Read Dumb Witness for Free Online Page B

Mrs.—or Miss Arundell—”
    â€œMiss, I think. It is typically the letter of a spinster.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “A real, fussy old maid. Why can’t she say what she’s talking about?”
    Poirot sighed.
    â€œAs you say—a regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental processes, and without order and method, Hastings—”
    â€œQuite so,” I interrupted hastily. “Little grey cells practically nonexistent.”
    â€œI would not say that, my friend.”
    â€œI would. What’s the sense of writing a letter like that?”
    â€œVery little—that is true,” Poirot admitted.
    â€œA long rigmarole all about nothing,” I went on. “Probably some upset to her fat lapdog—an asthmatic pug or a yapping Pekinese!” I looked at my friend curiously. “And yet you read that letter through twice. I do not understand you, Poirot.”
    Poirot smiled.
    â€œYou, Hastings, you would have put it straight in the wastepaper basket?”
    â€œI’m afraid I should.” I frowned down on the letter. “I suppose I’m being dense, as usual, but I can’t see anything of interest in this letter!”
    â€œYet there is one point in it of great interest—a point that struck me at once.”
    â€œWait,” I cried. “Don’t tell me. Let me see if I can’t discover it for myself.”
    It was childish of me, perhaps. I examined the letter very thoroughly. Then I shook my head.
    â€œNo, I don’t see it. The old lady’s got the wind up, I realize that—but then, old ladies often do! It may be about nothing—it may conceivably be about something, but I don’t see that you can tell that that is so. Unless your instinct—”
    Poirot raised an offended hand.
    â€œInstinct! You know how I dislike that word. ‘Somethingseems to tell me’—that is what you infer. Jamais de la vie! Me, I reason. I employ the little grey cells. There is one interesting point about that letter which you have overlooked utterly, Hastings.”
    â€œOh, well,” I said wearily. “I’ll buy it.”
    â€œBuy it? Buy what?”
    â€œAn expression. Meaning that I will permit you to enjoy yourself by telling me just where I have been a fool.”
    â€œNot a fool, Hastings, merely unobservant.”
    â€œWell, out with it. What’s the interesting point? I suppose, like the ‘incident of the dog’s ball,’ the point is that there is no interesting point!”
    Poirot disregarded this sally on my part. He said quietly and calmly:
    â€œThe interesting point is the date. ”
    â€œThe date?”
    I picked up the letter. On the top left-hand corner was written April 17th.
    â€œYes,” I said slowly. “That is odd. April 17th.”
    â€œAnd we are today June 28th. C’est curieux, n’est ce pas? Over two months ago.”
    I shook my head doubtfully.
    â€œIt probably doesn’t mean anything. A slip. She meant to put June and wrote April instead.”
    â€œEven then it would be ten or eleven days old—an odd fact. But actually you are in error. Look at the colour of the ink. That letter was written more than ten or eleven days ago. No, April 17th is the date assuredly. But why was the letter not sent?”
    I shrugged my shoulders.
    â€œThat’s easy. The old pussy changed her mind.”
    â€œThen why did she not destroy the letter? Why keep it over two months and post it now?”
    I had to admit that that was harder to answer. In fact I couldn’t think of a really satisfactory answer. I merely shook my head and said nothing.
    Poirot nodded.
    â€œYou see—it is a point! Yes, decidedly a curious point.”
    â€œYou are answering the letter?” I asked.
    â€œOui, mon ami.”
    The room was silent except for the scratching of Poirot’s pen. It was a hot, airless morning. A smell of