“Age will tell!”
“Age has nothing to do with it,” said Poirot coldly.
“Well, what is the significant fact?” I asked as we turned in at the entrance of the Mansions.
“I will show you.”
We had just reached the flat.
George opened the door to us. In reply to Poirot’s anxious question he shook his head.
“No, sir. Mrs. Tanios has not called. Neither has she telephoned.” Poirot went into the sitting room. He paced up and down for a few minutes. Then he picked up the telephone. He got first onto the Durham Hotel.
“Yes—yes, please. Ah, Dr. Tanios, this is Hercule Poirot speaking. Your wife has returned? Oh, not returned. Dear me… Taken her luggage, you say… And the children… You have no idea where she has gone… Yes, quite… Oh, perfectly… If my professional services are of any use to you? I have certain experience in these matters… Such things can be done quite discreetly… No, of course not… Yes, of course that is true… Certainly—certainly. I shall respect your wishes in the matter.”
He hung up the receiver thoughtfully.
“He does not know where she is,” he said thoughtfully. “I think that is quite genuine. The anxiety in his voice is unmistakable. He does not want to go to the police, that is understandable. Yes, I understand that. He does not want my assistance either. That is, perhaps, not quite so understandable… He wants her found—but he does not want me to find her… No, definitely he does not want me to find her… He seems confident that he can manage the matter himself. He does not think she can remain long hidden, for she has very little money with her. Also she has the children. Yes, I fancy he will be able to hunt her down before long. But, I think, Hastings, that we shall be a little quicker than he is. It is important, I think, that we should be.”
“Do you think it’s true that she is slightly batty?” I asked.
“I think that she is in a highly nervous, overwrought condition.”
“But not to such a point that she ought to be in a mental home?”
“That, very definitely, no.”
“You know, Poirot, I don’t quite understand all this.”
“If you will pardon my saying so, Hastings, you do not understand at all!”
“There seem so many—well—side issues.”
“Naturally there are side issues. To separate the main issue from the side issues is the first task of the orderly mind.”
“Tell me, Poirot, have you realized all along that there were eight possible suspects and not seven?”
Poirot replied drily:
“I have taken that fact into consideration from the moment that Theresa Arundell mentioned that the last time she saw Dr. Donaldson was when he dined at Littlegreen House on April 14th.”
“I can’t quite see—” I broke off.
“What is it you cannot quite see?”
“Well, if Donaldson had planned to do away with Miss Arundell by scientific means—by inoculation, that is to say—I can’t see why he resorted to such a clumsy device as a string across the stairs.”
“En vérité, Hastings, there are moments when I lose patience with you! One method is a highly scientific one needing fully specialized knowledge. That is so, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“And the other is a homely simple method—‘the kind that mother makes’—as the advertisements say. Is that not right?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Then think, Hastings—think. Lie back in your chair, close the eyes, employ the little grey cells.”
I obeyed. That is to say, I leant back in the chair and closed my eyes and endeavoured to carry out the third part of Poirot’s instructions. The result, however, did not seem to clarify matters much.