“It is thus you speak of your fiancée—as though she was a guinea pig?”
Donaldson peered at him through his pince-nez.
“I see no occasion to blink the truth. I love Theresa Arundell and I love her for what she is and not for any imagined qualities.”
“Do you realize that Theresa Arundell is devoted to you and that her wish for money is mainly in order that your ambitions should be gratified?”
“Of course I realize it. I’ve already told you I’m not a fool. But I have no intention of allowing Theresa to embroil herself in any questionable situation on my account. In many ways Theresa is a child still. I am quite capable of furthering my career by my own efforts. I do not say that a substantial legacy would not have been acceptable. It would have been most acceptable. But it would merely have provided a shortcut.”
“You have, in fact, full confidence in your own abilities?”
“It probably sounds conceited, but I have,” said Donaldson composedly.
“Let us proceed, then. I admit that I gained Miss Theresa’s confidence by a trick. I let her think that I would be—shall we say, reasonably dishonest—for money. She believed that without the least difficulty.”
“Theresa believes that anyone would do anything for money,” said the young doctor in the matter-of-fact tone one uses when stating a self-evident truth.
“True. That seems to be her attitude—her brother’s also.”
“Charles probably would do anything for money!”
“You have no illusions, I see, about your future brother-in-law.”
“No. I find him quite an interesting study. There is, I think, some deep-seated neurosis—but that is talking shop. To return to what we are discussing. I have asked myself why you should act in the way you have done, and I have found only one answer. It is clear that you suspect either Theresa or Charles of having a hand in Miss Arundell’s death. No, please don’t bother to contradict me! Your mention of exhumation was, I think, a mere device to see what reaction you would get. Have you, in actual fact, taken any steps towards getting a Home Office order for exhumation?”
“I will be frank with you. As yet, I have not.”
Donaldson nodded.
“So I thought. I suppose you have considered the possibility that Miss Arundell’s death may turn out to be from natural causes?”
“I have considered the fact that it may appear to be so—yes.”
“But your own mind is made up?”
“Very definitely. If you have a case of—say—tuberculosis that looks like tuberculosis, behaves like tuberculosis, and in which the blood gives a positive reaction—eh bien, you consider it is tuberculosis, do you not?”
“You look at it that way? Then what exactly are you waiting for?”
“I am waiting for a final piece of evidence.”
The telephone bell rang. At a gesture from Poirot I got up and answered it. I recognized the voice.
“Captain Hastings? This is Mrs. Tanios speaking. Will you tell M. Poirot that he is perfectly right. If he will come here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, I will give him what he wants.”
“At ten o’clock tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Right, I’ll tell him.”
Poirot’s eyes asked a question. I nodded.
He turned to Donaldson. His manner had changed. It was brisk—assured.
“Let me make myself clear,” he said. “I have diagnosed this case of mine as a case of murder. It looked like murder, it gave all the characteristic reactions of murder—in fact, it was murder! Of that there is not the least doubt.”
“Where then, does the doubt—for I perceive there is a doubt—lie?”