Nine

RECONSTRUCTION¹ OF THE DOG’S BALL INCIDENT

“Well, Poirot,” I said, as the gate of Littlegreen House closed behind us. “You are satisfied now, Ihope!”

“Yes, my friend. I am satisfied.”

“Thank heavens for that! All the mysteries explained! The Wicked Companion and the RichOld Lady myth exploded. The delayed letter and even the famous incident of the dog’s ball shownin their true colours. Everything settled satisfactorily and according to Cocker!”

Poirot gave a dry little cough and said:

“I would not use the word satisfactorily, Hastings.”

“You did a minute ago.”

“No, no. I did not say the matter was satisfactory. I said that, personally, my curiosity wassatisfied. I know the truth of the Dog’s Ball incident.”

“And very simple it was too!”

“Not quite so simple as you think.” He nodded his head several times. Then he went on: “Yousee, I know one little thing which you do not.”

“And what is that?” I asked somewhat sceptically.

“I know that there is a nail driven into the skirting board at the top of the stairs.”

I stared at him. His face was quite grave.

“Well,” I said after a minute or two. “Why shouldn’t there be?”

“The question is, Hastings, why should there be.”

“How do I know. Some household reason, perhaps. Does it matter?”

“Certainly it matters. And I think of no household reason for a nail to be driven in at the top ofthe skirting board in that particular place. It was carefully varnished², too, so as not to show.”

“What are you driving at, Poirot? Do you know the reason?”

“I can imagine it quite easily. If you wanted to stretch a piece of strong thread or wire across thetop of the stairs about a foot from the ground, you could tie it on one side to the balusters, but onthe inner wall side you would need something like a nail to attach the thread to.”

“Poirot!” I cried. “What on earth are you driving at?”

“Mon cher ami, I am reconstructing the incident of the Dog’s Ball! Would you like to hear myreconstruction?”

“Go ahead.”

“Eh bien, here it is. Someone had noticed the habit Bob had of leaving his ball at the top of thestairs. A dangerous thing to do—it might lead to an accident.” Poirot paused a minute, then said ina slightly different tone. “If you wished to kill someone, Hastings, how would you set about it?”

“I—well really—I don’t know. Fake up some alibi³ or something, I suppose.”

“A proceeding⁴, I assure you, both difficult and dangerous. But then you are not the type of acold-blooded cautious murderer. Does it not strike you that the easiest way of removing someoneyou want to remove from your path is to take advantage of accident? Accidents are happening allthe time. And sometimes—Hastings—they can be helped to happen!”

He paused a minute then went on:

“I think the dog’s ball left so fortuitously at the top of the stairs gave our murderer an idea. MissArundell was in the habit of coming out of her room in the night and wandering about—hereyesight was not good, it was quite within the bounds of probability that she might stumble over itand fall headlong down those stairs. But a careful murderer does not leave things to chance. Athread stretched across the top of the stairs would be a much better way. It would send herpitching head foremost. Then, when the household come rushing out—there, plain to see, is thecause of the accident—Bob’s ball!”

“How horrible!” I cried.

Poirot said, gravely:

“Yes, it was horrible… It was also unsuccessful… Miss Arundell was very little hurt though shemight easily have broken her neck. Very disappointing for our unknown friend! But Miss Arundellwas a sharp-witted old lady. Everyone told her she had slipped on the ball, and there the ball wasin evidence, but she herself recalling the happening felt that the accident had arisen differently.

She had not slipped on the ball. And in addition she remembered something else. She rememberedhearing Bob barking for admission at five o’clock the next morning.

“This, I admit, is something in the way of guesswork but I believe I am right. Miss Arundell hadput away Bob’s ball herself the evening before in its drawer. After that he went out and did notreturn. In that case it was not Bob who put that ball on the top of the stairs.”

“That is pure guesswork, Poirot,” I objected.

He demurred⁵.

“Not quite, my friend. There are the significant words uttered by Miss Arundell when she wasdelirious—something about Bob’s ball and a ‘picture ajar.’ You see the point, do you not?”

“Not in the least.”

“Curious. I know your language well enough to realize that one does not talk of a picture beingajar. A door is ajar. A picture is awry⁷.”

“Or simply crooked⁸.”

“Or simply crooked, as you say. So I realized at once that Ellen has mistaken the meaning of thewords she heard. It is not ajar—but a or the jar that was meant. Now in the drawing room there is arather noticeable china jar. There, I have already observed a picture of a dog on it. With theremembrance of these delirious⁶ ravings in my mind I go up and examine it more closely. I findthat it deals with the subject of a dog who has been out all night. You see the trend of the feverishwoman’s thoughts? Bob was like the dog in the picture on the jar—out all night—so it was not hewho left the ball on the stairs.”

I cried out, feeling some admiration⁹ in spite of myself.

“You’re an ingenious devil, Poirot! How you think of these things beats me!”

“I do not ‘think of them.’ They are there—plain—for anyone to see. Eh bien, you realize theposition? Miss Arundell, lying in bed after her fall, becomes suspicious. That suspicion she feels isperhaps fanciful and absurd but there it is. ‘Since the incident of the dog’s ball I have beenincreasingly uneasy.’ And so—and so she writes to me, and by a piece of bad luck her letter doesnot reach me until over two months have gone by. Tell me, does her letter not fit in perfectly¹⁰ withthese facts?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “It does.”

Poirot went on:

“There is another point worthy¹¹ of consideration. Miss Lawson was exceedingly anxious that thefact of Bob’s being out all night should not get to Miss Arundell’s ears.”

“You think that she—”

“I think that the fact should be noted¹² very carefully.”

I turned the thing over in my mind for a minute or two.

“Well,” I said at last with a sigh. “It’s all very interesting—as a mental exercise that is. And Itake off my hat to you. It’s been a masterful piece of reconstruction. It’s almost a pity really thatthe old lady has died.”

“A pity—yes. She wrote to me that someone had attempted to murder her (that is what itamounts to, after all) and a very short time after, she was dead.”

“Yes,” I said. “And it’s a grand disappointment to you that she died a natural death, isn’t it?

Come, admit it.”

Poirot shrugged¹³ his shoulders.

“Or perhaps you think she was poisoned,” I said maliciously¹⁴. Poirot shook his head somewhatdespondently.

“It certainly seems,” he admitted, “as though Miss Arundell died from natural causes.”

“And therefore,” I said, “we return to London with our tail between our legs.”

“Pardon, my friend, but we do not return to London.”

“What do you mean, Poirot,” I cried.

“If you show the dog the rabbit, my friend, does he return to London? No, he goes into therabbit hole.”

“What do you mean?”

“The dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot hunts murderers. We have here a murderer—a murdererwhose crime failed, yes, perhaps, but nevertheless a murderer. And I, my friend, am going into theburrow after him—or her as the case may be.”

He turned sharply in at the gate.

“Where are you off to, Poirot?”

“Into the burrow¹⁵, my friend. This is the house of Dr. Grainger who attended Miss Arundell inher last illness.”

Dr. Grainger was a man of sixty odd. His face was thin and bony with an aggressive chin, bushyeyebrows, and a pair of very shrewd eyes. He looked keenly from me to Poirot.

“Well, what can I do for you?” he asked abruptly¹⁶.

Poirot swept into speech in the most flamboyant¹⁷ manner.

“I must apologize, Dr. Grainger, for this intrusion. I must confess straightaway that I do notcome to consult you professionally.”

Dr. Grainger said drily:

“Glad to hear it. You look healthy enough!”

“I must explain the purpose of my visit,” went on Poirot. “The truth of the matter is that I amwriting a book—the life of the late General Arundell who I understand lived in Market Basing forsome years before his death.”

The doctor looked rather surprised.

“Yes, General Arundell lived here till his death. At Littlegreen House—just up the road past theBank—you’ve been there, perhaps?” Poirot nodded assent¹⁸. “But you understand that was a goodbit before my time. I came here in 1919.”

“You knew his daughter, however, the late Miss Arundell?”

“I knew Emily Arundell well.”

“You comprehend, it has been a severe blow to me to find that Miss Arundell has recentlydied.”

“End of April.”

“So I discovered. I counted, you see, on her giving me various personal details andreminiscences of her father.”

“Quite—quite. But I don’t see what I can do about it.”

Poirot asked:

“General Arundell has no other sons or daughters living?”

“No. All dead, the lot of them.”

“How many were there?”

“Five. Four daughters, one son.”

“And in the next generation?”

“Charles Arundell and his sister Theresa. You could get onto them. I doubt, though, if it wouldbe much use to you. The younger generation doesn’t take much interest in its grandfathers. Andthere’s a Mrs. Tanios, but I doubt if you’d get much there either.”

“They might have family papers—documents?”

“They might have. Doubt it, though. A lot of stuff was cleared out and burnt after Miss Emily’sdeath, I know.”

Poirot uttered a groan¹⁹ of anguish²⁰.

Grainger looked at him curiously²¹.

“What’s the interest in old Arundell? I never heard he was a big pot in any way?”

“My dear sir.” Poirot’s eyes gleamed with the excitement of the fanatic²². “Is there not a sayingthat History knows nothing of its greatest men? Recently certain papers have come to light whichthrow an entirely²³ different light on the whole subject of the Indian Mutiny. There is secret historythere. And in that secret history John Arundell played a big part. The whole thing is fascinating—fascinating! And let me tell you, my dear sir, it is of especial interest at the present time. India—the English policy in regard to it—is the burning question of the hour.”

“H’m,” said the doctor. “I have heard that old General Arundell used to hold forth²⁴ a good dealon the subject of the Mutiny. As a matter of fact, he was considered a prize bore on the subject.”

“Who told you that?”

“A Miss Peabody. You might call on her, by the way. She’s our oldest inhabitant—knew theArundells intimately. And gossip is her chief recreation. She’s worth seeing for her own sake—acharacter.”

“Thank you. That is an excellent idea. Perhaps, too, you would give me the address of youngMr. Arundell, the grandson of the late General Arundell.”

“Charles? Yes, I can put you onto him. But he’s an irreverent young devil. Family historymeans nothing to him.”

“He is quite young?”

“He’s what an old fogy like me calls young,” said the doctor with a twinkle. “Early thirties. Thekind of young man that’s born to be a trouble and responsibility to their families. Charm ofpersonality and nothing else. He’s been shipped about all over the world and done no goodanywhere.”

“His aunt was doubtless fond of him?” ventured Poirot. “It is often that way.”

“H’m—I don’t know. Emily Arundell was no fool. As far as I know he never succeeded ingetting any money out of her. Bit of a tartar that old lady. I liked her. Respected her too. An oldsoldier every inch of her.”

“Was her death sudden?”

“Yes, in a way. Mind you, she’d been in poor health for some years. But she’d pulled throughsome narrow squeaks²⁵.”

“There was some story — I apologize for repeating gossip —” Poirot spread out his handsdeprecatingly—“that she had quarrelled with her family?”

“She didn’t exactly quarrel with them,” said Dr. Grainger slowly. “No, there was no openquarrel as far as I know.”

“I beg your pardon. I am, perhaps, being indiscreet.”

“No, no. After all, the information’s public property.”

“She left her money away from her family, I understand?”

“Yes, left it all to a frightened, fluttering hen of a companion. Odd thing to do. Can’t understandit myself. Not like her.”

“Ah, well,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “One can imagine such a thing happening. An old lady,frail and in ill health. Very dependent on the person who attends and cares for her. A cleverwoman with a certain amount of personality could gain a great ascendency that way.”

The word ascendency seemed to act like a red rag to a bull.

Dr. Grainger snorted out:

“Ascendency? Ascendency? Nothing of the kind! Emily Arundell treated Minnie Lawson worsethan a dog. Characteristic of that generation! Anyway, women who earn their living ascompanions are usually fools. If they’ve got brains they’re earning a better living some other way.

Emily Arundell didn’t suffer fools gladly. She usually wore out one poor devil a year.

Ascendency? Nothing of the sort!”

Poirot hastened off the treacherous²⁶ ground.

“It is possible, perhaps,” he suggested, “that there are old family letters and documents in thisMiss—er—Lawson’s possession?”

“Might be,” agreed Grainger. “Usually are a lot of things tucked away in an old maid’s house. Idon’t suppose Miss Lawson’s been through half of it yet.”

Poirot rose.

“Thank you very much, Dr. Grainger. You have been most kind.”

“Don’t thank me,” said the doctor. “Sorry I can’t do anything helpful. Miss Peabody’s your bestchance. Lives at Morton Manor—about a mile out.”

Poirot was sniffing²⁷ at a large bouquet²⁸ of roses on the doctor’s table.

“Delicious,” he murmured.

“Yes, I suppose so. Can’t smell ’em myself. Lost my sense of smell when I had flu four yearsago. Nice admission for a doctor, eh? ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ Damned nuisance. Can’t enjoy asmoke as I used to.”

“Unfortunate, yes. By the way, you will give me young Arundell’s address?”

“I can get it for you, yes.” He ushered²⁹ us out into the hall and called: “Donaldson.”

“My partner,” he explained. “He should have it all right. He’s by way of being engaged toCharles’s sister, Theresa.”

He called again: “Donaldson.”

A young man came out from a room at the back of the house. He was of medium height and ofrather colourless appearance. His manner was precise. A greater contrast to Dr. Grainger could notbe imagined.

The latter explained what he wanted.

Dr. Donaldson’s eyes, very pale blue eyes slightly prominent, swept over us appraisingly³⁰. Whenhe spoke³¹ it was in a dry, precise manner.

“I don’t know exactly where Charles is to be found,” he said. “I can give you Miss TheresaArundell’s address. Doubtless she will be able to put you in touch with her brother.”

Poirot assured him that that would do perfectly.

The doctor wrote down an address on a page of his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Poirot.

Poirot thanked him and said good-bye to both doctors. As we went out of the door I was consciousof Dr. Donaldson standing³² in the hall peering after us with a slightly startled look on his face.

 

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