Dumb Witness. Agatha Christie

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 by-pass 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 new-fangled 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 wire-haired 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 lack-lustre 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,