be seen here.”
I, too, looked round. “If those walls could speak,” I murmured.
Poirot shook his head. “A tongue is not enough,” he said. “They would have to have also eyes and ears. But do not be too sure that these dead things”—he touched the top of the bookcase as he spoke—“are always dumb. To me they speak sometimes—chairs, tables—they have their message!”
He turned away towards the door.
“What message?” I cried. “What have they said to you today?”
He looked over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow quizzically. “An opened window,” he said. “A locked door. A chair that apparently moved itself. To all three I say, ‘Why?’ and I find no answer.”