fool.”
“I’m getting fogged, Poirot,” I said plaintively.
“Let us return to the sequence of events. Dr. Tanios comes down on Sunday—possibly without the knowledge of his wife.”
“I should say certainly without her knowledge.”
“Let us say probably. To proceed! Charles and Theresa leave on the Monday. Miss Arundell is in good health and spirits. She eats a good dinner and sits in the dark with the Tripps and the Lawson. Towards the end of the séance she is taken ill. She retires to bed and dies four days later and Miss Lawson inherits all her money, and Captain Hastings says she died a natural death!”
“Whereas Hercule Poirot says she was given poison in her dinner on no evidence at all!”
“I have some evidence, Hastings. Think over our conversation with the Misses Tripp. And also one statement that stood out from Miss Lawson’s somewhat rambling conversation.”
“Do you mean the fact that she had curry for dinner? Curry would mask the taste of a drug. Is that what you meant?”
Poirot said slowly:
“Yes, the curry has a certain significance, perhaps.”
“But,” I said, “if what you advance (in defiance of all the medical evidence) is true, only Miss Lawson or one of the maids could have killed her.”
“I wonder.”
“Or the Tripp women? Nonsense. I can’t believe that! All these people are palpably innocent.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Remember this, Hastings, stupidity—or even silliness, for that matter—can go hand in hand with intense cunning. And do not forget the original attempt at murder. That was not the handiwork of a particularly clever or complex brain. It was a very simple little murder, suggested by Bob and his habit of leaving the ball at the top of the stairs. The thought of putting a thread across the stairs was quite simple and easy—a child could have thought of it!”
I frowned.
“You mean—”
“I mean that what we are seeking to find here is just one thing—the wish to kill. Nothing more than that.”
“But the poison must have been a very skilful one to leave no trace,” I argued. “Something that the ordinary person would have difficulty in getting hold of. Oh, damn it all, Poirot. I simply can’t believe it now. You can’t know! It’s all pure hypothesis.”
“You are wrong, my friend. As the result of our various conversations this morning. I have now something definite to go upon. Certain faint but unmistakable indications. The only thing is—I am afraid.”
“Afraid? Of what?”