Dumb Witness (5 page)

I
don't know what Poirot felt like in his coat and muffler but I myself felt roasted before we got out of London. An open car in traffic is far from being a refreshing place on a hot summer's day.

Once we were outside London, however, and getting a bit of pace on the Great West Road my spirits rose.

Our drive took us about an hour and a half, and it was close upon twelve o'clock when we came into the little town of Market Basing. Originally on the main road, a modern bypass now left it some three miles to the north of the main stream of traffic and in consequence it had kept an air of old-fashioned dignity and quietude about it. Its one wide street and ample market square seemed to say, “I was a place of importance once and to any person of sense and breeding I am still the same. Let this modern speeding world dash along their newfangled road; I was built to endure in a day when solidarity and beauty went hand in hand.”

There was a parking area in the middle of the big square, though there were only a few cars occupying it. I duly parked the
Austin, Poirot divested himself of his superfluous garments, assured himself that his moustaches were in their proper condition of symmetrical flamboyance and we were then ready to proceed.

For once in a way our first tentative inquiry did not meet with the usual response, “Sorry, but I'm a stranger in these parts.” It would seem indeed probable that there were no strangers in Market Basing! It had that effect! Already, I felt, Poirot and myself (and especially Poirot) were somewhat noticeable. We tended to stick out from the mellow background of an English market town secure in its traditions.

“Littlegreen House?” The man, a burly, ox-eyed fellow, looked us over thoughtfully. “You go straight up the High Street and you can't miss it. On your left. There's no name on the gate, but it's the first big house after the bank.” He repeated again, “You can't miss it.”

His eyes followed us as we started on our course.

“Dear me,” I complained. “There is something about this place that makes me feel extremely conspicuous. As for you, Poirot, you look positively exotic.”

“You think it is noticed that I am a foreigner—yes?”

“The fact cries aloud to heaven,” I assured him.

“And yet my clothes are made by an English tailor,” mused Poirot.

“Clothes are not everything,” I said. “It cannot be denied, Poirot, that you have a noticeable personality. I have often wondered that it has not hindered you in your career.”

Poirot sighed.

“That is because you have the mistaken idea implanted in your head that a detective is necessarily a man who puts on a false beard
and hides behind a pillar! The false beard, it is
vieux jeu,
and shadowing is only done by the lowest branch of my profession. The Hercule Poirots, my friend, need only to sit back in a chair and think.”

“Which explains why we are walking along this exceedingly hot street on an exceedingly hot morning.”

“That is very neatly replied, Hastings. For once, I admit, you have made the score off me.”

We found Littlegreen House easily enough, but a shock awaited us—a house agent's board.

As we were staring at it, a dog's bark attracted my attention.

The bushes were thin at that point and the dog could be easily seen. He was a wirehaired terrier, somewhat shaggy as to coat. His feet were planted wide apart, slightly to one side, and he barked with an obvious enjoyment of his own performance that showed him to be actuated by the most amiable motives.

“Good watchdog, aren't I?” he seemed to be saying. “Don't mind me! This is just my fun! My duty too, of course. Just have to let 'em know there's a dog about the place! Deadly dull morning. Quite a blessing to have something to do. Coming into our place? Hope so. It's darned dull. I could do with a little conversation.”

“Hallo, old man,” I said and shoved forward a fist.

Craning his neck through the railings he sniffed suspiciously, then gently wagged his tail, uttering a few short staccato barks.

“Not been properly introduced, of course, have to keep this up! But I see you know the proper advances to make.”

“Good old boy,” I said.

“Wuff,” said the terrier amiably.

“Well, Poirot?” I said, desisting from this conversation and turning to my friend.

There was an odd expression on his face—one that I could not quite fathom. A kind of deliberately suppressed excitement seems to describe it best.

“The Incident of the Dog's Ball,” he murmured. “Well, at least, we have here a dog.”

“Wuff,” observed our new friend. Then he sat down, yawned widely and looked at us hopefully.

“What next?” I asked.

The dog seemed to be asking the same question.

“
Parbleu,
to Messrs—what is it—Messrs Gabler and Stretcher.”

“That does seem indicated,” I agreed.

We turned and retraced our steps, our canine acquaintance sending a few disgusted barks after us.

The premises of Messrs Gabler and Stretcher were situated in the Market Square. We entered a dim outer office where we were received by a young woman with adenoids and a lacklustre eye.

“Good morning,” said Poirot politely.

The young woman was at the moment speaking into a telephone but she indicated a chair and Poirot sat down. I found another and brought it forward.

“I couldn't say, I'm sure,” said the young woman into the telephone vacantly. “No, I don't know what the rates would be… Pardon? Oh, main water, I think, but, of course, I couldn't be certain… I'm very sorry, I'm sure… No, he's out… No, I couldn't say… Yes, of course I'll ask him… Yes…8135? I'm afraid I haven't quite got it. Oh…8935…39… Oh, 5135… Yes, I'll ask him
to ring you…after six… Oh, pardon, before six… Thank you so much.”

She replaced the receiver, scribbled 5319 on the blotting pad and turned a mildly inquiring but uninterested gaze on Poirot.

Poirot began briskly.

“I observe that there is a house to be sold just on the outskirts of this town. Littlegreen House, I think is the name.”

“Pardon?”

“A house to be let or sold,” said Poirot slowly and distinctly. “Littlegreen House.”

“Oh, Littlegreen House,” said the young woman vaguely. “
Littlegreen
House, did you say?”

“That is what I said.”

“Littlegreen
House,
” said the young woman, making a tremendous mental effort. “Oh, well, I expect Mr. Gabler would know about that.”

“Can I see Mr. Gabler?”

“He's out,” said the young woman with a kind of faint, anaemic satisfaction as of one who says, “A point to me.”

“Do you know when he will be in?”

“I couldn't say, I'm sure,” said the young woman.

“You comprehend, I am looking for a house in this neighbourhood,” said Poirot.

“Oh, yes,” said the young woman, uninterested.

“And Littlegreen House seems to me just what I am looking for. Can you give me particulars?”

“Particulars?” The young woman seemed startled.

“Particulars of Littlegreen House.”

Unwillingly she opened a drawer and took out an untidy file of papers.

Then she called, “John.”

A lanky youth sitting in a corner looked up.

“Yes, miss.”

“Have we got any particulars of—what did you say?”

“Littlegreen House,” said Poirot distinctly.

“You've got a large bill of it here,” I remarked, pointing to the wall.

She looked at me coldly. Two to one, she seemed to think, was an unfair way of playing the game. She called up her own reinforcements.

“You don't know anything about Littlegreen House, do you, John?”

“No, miss. Should be in the file.”

“I'm sorry,” said the young woman without looking so in the least. “I rather fancy we must have sent all the particulars out.”

“C'est dommage.”

“Pardon?”

“A pity.”

“We've a nice bungalow at Hemel End, two bed., one sitt.”

She spoke without enthusiasm, but with the air of one willing to do her duty by her employer.

“I thank you, no.”

“And a semidetached with small conservatory. I could give you particulars of that.”

“No, thank you. I desired to know what rent you were asking for Littlegreen House.”

“It's not to be rented,” said the young woman, abandoning her position of complete ignorance of anything to do with Littlegreen House in the pleasure of scoring a point. “Only to be sold outright.”

“The board says, ‘To be Let or Sold.'”

“I couldn't say as to that, but it's for sale only.”

At this stage in the battle the door opened and a grey-haired, middle-aged man entered with a rush. His eye, a militant one, swept over us with a gleam. His eyebrows asked a question of his employee.

“This is Mr. Gabler,” said the young woman.

Mr. Gabler opened the door of an inner sanctum with a flourish.

“Step in here, gentlemen.” He ushered us in, an ample gesture swept us into chairs and he himself was facing us across a flat-topped desk.

“And now what can I do for you?”

Poirot began again perseveringly.

“I desired a few particulars of Littlegreen House—”

He got no further. Mr. Gabler took command.

“Ah! Littlegreen House—
there's
a property! An absolute bargain. Only just come into the market. I can tell you gentlemen, we don't often get a house of that class going at the price. Taste's swinging round. People are fed up with jerry-building. They want sound stuff. Good, honest building. A beautiful property—character—feeling—Georgian throughout. That's what people want nowadays—there's a feeling for period houses if you understand what I mean. Ah, yes, Littlegreen House won't be long in the market. It'll be snapped up. Snapped up! A member of parliament came to look at it only last Saturday. Liked it so much he's coming
down again this weekend. And there's a stock exchange gentleman after it too. People want quiet nowadays when they come to the country, want to be well away from main roads. That's all very well for some people, but we attract class here. And that's what that house has got. Class! You've got to admit, they knew how to build for gentlemen in those days. Yes, we shan't have Littlegreen long on our books.”

Mr. Gabler, who, it occurred to me, lived up to his name very happily, paused for breath.

“Has it changed hands often in the last few years?” inquired Poirot.

“On the contrary. Been in one family over fifty years. Name of Arundell. Very much respected in the town. Ladies of the old school.”

He shot up, opened the door and called:

“Particulars of Littlegreen House, Miss Jenkins. Quickly now.”

He returned to the desk.

“I require a house about this distance from London,” said Poirot. “In the country, but not in the dead country, if you understand me—”

“Perfectly—perfectly. Too much in the country doesn't do. Servants don't like it for one thing. Here, you have the advantages of the country but not the disadvantages.” Miss Jenkins flitted in with a typewritten sheet of paper which she placed in front of her employer who dismissed her with a nod.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Gabler, reading with practised rapidity. “Period House of character: four recep., eight bed and dressing, usual offices, commodious kitchen premises, ample outbuildings, stables, etc. Main water, old-world gardens, inexpensive upkeep,
amounting in all to three acres, two summerhouses, etc., etc. Price £2,850 or near offer.”

“You can give me an order to view?”

“Certainly, my dear sir.” Mr. Gabler began writing in a flourishing fashion. “Your name and address?”

Slightly to my surprise, Poirot gave his name as Mr. Parotti.

“We have one or two other properties on our books which might interest you,” Mr. Gabler went on.

Poirot allowed him to add two further additions.

“Littlegreen House can be viewed anytime?” he inquired.

“Certainly, my dear sir. There are servants in residence. I might perhaps ring up to make certain. You will be going there immediately? Or after lunch?”

“Perhaps after lunch would be better.”

“Certainly—certainly. I'll ring up and tell them to expect you about two o'clock—eh? Is that right?”

“Thank you. Did you say the owner of the house—a Miss Arundell, I think you said?”

“Lawson. Miss Lawson. That is the name of the present owner. Miss Arundell, I am sorry to say, died a short time ago. That is how the place has come into the market. And I can assure you it will be snapped up. Not a doubt of it. Between you and me, just in confidence, if you do think of making an offer I should make it quickly. As I've told you, there are two gentlemen after it already, and I shouldn't be surprised to get an offer for it any day from one or other of them. Each of them knows the other's after it, you see. And there's no doubt that competition spurs a man on. Ha, ha! I shouldn't like you to be disappointed.”

“Miss Lawson is anxious to sell, I gather.”

Mr. Gabler lowered his voice confidentially.

“That's just it. The place is larger than she wants—one middle-aged lady living by herself. She wants to get rid of this and take a house in London. Quite understandable. That's why the place is going so ridiculously cheap.”

“She would be open, perhaps, to an offer?”

“That's the idea, sir. Make an offer and set the ball rolling. But you can take it from me that there will be no difficulty in getting a price very near the figure named. Why, it's ridiculous! To build a house like that nowadays would cost every penny of six thousand, let alone the land value and the valuable frontages.”