Chapter 29 Chapter 28 Another Victim

"He is a clever man," said Poirot thoughtfully. "It's hard for you to know what he intends." "Yes, he's a little unreasonable, but he's really shrewd." "The call just now was from Mrs. Tanios." "I guess it's her." I repeated the conversation, and Poirot nodded in agreement. "Well, everything is going well. I think, Hastings, we shall see in twenty-four hours." "I'm still a little confused. Who are we suspecting?" "I can't really tell who you suspect, Hastings! I think of each one in turn, and I must use my imagination!"

"Sometimes I think you like to put me in this situation." "No, absolutely not. I don't want to have fun like that." "You've got me stuck on that idea." Poirot shook his head absently.I watch him carefully. "Is something going to happen?" I asked. "My friend, I'm always a little nervous when a case is coming to an end. If one thing goes wrong..." "Could something be wrong?" "I don't think so." He paused—frowning, and then went on, "I've made preparations for the unexpected." "So, shall we forget about the crime for a while and go to the theater?"

"Ma foi (French: my friend.) Hastings, this is a great idea!" Although I made the slight mistake of taking him to a crime detective drama, we still had a great evening.Here, I would like to make a suggestion to readers: Do not take soldiers to watch war dramas; do not take sailors to watch seafaring dramas; do not take Scotsmen to watch Scottish dramas; !In either case, their downpour of damaging criticism can be disastrous for a show.Poirot's constant complaints about the play's flawed psychology, about how lacking discipline and method the detective hero is, drive him almost mad.When we parted after the play that night, Poirot was still complaining that the whole story could have been told in the first half of the first act.

"But in that, Poirot, there's no need for the play," I pointed out to him. Poirot had to admit that it was true. Just after nine o'clock the next morning I went into the living room and Poirot was sitting at the breakfast table--as usual, neatly opening the letter with his knife. The phone rang, and I went to answer it. A woman's voice panting loudly: "Are you M. Poirot? Oh, it is you, Captain Hastings." Then there was a weeping, gasping sound. "Are you Miss Lawson?" I asked. "Yes, yes. Something terrible happened!" I grabbed the microphone tightly and asked:

"What's up?" "She left the Wellington Hotel, you know--I mean Bella. Yesterday afternoon, I was late, and the innkeeper told me she was gone. Didn't leave me a word! How queer! This It all made me think that maybe Dr. Tanios was right. He was talking about her so kindly, he seemed depressed, and now it seems he was right." "But what's the matter now, Miss Lawson? Did Miss Tanios leave the hotel without telling you?" "Oh, no, it's not like that. Oh, my God, it's not. If it's like that, it's all right. Of course I find things weird, you know, Dr. Tanios said , he's afraid she's not quite--not quite..., if you know what I mean. He calls it 'repressed mania.'" "Yes." (What a goddamn Wordy woman!) "But what happened?"

"Oh, my God—it was dreadful. She's gone to sleep. She's overdosed on sleeping pills! She's left the poor baby! It's all so bad luck! I've never done anything since I heard the news." Can't do it, just cry." "How did you hear that? Tell me the details." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Poirot stop opening the letter.He was listening to me talking to her.I don't want to give up my position to him.Had I put him on the phone, chances were Miss Lawson would start mourning and crying again. "I was called by the people at the hotel. The name of the hotel is Coniston. Looks like they found my name and address in her bag. Oh dear, M. Poirot—no, Hastings." Isn't it terrible, Mr. Si? These poor children have lost their mothers."

"Listen," I said, "are you sure it was an accident? They don't think it's suicide?" "Oh, Hastings, what a dreadful thought! Oh, my God, I don't know that. Do you think it will be suicide? That would be dreadful! Of course, she did look very worried before she died. But Well, she didn't have to kill herself. I mean, she won't have any trouble with the money. I'm about to share the money with her--really, I'm going to do that, maybe it's dear Miss Rundle's living hope. I'm sure of that! It's terrible to think of her taking her own life—maybe she didn't..., the hotel people seem to think it was an accident?"

"What did she eat?" "A hypnotic thing. Verona, I think. No, a hypnotist. Yes, a hypnotist. Oh dear, Captain Hastings, do you think--" I couldn't care less, and hung up the phone.Then turning to Poirot, he said: "Lady Tanios, she..." He raised his hand, and said: "Yes, yes, I know what you're going to say. She's dead, isn't she?" "Yes, an overdose of sleeping pills—hypnotics." Poirot stood up. "Hastings, we must get there at once." "That's what you're afraid of—I mean last night? That's what you said last night: you always get nervous when the case is coming to an end?"

"Yes—I was afraid there would be death." Poirot was sullen and stern.We spoke little on the drive to Euston, and Poirot shook his head only once or twice. I asked cautiously: "Do you think it's not...? Could it be an accident?" "No, Hastings—no. It was no accident." "How did he find out where she was?" Poirot just shook his head without answering. The Venetian Hotel is very close to Euston Railway Station, and the appearance is not good.Poirot took his ID card, and suddenly, his face became fierce, and he rushed into the manager's office quickly.

What happened was simple: She called herself Mrs. Peter, and arrived here at half-past twelve with her two children, and had lunch at one.A man came at four o'clock in the afternoon, and he came here to deliver a note to Mrs. Peter.The note was given to her by someone else.After a few minutes, she came downstairs with the two children and a suitcase.Then the two children went away with the visitor.Mrs. Peter went to the manager's office and explained that all she needed was one room.There was nothing particularly upset or disturbing about her at the time.She appeared very composed.At about seven-thirty she had supper, and was soon in her own room after dinner.

When the waitress woke her up in the morning, she was found dead. A doctor was called in, who thought she had been dead for hours.An empty glass was found on the table next to the bed.It was clear that she had taken sleeping pills and possibly died of a mistaken overdose.The doctor said that hypnotic spirit was a mild anesthetic.There is no indication that she committed suicide, and she left no letters.In searching how to notify her relatives, Miss Lawson's name and address were found, and she was telephoned. Poirot asked: Have you found other letters and writings, for example: the letter of the guest who came here to take the child away. The manager replied: No such thing was found, but a pile of burnt paper ashes was found in the fireplace. Poirot nodded thoughtfully. As far as everyone knew, no one had ever called on Mrs. Peter, or been in her house—except what the person who had come to collect them looked like, and he couldn't remember exactly what that person looked like.A man of medium build—blond hair, he remembered—and a solid build—it was difficult to describe the man's appearance.One thing is for sure, that man has no beard. I whispered to Poirot: "This man is not Tanios." "My dear Hastings! Do you really believe that Mrs. Tanios, who took her children away from their father with great difficulty, would meekly hand them back to him without a word, No resistance at all? Oh, that's impossible!" "But who is that man?" "It's very clear that it must be someone trusted by Mrs. Tanios, or someone sent by a third party, and Mrs. Tanios fully trusts this third party." "A man of average build..." I mused. "You needn't bother to think about that man's appearance, Hastings. I'm sure the man who came here to have a baby is a very insignificant figure. The real matchmaker is behind the scenes!" "Was that note written by a third party?" "good." "Is this man Lady Tanios trusts?" "It's very obvious." "The note was burned?" "Yes, the third party told her to burn it." "What about the letter you gave her outlining the case?" Poirot's face was unusually stern. "That thing burned too, but it's okay!" "It doesn't matter?" "Yes, that's all right. You see—it's all in my head, Poirot." He took my arm and said: "Come on! Hastings, let us get out of here. It is not the dead that we fear now, but the living. It is the living that I have to deal with now."