One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
Agatha Christie
A dentist lies murdered at his Harley Street practice…The dentist was found with a blackened hole below his right temple. A pistol lay on the floor near his outflung right hand. Later, one of his patients was found dead from a lethal dose of local anaesthetic. A clear case of murder and suicide. But why would a dentist commit a crime in the middle of a busy day of appointments?A shoe buckle holds the key to the mystery. Now – in the words of the rhyme – can Poirot pick up the sticks and lay them straight?
One, Two, Buckle My Shoe
Copyright (#u4121a1b1-6283-5e15-84e1-70fde5ba1a4c)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by Collins 1940
Agatha Christie® Poirot® One, Two, Buckle My Shoe™
Copyright © 1940 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.
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Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Title lettering by Ghost Design
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com)
Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008164966
Ebook Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780007422630
Version: 2017-04-12
Dedication (#u4121a1b1-6283-5e15-84e1-70fde5ba1a4c)
To Dorothy North
who likes detective stories and cream,
in the hope it may make up to her
for the absence of the latter!
One, two, buckle my shoe,
Three, four, shut the door,
Five, six, picking up sticks,
Seven, eight, lay them straight,
Nine, ten, a good fat hen,
Eleven, twelve, men must delve,
Thirteen, fourteen, maids are courting,
Fifteen, sixteen, maids in the kitchen,
Seventeen, eighteen, maids in waiting,
Nineteen, twenty, my plate’s empty …
Table of Contents
Cover (#ua1037419-4e90-53d5-9e13-bbdda2707ba2)
Title Page (#uc1c938b7-419c-5044-aa1f-c1114982b86a)
Copyright (#ud61acd64-6839-567f-8975-abd855f43dbc)
Dedication (#u138c5dd3-9765-58e8-a0b7-4649812a1702)
Epigraph (#udcb4292b-a2ba-5f03-99f4-fe8297dc1911)
One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (#u45fc0049-52e9-5d1b-bf1e-7eddeae667c9)
Three, Four, Shut the Door (#ub83b3c39-e9aa-52d7-8a0b-2552c79e4b2d)
Five, Six, Picking Up Sticks (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven, Eight, Lay Them Straight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine, Ten, a Good Fat Hen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven, Twelve, Men Must Delve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen, Fourteen, Maids Are Courting (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen, Sixteen, Maids in the Kitchen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen, Eighteen, Maids in Waiting (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen, Twenty, My Plate’s Empty (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Agatha Christie (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (#u4121a1b1-6283-5e15-84e1-70fde5ba1a4c)
Mr Morley was not in the best of tempers at breakfast. He complained of the bacon, wondered why the coffee had to have the appearance of liquid mud, and remarked that breakfast cereals were each one worse than the last.
Mr Morley was a small man with a decided jaw and a pugnacious chin. His sister, who kept house for him, was a large woman rather like a female grenadier. She eyed her brother thoughtfully and asked whether the bath water had been cold again.
Rather grudgingly, Mr Morley said it had not.
He glanced at the paper and remarked that the Government seemed to be passing from a state of incompetence to one of positive imbecility!
Miss Morley said in a deep bass voice that it was Disgraceful!
As a mere woman she had always found whatever Government happened to be in power distinctly useful. She urged her brother on to explain exactly why the Government’s present policy was inconclusive, idiotic, imbecile and frankly suicidal!
When Mr Morley had expressed himself fully on these points, he had a second cup of the despised coffee and unburdened himself of his true grievance.
‘These girls,’ he said, ‘are all the same! Unreliable, self-centred—not to be depended on in any way.’
Miss Morley said interrogatively:
‘Gladys?’
‘I’ve just had the message. Her aunt’s had a stroke and she’s had to go down to Somerset.’
Miss Morley said:
‘Very trying, dear, but after all hardly the girl’s fault.’
Mr Morley shook his head gloomily.
‘How do I know the aunt has had a stroke? How do I know the whole thing hasn’t been arranged between the girl and that very unsuitable young fellow she goes about with? That young man is a wrong ’un if I ever saw one! They’ve probably planned some outing together for today.’
‘Oh, no, dear, I don’t think Gladys would do a thing like that. You know, you’ve always found her very conscientious.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘An intelligent girl and really keen on her work, you said.’
‘Yes, yes, Georgina, but that was before this undesirable young man came along. She’s been quite different lately—quite different—absent-minded—upset—nervy.’
The Grenadier produced a deep sigh. She said:
‘After all, Henry, girls do fall in love. It can’t be helped.’
Mr Morley snapped:
‘She oughtn’t to let it affect her efficiency as my secretary. And today, in particular, I’m extremely busy! Several very important patients. It is most trying!’
‘I’m sure it must be extremely vexing, Henry. How is the new boy shaping, by the way?’
Henry Morley said gloomily:
‘He’s the worst I’ve had yet! Can’t get a single name right and has the most uncouth manners. If he doesn’t improve I shall sack him and try again. I don’t know what’s the good of our education nowadays. It seems to turn out a collection of nit-wits who can’t understand a single thing you say to them, let alone remember it.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘I must be getting along. A full morning, and that Sainsbury Seale woman to fit in somewhere as she is in pain. I suggested that she should see Reilly, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Of course not,’ said Georgina loyally.
‘Reilly’s very able—very able indeed. First-class diplomas. Thoroughly up-to-date in his work.’
‘His hand shakes,’ said Miss Morley. ‘In my opinion he drinks.’
Her brother laughed, his good temper restored. He said:
‘I’ll be up for a sandwich at half-past one as usual.’
At the Savoy Hotel Mr Amberiotis was picking his teeth with a toothpick and grinning to himself.
Everything was going very nicely.
He had had his usual luck. Fancy those few kind words of his to that idiotic hen of a woman being so richly repaid. Oh! well—cast your bread upon the waters. He had always been a kind-hearted man. And generous! In the future he would be able to be even more generous. Benevolent visions floated before his eyes. Little Dimitri … And the good Constantopopolus struggling with his little restaurant … What pleasant surprises for them …
The toothpick probed unguardedly and Mr Amberiotis winced. Rosy visions of the future faded and gave way to apprehensions of the immediate future. He explored tenderly with his tongue. He took out his notebook. Twelve o’clock. 58, Queen Charlotte Street.
He tried to recapture his former exultant mood. But in vain. The horizon had shrunk to six bare words:
‘58, Queen Charlotte Street. Twelve o’clock.’
At the Glengowrie Court Hotel, South Kensington, breakfast was over. In the lounge, Miss Sainsbury Seale was sitting talking to Mrs Bolitho. They occupied adjacent tables in the dining-room and had made friends the day after Miss Sainsbury Seale’s arrival a week ago.
Miss Sainsbury Seale said:
‘You know, dear, it really has stopped aching! Not a twinge! I think perhaps I’ll ring up—’
Mrs Bolitho interrupted her.
‘Now don’t be foolish, my dear. You go to the dentist and get it over.’
Mrs Bolitho was a tall, commanding female with a deep voice. Miss Sainsbury Seale was a woman of forty odd with indecisively bleached hair rolled up in untidy curls. Her clothes were shapeless and rather artistic, and her pince-nez were always dropping off. She was a great talker.
She said now wistfully:
‘But really, you know, it doesn’t ache at all.’
‘Nonsense, you told me you hardly slept a wink last night.’
‘No, I didn’t—no, indeed—but perhaps, now, the nerve has actually died.’
‘All the more reason to go to the dentist,’ said Mrs Bolitho firmly. ‘We all like to put it off, but that’s just cowardice. Better make up one’s mind and get it over!’
Something hovered on Miss Sainsbury Seale’s lips. Was it the rebellious murmur of: ‘Yes, but it’s not your tooth!’
All she actually said, however, was:
‘I expect you’re right. And Mr Morley is such a careful man and really never hurts one at all.’
The meeting of the Board of Directors was over. It had passed off smoothly. The report was good. There should have been no discordant note. Yet to the sensitive Mr Samuel Rotherstein there had been something, some nuance in the chairman’s manner.
There had been, once or twice, a shortness, an acerbity, in his tone—quite uncalled for by the proceedings.
Some secret worry, perhaps? But somehow Rotherstein could not connect a secret worry with Alistair Blunt. He was such an unemotional man. He was so very normal. So essentially British.
There was, of course, always liver … Mr Rotherstein’s liver gave him a bit of trouble from time to time. But he’d never known Alistair complain of his liver. Alistair’s health was as sound as his brain and his grasp of finance. It was not annoying heartiness—just quiet well-being.
And yet—there was something—once or twice the chairman’s hand had wandered to his face. He had sat supporting his chin. Not his normal attitude. And once or twice he had seemed actually—yes, distrait.
They came out of the board room and passed down the stairs.
Rotherstein said:
‘Can’t give you a lift, I suppose?’
Alistair Blunt smiled and shook his head.
‘My car’s waiting.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m not going back to the city.’ He paused. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve got an appointment with the dentist.’
The mystery was solved.
Hercule Poirot descended from his taxi, paid the man and rang the bell of 58, Queen Charlotte Street.
After a little delay it was opened by a boy in page-boy’s uniform with a freckled face, red hair, and an earnest manner.
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Mr Morley?’
There was in his heart a ridiculous hope that Mr Morley might have been called away, might be indisposed, might not be seeing patients today … All in vain. The page-boy drew back, Hercule Poirot stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with the quiet remorselessness of unalterable doom.
The boy said: ‘Name, please?’
Poirot gave it to him, a door on the right of the hall was thrown open and he stepped into the waiting-room.
It was a room furnished in quiet good taste and, to Hercule Poirot, indescribably gloomy. On the polished (reproduction) Sheraton table were carefully arranged papers and periodicals. The (reproduction) Hepplewhite sideboard held two Sheffield plated candlesticks and an épergne. The mantelpiece held a bronze clock and two bronze vases. The windows were shrouded by curtains of blue velvet. The chairs were upholstered in a Jacobean design of red birds and flowers.
In one of them sat a military-looking gentleman with a fierce moustache and a yellow complexion. He looked at Poirot with an air of one considering some noxious insect. It was not so much his gun he looked as though he wished he had with him, as his Flit spray. Poirot, eyeing him with distaste, said to himself, ‘In verity, there are some Englishmen who are altogether so unpleasing and ridiculous that they should have been put out of their misery at birth.’
The military gentleman, after a prolonged glare, snatched up The Times, turned his chair so as to avoid seeing Poirot, and settled down to read it.
Poirot picked up Punch.
He went through it meticulously, but failed to find any of the jokes funny.
The page-boy came in and said, ‘Colonel Arrow-Bumby?’—and the military gentleman was led away.
Poirot was speculating on the probabilities of there really being such a name, when the door opened to admit a young man of about thirty.
As the young man stood by the table, restlessly flicking over the covers of magazines, Poirot looked at him sideways. An unpleasant and dangerous looking young man, he thought, and not impossibly a murderer. At any rate he looked far more like a murderer than any of the murderers Hercule Poirot had arrested in the course of his career.
The page-boy opened the door and said to mid-air:
‘Mr Peerer.’
Rightly construing this as a summons to himself, Poirot rose. The boy led him to the back of the hall and round the corner to a small lift in which he took him up to the second floor. Here he led him along a passage, opened a door which led into a little anteroom, tapped at a second door; and without waiting for a reply opened it and stood back for Poirot to enter.
Poirot entered to a sound of running water and came round the back of the door to discover Mr Morley washing his hands with professional gusto at a basin on the wall.
There are certain humiliating moments in the lives of the greatest of men. It has been said that no man is a hero to his valet. To that may be added that few men are heroes to themselves at the moment of visiting their dentist.
Hercule Poirot was morbidly conscious of this fact.
He was a man who was accustomed to have a good opinion of himself. He was Hercule Poirot, superior in most ways to other men. But in this moment he was unable to feel superior in any way whatever. His morale was down to zero. He was just that ordinary, craven figure, a man afraid of the dentist’s chair.
Mr Morley had finished his professional ablutions. He was speaking now in his encouraging professional manner.
‘Hardly as warm as it should be, is it, for the time of year?’
Gently he led the way to the appointed spot—to The Chair! Deftly he played with its head rest, running it up and down.
Hercule Poirot took a deep breath, stepped up, sat down and relaxed his head to Mr Morley’s professional fiddlings.
‘There,’ said Mr Morley with hideous cheerfulness. ‘That quite comfortable? Sure?’
In sepulchral tones Poirot said that it was quite comfortable.
Mr Morley swung his little table nearer, picked up his little mirror, seized an instrument and prepared to get on with the job.
Hercule Poirot grasped the arms of the chair, shut his eyes and opened his mouth.
‘Any special trouble?’ Mr Morley inquired.
Slightly indistinctly, owing to the difficulty of forming consonants while keeping the mouth open, Hercule Poirot was understood to say that there was no special trouble. This was, indeed, the twice yearly overhaul that his sense of order and neatness demanded. It was, of course, possible that there might be nothing to do … Mr Morley might, perhaps, overlook that second tooth from the back from which those twinges had come … He might—but it was unlikely—for Mr Morley was a very good dentist.
Mr Morley passed slowly from tooth to tooth, tapping and probing, murmuring little comments as he did so.
‘That filling is wearing down a little—nothing serious, though. Gums are in pretty good condition, I’m glad to see.’ A pause at a suspect, a twist of the probe—no, on again, false alarm. He passed to the lower side. One, two—on to three?—No—‘The dog,’ Hercule Poirot thought in confused idiom, ‘has seen the rabbit!’
‘A little trouble here. Not been giving you any pain? Hm, I’m surprised.’ The probe went on.
Finally Mr Morley drew back, satisfied.
‘Nothing very serious. Just a couple of fillings—and a trace of decay on that upper molar. We can get it all done, I think, this morning.’
He turned on a switch and there was a hum. Mr Morley unhooked the drill and fitted a needle to it with loving care.
‘Guide me,’ he said briefly, and started the dread work.
It was not necessary for Poirot to avail himself of this permission, to raise a hand, to wince, or even to yell. At exactly the right moment, Mr Morley stopped the drill, gave the brief command ‘Rinse,’ applied a little dressing, selected a new needle and continued. The ordeal of the drill was terror rather than pain.
Presently, while Mr Morley was preparing the filling, conversation was resumed.
‘Have to do this myself this morning,’ he explained. ‘Miss Nevill has been called away. You remember Miss Nevill?’
Poirot untruthfully assented.
‘Called away to the country by the illness of a relative. Sort of thing that does happen on a busy day. I’m behind-hand already this morning. The patient before you was late. Very vexing when that happens. It throws the whole morning out. Then I have to fit in an extra patient because she is in pain. I always allow a quarter of an hour in the morning in case that happens. Still, it adds to the rush.’
Mr Morley peered into his little mortar as he ground. Then he resumed his discourse.
‘I’ll tell you something that I’ve always noticed, M. Poirot. The big people—the important people—they’re always on time—never keep you waiting. Royalty, for instance. Most punctilious. And these big City men are the same. Now this morning I’ve got a most important man coming—Alistair Blunt!’
Mr Morley spoke the name in a voice of triumph.
Poirot, prohibited from speech by several rolls of cotton wool and a glass tube that gurgled under his tongue, made an indeterminate noise.
Alistair Blunt! Those were the names that thrilled nowadays. Not Dukes, not Earls, not Prime Ministers. No, plain Mr Alistair Blunt. A man whose face was almost unknown to the general public—a man who only figured in an occasional quiet paragraph. Not a spectacular person.
Just a quiet nondescript Englishman who was the head of the greatest banking firm in England. A man of vast wealth. A man who said Yes and No to Governments. A man who lived a quiet, unobtrusive life and never appeared on a public platform or made speeches. Yet a man in whose hands lay supreme power.
Mr Morley’s voice still held a reverent tone as he stood over Poirot ramming the filling home.
‘Always comes to his appointments absolutely on time. Often sends his car away and walks back to his office. Nice, quiet, unassuming fellow. Fond of golf and keen on his garden. You’d never dream he could buy up half Europe! Just like you and me.’
A momentary resentment rose in Poirot at this offhand coupling of names. Mr Morley was a good dentist, yes, but there were other good dentists in London. There was only one Hercule Poirot.
‘Rinse, please,’ said Mr Morley.
‘It’s the answer, you know, to their Hitlers and Mussolinis and all the rest of them,’ went on Mr Morley, as he proceeded to tooth number two. ‘We don’t make a fuss over here. Look how democratic our King and Queen are. Of course, a Frenchman like you, accustomed to the Republican idea—’
‘I ah nah a Frahah—I ah—ah a Benyon.’
‘Tchut—tchut—’ said Mr Morley sadly. ‘We must have the cavity completely dry.’ He puffed hot air relentlessly on it.
Then he went on:
‘I didn’t realize you were a Belgian. Very interesting. Very fine man, King Leopold, so I’ve always heard. I’m a great believer in the tradition of Royalty myself. The training is good, you know. Look at the remarkable way they remember names and faces. All the result of training—though of course some people have a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. I, myself, for instance. I don’t remember names, but it’s remarkable the way I never forget a face. One of my patients the other day, for instance—I’ve seen that patient before. The name meant nothing to me—but I said to myself at once, “Now where have I met you before?” I’ve not remembered yet—but it will come back to me—I’m sure of it. Just another rinse, please.’
The rinse accomplished, Mr Morley peered critically into his patient’s mouth.
‘Well, I think that seems all right. Just close—very gently … Quite comfortable? You don’t feel the filling at all? Open again, please. No, that seems quite all right.’
The table swung back, the chair swung round.
Hercule Poirot descended, a free man.
‘Well, goodbye, M. Poirot. Not detected any criminals in my house, I hope?’
Poirot said with a smile:
‘Before I came up, every one looked to me like a criminal! Now, perhaps, it will be different!’
‘Ah, yes, a great deal of difference between before and after! All the same, we dentists aren’t such devils now as we used to be! Shall I ring for the lift for you?’
‘No, no, I will walk down.’
‘As you like—the lift is just by the stairs.’
Poirot went out. He heard the taps start to run as he closed the door behind him.
He walked down the two flights of stairs. As he came to the last bend, he saw the Anglo-Indian Colonel being shown out. Not at all a bad-looking man, Poirot reflected mellowly. Probably a fine shot who had killed many a tiger. A useful man—a regular outpost of Empire.
He went into the waiting-room to fetch his hat and stick which he had left there. The restless young man was still there, somewhat to Poirot’s surprise. Another patient, a man, was reading the Field.
Poirot studied the young man in his newborn spirit of kindliness. He still looked very fierce—and as though he wanted to do a murder—but not really a murderer, thought Poirot kindly. Doubtless, presently, this young man would come tripping down the stairs, his ordeal over, happy and smiling and wishing no ill to anyone.
The page-boy entered and said firmly and distinctly:
‘Mr Blunt.’
The man at the table laid down the Field and got up. A man of middle height, of middle age, neither fat nor thin. Well dressed, quiet.
He went out after the boy.
One of the richest and most powerful men in England—but he still had to go to the dentist just like anybody else, and no doubt felt just the same as anybody else about it!
These reflections passing through his mind, Hercule Poirot picked up his hat and stick and went to the door. He glanced back as he did so, and the startled thought went through his mind that that young man must have very bad toothache indeed.
In the hall Poirot paused before the mirror there to adjust his moustaches, slightly disarranged as the result of Mr Morley’s ministrations.
He had just completed their arrangement to his satisfaction when the lift came down again and the page-boy emerged from the back of the hall whistling discordantly. He broke off abruptly at the sight of Poirot and came to open the front door for him.
A taxi had just drawn up before the house and a foot was protruding from it. Poirot surveyed the foot with gallant interest.
A neat ankle, quite a good quality stocking. Not a bad foot. But he didn’t like the shoe. A brand new patent leather shoe with a large gleaming buckle. He shook his head.
Not chic—very provincial!
The lady got out of the taxi, but in doing so she caught her other foot in the door and the buckle was wrenched off. It fell tinkling on to the pavement. Gallantly, Poirot sprang forward and picked it up, restoring it with a bow.
Alas! Nearer fifty than forty. Pince-nez. Untidy yellow-grey hair—unbecoming clothes—those depressing art greens! She thanked him, dropping her pince-nez, then her handbag.
Poirot, polite if no longer gallant, picked them up for her.
She went up the steps of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, and Poirot interrupted the taxi-driver’s disgusted contemplation of a meagre tip.
‘You are free, hein?’
The taxi-driver said gloomily: ‘Oh, I’m free.’
‘So am I,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘Free of care!’
He saw the taxi-man’s air of deep suspicion.
‘No, my friend, I am not drunk. It is that I have been to the dentist and I need not go again for six months. It is a beautiful thought.’
Three, Four, Shut the Door (#u4121a1b1-6283-5e15-84e1-70fde5ba1a4c)
It was a quarter to three when the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot was sitting in an easy-chair happily digesting an excellent lunch.
He did not move when the bell rang but waited for the faithful George to come and take the call.
‘Eh bien?’ he said, as George, with a ‘Just a minute, sir,’ lowered the receiver.
‘It’s Chief Inspector Japp, sir.’
‘Aha?’
Poirot lifted the receiver to his ear.
‘Eh bien, mon vieux,’ he said. ‘How goes it?’
‘That you, Poirot?’
‘Naturally.’
‘I hear you went to the dentist this morning? Is that so?’
Poirot murmured:
‘Scotland Yard knows everything!’
‘Man of the name of Morley. 58, Queen Charlotte Street?’
‘Yes.’ Poirot’s voice had changed. ‘Why?’
‘It was a genuine visit, was it? I mean you didn’t go to put the wind up him or anything of that sort?’
‘Certainly not. I had three teeth filled if you want to know.’
‘What did he seem like to you—manner much as usual?’
‘I should say so, yes. Why?’
Japp’s voice was rigidly unemotional.
‘Because not very much later he shot himself.’
‘What?’
Japp said sharply:
‘That surprises you?’
‘Frankly, it does.’
Japp said:
‘I’m not too happy about it myself … I’d like to have a talk with you. I suppose you wouldn’t like to come round?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Queen Charlotte Street.’
Poirot said:
‘I will join you immediately.’
It was a police constable who opened the door of 58. He said respectfully:
‘M. Poirot?’
‘It’s I, myself.’
‘The Chief Inspector is upstairs. Second floor—you know it?’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘I was there this morning.’
There were three men in the room. Japp looked up as Poirot entered.
He said:
‘Glad to see you, Poirot. We’re just going to move him. Like to see him first?’
A man with a camera who had been kneeling near the body got up.
Poirot came forward. The body was lying near the fireplace.
In death Mr Morley looked very much as he had looked in life. There was a little blackened hole just below his right temple. A small pistol lay on the floor near his outflung right hand.
Poirot shook his head gently.
Japp said:
‘All right, you can move him now.’
They took Mr Morley away. Japp and Poirot were left alone.
Japp said:
‘We’re through all the routine. Finger-prints, etc.’
Poirot sat down. He said:
‘Tell me.’
Japp pursed his lips. He said:
‘He could have shot himself. He probably did shoot himself. There are only his finger-prints on the gun—but I’m not quite satisfied.’
‘What are your objections?’
‘Well, to begin with, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why he should shoot himself … He was in good health, he was making money, he hadn’t any worries that anyone knew of. He wasn’t mixed up with a woman—at least,’ Japp corrected himself cautiously, ‘as far as we know he wasn’t. He hasn’t been moody or depressed or unlike himself. That’s partly why I was anxious to hear what you said. You saw him this morning, and I wondered if you’d noticed anything.’
Poirot shook his head.
‘Nothing at all. He was—what shall I say—normality itself.’
‘Then that makes it odd, doesn’t it? Anyway, you wouldn’t think a man would shoot himself in the middle of business hours, so to speak. Why not wait till this evening? That would be the natural thing to do.’
Poirot agreed.
‘When did the tragedy occur?’
‘Can’t say exactly. Nobody seems to have heard the shot. But I don’t think they would. There are two doors between here and the passage and they have baize fitted round the edges—to deaden the noise from the victims of the dental chair, I imagine.’
‘Very probably. Patients under gas sometimes make a lot of noise.’
‘Quite. And outside, in the street, there’s plenty of traffic, so you wouldn’t be likely to hear it out there.’
‘When was it discovered?’
‘Round about one-thirty—by the page-boy, Alfred Biggs. Not a very bright specimen, by all accounts. It seems that Morley’s twelve-thirty patient kicked up a bit of a row at being kept waiting. About one-ten the boy came up and knocked. There was no answer and apparently he didn’t dare come in. He’d got in a few rows already from Morley and he was nervous of doing the wrong thing. He went down again and the patient walked out in a huff at one-fifteen. I don’t blame her. She’d been kept waiting three-quarters of an hour and she wanted her lunch.’
‘Who was she?’
Japp grinned.
‘According to the boy she was Miss Shirty—but from the appointment book her name was Kirby.’
‘What system was there for showing up patients?’
‘When Morley was ready for his next patient he pressed that buzzer over there and the boy then showed the patient up.’
‘And Morley pressed the buzzer last?’
‘At five minutes past twelve, and the boy showed up the patient who was waiting. Mr Amberiotis, Savoy Hotel, according to the appointment book.’
A faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He murmured:
‘I wonder what our page-boy made of that name!’
‘A pretty hash, I should say. We’ll ask him presently if we feel like a laugh.’
Poirot said:
‘And at what time did this Mr Amberiotis leave?’
‘The boy didn’t show him out, so he doesn’t know … A good many patients just go down the stairs without ringing for the lift and let themselves out.’
Poirot nodded.
Japp went on:
‘But I rang up the Savoy Hotel. Mr Amberiotis was quite precise. He said he looked at his watch as he closed the front door and it was then twenty-five minutes past twelve.’
‘He could tell you nothing of importance?’
‘No, all he could say was that the dentist had seemed perfectly normal and calm in his manner.’
‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘Then that seems quite clear. Between five-and-twenty past twelve and half-past one something happened—and presumably nearer the former time.’
‘Quite. Because otherwise—’
‘Otherwise he would have pressed the buzzer for the next patient.’
‘Exactly. The medical evidence agrees with that for what it’s worth. The divisional surgeon examined the body—at twenty past two. He wouldn’t commit himself—they never do nowadays—too many individual idiosyncrasies, they say. But Morley couldn’t have been shot later than one o’clock, he says—probably considerably earlier—but he wouldn’t be definite.’
Poirot said thoughtfully:
‘Then at twenty-five minutes past twelve our dentist is a normal dentist, cheerful, urbane, competent. And after that? Despair—misery—what you will—and he shoots himself?’
‘It’s funny,’ said Japp. ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s funny.’
‘Funny,’ said Poirot, ‘is not the word.’
‘I know it isn’t really—but it’s the sort of thing one says. It’s odd, then, if you like that better.’
‘Was it his own pistol?’
‘No, it wasn’t. He hadn’t got a pistol. Never had had one. According to his sister there wasn’t such a thing in the house. There isn’t in most houses. Of course he might have bought it if he’d made up his mind to do away with himself. If so, we’ll soon know about it.’
Poirot asked:
‘Is there anything else that worries you?’
Japp rubbed his nose.
‘Well, there was the way he was lying. I wouldn’t say a man couldn’t fall like that—but it wasn’t quite right somehow! And there was just a trace or two on the carpet—as though something had been dragged along it.’
‘That, then, is decidedly suggestive.’
‘Yes, unless it was that dratted boy. I’ve a feeling that he may have tried to move Morley when he found him. He denies it, of course, but then he was scared. He’s that kind of young ass. The kind that’s always putting their foot in it and getting cursed, and so they come to lie about things almost automatically.’
Poirot looked thoughtfully round the room.
At the wash-basin on the wall behind the door, at the tall filing cabinet on the other side of the door. At the dental chair and surrounding apparatus near the window, then along to the fireplace and back to where the body lay; there was a second door in the wall near the fireplace.
Japp had followed his glance. ‘Just a small office through there.’ He flung open the door.
It was as he had said, a small room, with a desk, a table with a spirit lamp and tea apparatus and some chairs. There was no other door.
‘This is where his secretary worked,’ explained Japp. ‘Miss Nevill. It seems she’s away today.’
His eyes met Poirot’s. The latter said:
‘He told me, I remember. That again—might be a point against suicide?’
‘You mean she was got out of the way?’
Japp paused. He said:
‘If it wasn’t suicide, he was murdered. But why? That solution seems almost as unlikely as the other. He seems to have been a quiet, inoffensive sort of chap. Who would want to murder him?’
Poirot said:
‘Who could have murdered him?’
Japp said:
‘The answer to that is—almost anybody! His sister could have come down from their flat above and shot him, one of the servants could have come in and shot him. His partner, Reilly, could have shot him. The boy Alfred could have shot him. One of the patients could have shot him.’ He paused and said, ‘And Amberiotis could have shot him—easiest of the lot.’
Poirot nodded.
‘But in that case—we have to find out why.’
‘Exactly. You’ve come round again to the original problem. Why? Amberiotis is staying at the Savoy. Why does a rich Greek want to come and shoot an inoffensive dentist?’
‘That’s really going to be our stumbling block. Motive!’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:
‘It would seem that death selected, most inartistically, the wrong man. The Mysterious Greek, the Rich Banker, the Famous Detective—how natural that one of them should be shot! For mysterious foreigners may be mixed up in espionage and rich bankers have connections who will benefit by their deaths and famous detectives may be dangerous to criminals.’
‘Whereas poor old Morley wasn’t dangerous to anybody,’ observed Japp gloomily.
‘I wonder.’
Japp whirled round on him.
‘What’s up your sleeve now?’
‘Nothing. A chance remark.’
He repeated to Japp those few casual words of Mr Morley’s about recognizing faces, and his mention of a patient.
Japp looked doubtful.
‘It’s possible, I suppose. But it’s a bit far-fetched. It might have been someone who wanted their identity kept dark. You didn’t notice any of the other patients this morning?’
Poirot murmured:
‘I noticed in the waiting-room a young man who looked exactly like a murderer!’
Japp said, startled: ‘What’s that?’
Poirot smiled:
‘Mon cher, it was upon my arrival here! I was nervous, fanciful—enfin, in a mood. Everything seemed sinister to me, the waiting-room, the patients, the very carpet on the stairs! Actually, I think the young man had very bad toothache. That was all!’
‘I know what it can be,’ said Japp. ‘However, we’ll check up on your murderer all the same. We’ll check up on everybody, whether it’s suicide or not. I think the first thing is to have another talk with Miss Morley. I’ve only had a word or two. It was a shock to her, of course, but she’s the kind that doesn’t break down. We’ll go and see her now.’
Tall and grim, Georgina Morley listened to what the two men had said and answered their questions. She said with emphasis:
‘It’s incredible to me—quite incredible—that my brother should have committed suicide!’
Poirot said:
‘You realize the alternative, Mademoiselle?’
‘You mean—murder.’ She paused. Then she said slowly: ‘It is true—that alternative seems nearly as impossible as the other.’
‘But not quite as impossible?’
‘No—because—oh, in the first case, you see, I am speaking of something I know—that is: my brother’s state of mind. I know he had nothing on his mind—I know that there was no reason—no reason at all why he should take his own life!’
‘You saw him this morning—before he started work?’
‘At breakfast—yes.’
‘And he was quite as usual—not upset in any way?’
‘He was upset—but not in the way you mean. He was just annoyed!’
‘Why was that?’
‘He had a busy morning in front of him, and his secretary and assistant had been called away.’
‘That is Miss Nevill?’
‘Yes.’
‘What used she to do for him?’
‘She did all his correspondence, of course, and kept the appointment book, and filed all the charts. She also saw to the sterilizing of the instruments and ground up his fillings and handed them to him when he was working.’
‘Had she been with him long?’
‘Three years. She is a very reliable girl and we are—were both very fond of her.’
Poirot said:
‘She was called away owing to the illness of a relative, so your brother told me.’
‘Yes, she got a telegram to say her aunt had had a stroke. She went off to Somerset by an early train.’
‘And that was what annoyed your brother so much?’
‘Ye-es.’ There was a faint hesitation in Miss Morley’s answer. She went on rather hurriedly. ‘You—you mustn’t think my brother unfeeling. It was only that he thought—just for a moment—’
‘Yes, Miss Morley?’
‘Well, that she might have played truant on purpose. Oh! Please don’t misunderstand me—I’m quite certain that Gladys would never do such a thing. I told Henry so. But the fact of the matter is, that she has got herself engaged to rather an unsuitable young man—Henry was very vexed about it—and it occurred to him that this young man might have persuaded her to take a day off.’
‘Was that likely?’
‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t. Gladys is a very conscientious girl.’
‘But it is the sort of thing the young man might have suggested?’
Miss Morley sniffed.
‘Quite likely, I should say.’
‘What does he do, this young fellow—what is his name, by the way?’
‘Carter, Frank Carter. He is—or was—an insurance clerk, I believe. He lost his job some weeks ago and doesn’t seem able to get another. Henry said—and I dare say he was right—that he is a complete rotter. Gladys had actually lent him some of her savings and Henry was very annoyed about it.’
Japp said sharply:
‘Did your brother try to persuade her to break her engagement?’
‘Yes, he did, I know.’
‘Then this Frank Carter would, quite possibly, have a grudge against your brother.’
The Grenadier said robustly:
‘Nonsense—that is if you are suggesting that Frank Carter shot Henry. Henry advised the girl against young Carter, certainly; but she didn’t take his advice—she is foolishly devoted to Frank.’
‘Is there anyone else you can think of who had a grudge against your brother?’
Miss Morley shook her head.
‘Did he get on well with his partner, Mr Reilly?’
Miss Morley replied acidly:
‘As well as you can ever hope to get on with an Irishman!’
‘What do you mean by that, Miss Morley?’
‘Well, Irishmen have hot tempers and they thoroughly enjoy a row of any kind. Mr Reilly liked arguing about politics.’
‘That was all?’
‘That was all. Mr Reilly is unsatisfactory in many ways, but he was very skilled in his profession—or so my brother said.’
Japp persisted:
‘How is he unsatisfactory?’
Miss Morley hesitated, then said acidly:
‘He drinks too much—but please don’t let that go any further.’
‘Was there any trouble between him and your brother on that subject?’
‘Henry gave him one or two hints. In dentistry,’ continued Miss Morley didactically, ‘a steady hand is needed, and an alcoholic breath does not inspire confidence.’
Japp bowed his head in agreement. Then he said:
‘Can you tell us anything of your brother’s financial position?’
‘Henry was making a good income and he had a certain amount put by. We each had a small private income of our own left to us by our father.’
Japp murmured with a slight cough:
‘You don’t know, I suppose, if your brother left a will?’
‘He did—and I can tell you its contents. He left a hundred pounds to Gladys Nevill, otherwise everything comes to me.’
‘I see. Now—’
There was a fierce thump on the door. Alfred’s face then appeared round it. His goggling eyes took in each detail of the two visitors as he ejaculated:
‘It’s Miss Nevill. She’s back—and in a rare taking. Shall she come in, she wants to know?’
Japp nodded and Miss Morley said:
‘Tell her to come here, Alfred.’
‘O.K.,’ said Alfred, and disappeared. Miss Morley said with a sigh and in obvious capital letters:
‘That Boy is a Sad Trial.’
Gladys Nevill was a tall, fair, somewhat anaemic girl of about twenty-eight. Though obviously very upset, she at once showed that she was capable and intelligent.
Under the pretext of looking through Mr Morley’s papers, Japp got her away from Miss Morley down to the little office next door to the surgery.
She repeated more than once:
‘I simply cannot believe it! It seems quite incredible that Mr Morley should do such a thing!’
She was emphatic that he had not seemed troubled or worried in any way.
Then Japp began:
‘You were called away today, Miss Nevill—’
She interrupted him.
‘Yes, and the whole thing was a wicked practical joke! I do think it’s awful of people to do things like that. I really do.’
‘What do you mean, Miss Nevill?’
‘Why, there wasn’t anything the matter with Aunt at all. She’d never been better. She couldn’t understand it when I suddenly turned up. Of course I was ever so glad—but it did make me mad. Sending a telegram like that and upsetting me and everything.’
‘Have you got that telegram, Miss Nevill?’
‘I threw it away, I think, at the station. It just said, Your aunt had a stroke last night. Please come at once.’
‘You are quite sure—well—’ Japp coughed delicately—‘that it wasn’t your friend, Mr Carter, who sent that telegram?’
‘Frank? Whatever for? Oh! I see, you mean—a put-up job between us? No, indeed, Inspector—neither of us would do such a thing.’
Her indignation seemed genuine enough and Japp had a little trouble in soothing her down. But a question as to the patients on this particular morning restored her to her competent self.
‘They are all here in the book. I dare say you have seen it already. I know about most of them. Ten o’clock, Mrs Soames—that was about her new plate. Ten-thirty, Lady Grant—she’s an elderly lady—lives in Lowndes Square. Eleven o’clock, M. Hercule Poirot, he comes regularly—oh, of course this is him—sorry, M. Poirot, but I really am so upset! Eleven-thirty, Mr Alistair Blunt—that’s the banker, you know—a short appointment, because Mr Morley had prepared the filling last time. Then Miss Sainsbury Seale—she rang up specially—had toothache and so Mr Morley fitted her in. A terrible talker, she is, never stops—the fussy kind, too. Then twelve o’clock, Mr Amberiotis—he was a new patient—made an appointment from the Savoy Hotel. Mr Morley gets quite a lot of foreigners and Americans. Then twelve-thirty, Miss Kirby. She comes up from Worthing.’
Poirot asked:
‘There was here when I arrived a tall military gentleman. Who would he be?’
‘One of Mr Reilly’s patients, I expect. I’ll just get his list for you, shall I?’
‘Thank you, Miss Nevill.’
She was absent only a few minutes. She returned with a similar book to that of Mr Morley.
She read out:
‘Ten o’clock, Betty Heath (that’s a little girl of nine). Eleven o’clock, Colonel Abercrombie.’
‘Abercrombie!’ murmured Poirot. ‘C’etait ça!’
‘Eleven-thirty, Mr Howard Raikes. Twelve o’clock, Mr Barnes. That was all the patients this morning. Mr Reilly isn’t so booked up as Mr Morley, of course.’
‘Can you tell us anything about any of these patients of Mr Reilly’s?’
‘Colonel Abercrombie has been a patient for a long time, and all Mrs Heath’s children come to Mr Reilly. I can’t tell you anything about Mr Raikes or Mr Barnes, though I fancy I have heard their names. I take all the telephone calls, you see—’
Japp said:
‘We can ask Mr Reilly ourselves. I should like to see him as soon as possible.’
Miss Nevill went out. Japp said to Poirot:
‘All old patients of Mr Morley’s except Amberiotis. I’m going to have an interesting talk with Mr Amberiotis presently. He’s the last person, as it stands, to see Morley alive, and we’ve got to make quite sure that when he last saw him, Morley was alive.’
Poirot said slowly, shaking his head:
‘You have still to prove motive.’
‘I know. That’s what is going to be the teaser. But we may have something about Amberiotis at the Yard.’ He added sharply: ‘You’re very thoughtful, Poirot!’
‘I was wondering about something.’
‘What was it?’
Poirot said with a faint smile:
‘Why Chief Inspector Japp?’
‘Eh?’
‘I said, “Why Chief Inspector Japp?” An officer of your eminence—is he usually called in to a case of suicide?’
‘As a matter of fact, I happened to be nearby at the time. At Lavenham’s—in Wigmore Street. Rather an ingenious system of frauds they’ve had there. They telephoned me there to come on here.’
‘But why did they telephone you?’
‘Oh, that—that’s simple enough. Alistair Blunt. As soon as the Divisional Inspector heard he’d been here this morning, he got on to the Yard. Mr Blunt is the kind of person we take care of in this country.’
‘You mean that there are people who would like him—out of the way?’
‘You bet there are. The Reds, to begin with—and our Blackshirted friends, too. It’s Blunt and his group who are standing solid behind the present Government. Good sound Conservative finance. That’s why, if there were the least chance that there was any funny stuff intended against him this morning, they wanted a thorough investigation.’
Poirot nodded.
‘That is what I more or less guessed. And that is the feeling I have’—he waved his hands expressively—‘that there was, perhaps—a hitch of some kind. The proper victim was—should have been—Alistair Blunt. Or is this only a beginning—the beginning of a campaign of some kind? I smell—I smell—’ he sniffed the air, ‘—big money in this business!’
Japp said:
‘You’re assuming a lot, you know.’
‘I am suggesting that ce pauvre Morley was only a pawn in the game. Perhaps he knew something—perhaps he told Blunt something—or they feared he would tell Blunt something—’
He stopped as Gladys Nevill entered the room.
‘Mr Reilly is busy on an extraction case,’ she said. ‘He will be free in about ten minutes if that will be all right?’
Japp said that it would. In the meantime, he said, he would have another talk to the boy Alfred.
Alfred was divided between nervousness, enjoyment, and a morbid fear of being blamed for everything that had occurred! He had only been a fortnight in Mr Morley’s employment, and during that fortnight he had consistently and unvaryingly done everything wrong. Persistent blame had sapped his self-confidence.
‘He was a bit rattier than usual, perhaps,’ said Alfred in answer to a question, ‘nothing else as I can remember. I’d never have thought he was going to do himself in.’
Poirot interposed.
‘You must tell us,’ he said, ‘everything that you can remember about this morning. You are a very important witness, and your recollections may be of immense service to us.’
Alfred’s face was suffused by vivid crimson and his chest swelled. He had already given Japp a brief account of the morning’s happenings. He proposed now to spread himself. A comforting sense of importance oozed into him.
‘I can tell you orl right,’ he said. ‘Just you ask me.’
‘To begin with, did anything out of the way happen this morning?’
Alfred reflected a minute and then said rather sadly: ‘Can’t say as it did. It was orl just as usual.’
‘Did any strangers come to the house?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not even among the patients?’
‘I didn’t know as you meant the patients. Nobody come what hadn’t got an appointment, if that’s what you mean. They were all down in the book.’
Japp nodded. Poirot asked:
‘Could anybody have walked in from outside?’
‘No, they couldn’t. They’d have to have a key, see?’
‘But it was quite easy to leave the house?’
‘Oh, yes, just turn the handle and go out and pull the door to after you. As I was saying most of ’em do. They often come down the stairs while I’m taking up the next party in the lift, see?’
‘I see. Now just tell us who came first this morning and so on. Describe them if you can’t remember their names.’
Alfred reflected a minute. Then he said: ‘Lady with a little girl, that was for Mr Reilly and a Mrs Soap or some such name for Mr Morley.’
Poirot said:
‘Quite right. Go on.’
‘Then another elderly lady—bit of a toff she was—come in a Daimler. As she went out a tall military gent come in, and just after him, you came,’ he nodded to Poirot.
‘Right.’
‘Then the American gent came—’
Japp said sharply:
‘American?’
‘Yes, sir. Young fellow. He was American all right—you could tell by his voice. Come early, he did. His appointment wasn’t till eleven-thirty—and what’s more he didn’t keep it—neither.’
Japp said sharply:
‘What’s that?’
‘Not him. Come in for him when Mr Reilly’s buzzer went at eleven-thirty—a bit later it was, as a matter of fact, might have been twenty to twelve—and he wasn’t there. Must have funked it and gone away.’ He added with a knowledgeable air, ‘They do sometimes.’
Poirot said:
‘Then he must have gone out soon after me?’
‘That’s right, sir. You went out after I’d taken up a toff what come in a Rolls. Coo—it was a loverly car, Mr Blunt—eleven-thirty. Then I come down and let you out, and a lady in. Miss Some Berry Seal, or something like that—and then I—well, as a matter of fact I just nipped down to the kitchen to get my elevenses, and when I was down there the buzzer went—Mr Reilly’s buzzer—so I come up and, as I say, the American gentleman had hooked it. I went and told Mr Reilly and he swore a bit, as is his way.’
Poirot said:
‘Continue.’
‘Lemme see, what happened next? Oh, yes, Mr Morley’s buzzer went for that Miss Seal, and the toff came down and went out as I took Miss Whatsername up in the lift. Then I come down again and two gentlemen came—one a little man with a funny squeaky voice—I can’t remember his name. For Mr Reilly, he was. And a fat foreign gentleman for Mr Morley.
‘Miss Seal wasn’t very long—not above a quarter of an hour. I let her out and then I took up the foreign gentleman. I’d already taken the other gent into Mr Reilly right away as soon as he came.’
Japp said:
‘And you didn’t see Mr Amberiotis, the foreign gentleman, leave?’
‘No, sir, I can’t say as I did. He must have let himself out. I didn’t see either of those two gentlemen go.’
‘Where were you from twelve o’clock onwards?’
‘I always sit in the lift, sir, waiting until the front-door bell or one of the buzzers goes.’
Poirot said:
‘And you were perhaps reading?’
Alfred blushed again.
‘There ain’t no harm in that, sir. It’s not as though I could be doing anything else.’
‘Quite so. What were you reading?’
‘Death at Eleven-Forty-Five, sir. It’s an American detective story. It’s a corker, sir, it really is! All about gunmen.’
Poirot smiled faintly. He said:
‘Would you hear the front door close from where you were?’
‘You mean anyone going out? I don’t think I should, sir. What I mean is, I shouldn’t notice it! You see, the lift is right at the back of the hall and a little round the corner. The bell rings just behind it, and the buzzers too. You can’t miss them.’
Poirot nodded and Japp asked:
‘What happened next?’
Alfred frowned in a supreme effort of memory.
‘Only the last lady, Miss Shirty. I waited for Mr Morley’s buzzer to go, but nothing happened and at one o’clock the lady who was waiting, she got rather ratty.’
‘It did not occur to you to go up before and see if Mr Morley was ready?’
Alfred shook his head very positively.
‘Not me, sir. I wouldn’t have dreamed of it. For all I knew the last gentleman was still up there. I’d got to wait for the buzzer. Of course if I’d knowed as Mr Morley had done himself in—’
Alfred shook his head with morbid relish.
Poirot asked:
‘Did the buzzer usually go before the patient came down, or the other way about?’
‘Depends. Usually the patient would come down the stairs and then the buzzer would go. If they rang for the lift, that buzzer would go perhaps as I was bringing them down. But it wasn’t fixed in any way. Sometimes Mr Morley would be a few minutes before he rang for the next patient. If he was in a hurry, he’d ring as soon as they were out of the room.’
‘I see—’ Poirot paused and then went on:
‘Were you surprised at Mr Morley’s suicide, Alfred?’
‘Knocked all of a heap, I was. He hadn’t no call to go doing himself in as far as I can see—oh!’ Alfred’s eyes grew large and round. ‘Oo—er—he wasn’t murdered, was he?’
Poirot cut in before Japp could speak.
‘Supposing he were, would it surprise you less?’
‘Well, I don’t know, sir, I’m sure. I can’t see who’d want to murder Mr Morley. He was—well, he was a very ordinary gentleman, sir. Was he really murdered, sir?’
Poirot said gravely:
‘We have to take every possibility into account. That is why I told you you would be a very important witness and that you must try and recollect everything that happened this morning.’
He stressed the words and Alfred frowned with a prodigious effort of memory.
‘I can’t think of anything else, sir. I can’t indeed.’
Alfred’s tone was rueful.
‘Very good, Alfred. And you are quite sure no one except patients came to the house this morning?’
‘No stranger did, sir. That Miss Nevill’s young man came round—and in a rare taking not to find her here.’
Japp said sharply:
‘When was that?’
‘Some time after twelve it was. When I told him Miss Nevill was away for the day, he seemed very put out and he said he’d wait and see Mr Morley. I told him Mr Morley was busy right up to lunch time, but he said: Never mind, he’d wait.’
Poirot asked:
‘And did he wait?’
A startled look came into Alfred’s eyes. He said:
‘Cor—I never thought of that! He went into the waiting-room, but he wasn’t there later. He must have got tired of waiting, and thought he’d come back another time.’
When Alfred had gone out of the room, Japp said sharply:
‘D’you think it wise to suggest murder to that lad?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘I think so—yes. Anything suggestive that he may have seen or heard will come back to him under the stimulus, and he will be keenly alert to everything that goes on here.’
‘All the same, we don’t want it to get about too soon.’
‘Mon cher, it will not. Alfred reads detective stories—Alfred is enamoured of crime. Whatever Alfred lets slip will be put down to Alfred’s morbid criminal imagination.’
‘Well, perhaps you are right, Poirot. Now we’ve got to hear what Reilly has to say.’
Mr Reilly’s surgery and office were on the first floor. They were as spacious as the ones above but had less light in them, and were not quite so richly appointed.
Mr Morley’s partner was a tall, dark young man, with a plume of hair that fell untidily over his forehead. He had an attractive voice and a very shrewd eye.
‘We’re hoping, Mr Reilly,’ said Japp, after introducing himself, ‘that you can throw some light on this matter.’
‘You’re wrong then, because I can’t,’ replied the other. ‘I’d say this—that Henry Morley was the last person to go taking his own life. I might have done it—but he wouldn’t.’
‘Why might you have done it?’ asked Poirot.
‘Because I’ve oceans of worries,’ replied the other. ‘Money troubles, for one! I’ve never yet been able to suit my expenditure to my income. But Morley was a careful man. You’ll find no debts, nor money troubles, I’m sure of that.’
‘Love affairs?’ suggested Japp.
‘Is it Morley you mean? He had no joy of living at all! Right under his sister’s thumb he was, poor man.’
Japp went on to ask Reilly details about the patients he had seen that morning.
‘Oh, I fancy they’re all square and above-board. Little Betty Heath, she’s a nice child—I’ve had the whole family one after another. Colonel Abercrombie’s an old patient, too.’
‘What about Mr Howard Raikes?’ asked Japp.
Reilly grinned broadly.
‘The one who walked out on me? He’s never been to me before. I know nothing about him. He rang up and particularly asked for an appointment this morning.’
‘Where did he ring up from?’
‘Holborn Palace Hotel. He’s an American, I fancy.’
‘So Alfred said.’
‘Alfred should know,’ said Mr Reilly. ‘He’s a film fan, our Alfred.’
‘And your other patient?’
‘Barnes? A funny precise little man. Retired Civil Servant. Lives out Ealing way.’
Japp paused a minute and then said:
‘What can you tell us about Miss Nevill?’
Mr Reilly raised his eyebrows.
‘The bee-yewtiful blonde secretary? Nothing doing, old boy! Her relations with old Morley were perfectly pewer—I’m sure of it.’
‘I never suggested they weren’t,’ said Japp, reddening slightly.
‘My fault,’ said Reilly. ‘Excuse my filthy mind, won’t you? I thought it might be an attempt on your part to cherchez la femme.
‘Excuse me for speaking your language,’ he added parenthetically to Poirot. ‘Beautiful accent, haven’t I? It comes of being educated by nuns.’
Japp disapproved of this flippancy. He asked:
‘Do you know anything about the young man she is engaged to? His name is Carter, I understand. Frank Carter.’
‘Morley didn’t think much of him,’ said Reilly. ‘He tried to get la Nevill to turn him down.’
‘That might have annoyed Carter?’
‘Probably annoyed him frightfully,’ agreed Mr Reilly cheerfully.
He paused and then added:
‘Excuse me, this is a suicide you are investigating, not a murder?’
Japp said sharply:
‘If it were a murder, would you have anything to suggest?’
‘Not I! I’d like it to be Georgina! One of those grim females with temperance on the brain. But I’m afraid Georgina is full of moral rectitude. Of course I could easily have nipped upstairs and shot the old boy myself, but I didn’t. In fact, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Morley. But then I can’t conceive of his killing himself.’
He added—in a different voice:
‘As a matter of fact, I’m very sorry about it … You mustn’t judge by my manner. That’s just nervousness, you know. I was fond of old Morley and I shall miss him.’
Japp put down the telephone receiver. His face, as he turned to Poirot, was rather grim.
He said:
‘Mr Amberiotis isn’t feeling very well—would rather not see any one this afternoon.
‘He’s going to see me—and he’s not going to give me the slip either! I’ve got a man at the Savoy ready to trail him if he tries to make a get-away.’
Poirot said thoughtfully:
‘You think Amberiotis shot Morley?’
‘I don’t know. But he was the last person to see Morley alive. And he was a new patient. According to his story, he left Morley alive and well at twenty-five minutes past twelve. That may be true or it may not. If Morley was all right then we’ve got to reconstruct what happened next. There was still five minutes to go before his next appointment. Did someone come in and see him during that five minutes? Carter, say? Or Reilly? What happened? Depend upon it, by half-past twelve, or five-and-twenty to one at the latest, Morley was dead—otherwise he’d either have sounded his buzzer or else sent down word to Miss Kirby that he couldn’t see her. No, either he was killed, or else somebody told him something which upset the whole tenor of his mind, and he took his own life.’
He paused.
‘I’m going to have a word with every patient he saw this morning. There’s just the possibility that he may have said something to one of them that will put us on the right track.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘Mr Alistair Blunt said he could give me a few minutes at four-fifteen. We’ll go to him first. His house is on Chelsea Embankment. Then we might take the Sainsbury Seale woman on our way to Amberiotis. I’d prefer to know all we can before tackling our Greek friend. After that, I’d like a word or two with the American who, according to you “looked like murder”.’
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
‘Not murder—toothache.’
‘All the same, we’ll see this Mr Raikes. His conduct was queer to say the least of it. And we’ll check up on Miss Nevill’s telegram and on her aunt and on her young man. In fact, we’ll check up on everything and everybody!’
Alistair Blunt had never loomed large in the public eye. Possibly because he was himself a very quiet and retiring man. Possibly because for many years he had functioned as a Prince Consort rather than as a King.
Rebecca Sanseverato, née Arnholt, came to London a disillusioned woman of forty-five. On either side she came of the Royalty of wealth. Her mother was an heiress of the European family of Rothersteins. Her father was the head of the great American banking house of Arnholt. Rebecca Arnholt, owing to the calamitous deaths of two brothers and a cousin in an air accident, was sole heiress to immense wealth. She married a European aristocrat with a famous name, Prince Felipe di Sanseverato. Three years later she obtained a divorce and custody of the child of the marriage, having spent two years of wretchedness with a well-bred scoundrel whose conduct was notorious. A few years later her child died.
Embittered by her sufferings, Rebecca Arnholt turned her undoubted brains to the business of finance—the aptitude for it ran in her blood. She associated herself with her father in banking.
After his death she continued to be a powerful figure in the financial world with her immense holdings. She came to London—and a junior partner of the London house was sent to Claridge’s to see her with various documents. Six months later the world was electrified to hear that Rebecca Sanseverato was marrying Alistair Blunt, a man nearly twenty years younger than herself.
There were the usual jeers—and smiles. Rebecca, her friends said, was really an incurable fool where men were concerned! First Sanseverato—now this young man. Of course he was only marrying her for her money. She was in for a second disaster! But to everyone’s surprise the marriage was a success. The people who prophesied that Alistair Blunt would spend her money on other women were wrong. He remained quietly devoted to his wife. Even after her death, ten years later, when as inheritor of her vast wealth he might have been supposed to cut loose, he did not marry again. He lived the same quiet and simple life. His genius for finance had been no less than his wife’s. His judgements and dealings were sound—his integrity above question. He dominated the vast Arnholt and Rotherstein interests by his sheer ability.
He went very little into society, had a house in Kent and one in Norfolk where he spent weekends—not with gay parties, but with a few quiet stodgy friends. He was fond of golf and played moderately well. He was interested in his garden.
This was the man towards whom Chief Inspector Japp and Hercule Poirot were bouncing along in a somewhat elderly taxi.
The Gothic House was a well-known feature on Chelsea Embankment. Inside it was luxurious with an expensive simplicity. It was not very modern but it was eminently comfortable.
Alistair Blunt did not keep them waiting. He came to them almost at once.
‘Chief Inspector Japp?’
Japp came forward and introduced Hercule Poirot. Blunt looked at him with interest.
‘I know your name, of course, M. Poirot. And surely—somewhere—quite recently—’ he paused, frowning.
Poirot said:
‘This morning, Monsieur, in the waiting-room of ce pauvre M. Morley.’
Alistair Blunt’s brow cleared. He said:
‘Of course. I knew I had seen you somewhere.’ He turned to Japp. ‘What can I do for you? I am extremely sorry to hear about poor Morley.’
‘You were surprised, Mr Blunt?’
‘Very surprised. Of course I knew very little about him, but I should have thought him a most unlikely person to commit suicide.’
‘He seemed in good health and spirits then, this morning?’
‘I think so—yes.’ Alistair Blunt paused, then said with an almost boyish smile: ‘To tell you the truth, I’m a most awful coward about going to the dentist. And I simply hate that beastly drill thing they run into you. That’s why I really didn’t notice anything much. Not till it was over, you know, and I got up to go. But I must say Morley seemed perfectly natural then. Cheerful and busy.’
‘You have been to him often?’
‘I think this was my third or fourth visit. I’ve never had much trouble with my teeth until the last year. Breaking up, I suppose.’
Hercule Poirot asked:
‘Who recommended Mr Morley to you originally?’
Blunt drew his brows together in an effort of concentration.
‘Let me see now—I had a twinge—somebody told me Morley of Queen Charlotte Street was the man to go to—no, I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. Sorry.’
Poirot said:
‘If it should come back to you, perhaps you will let one of us know?’
Alistair Blunt looked at him curiously.
He said:
‘I will—certainly. Why? Does it matter?’
‘I have an idea,’ said Poirot, ‘that it might matter very much.’
They were going down the steps of the house when a car drew up in front of it. It was a car of sporting build—one of those cars from which it is necessary to wriggle from under the wheel in sections.
The young woman who did so appeared to consist chiefly of arms and legs. She had finally dislodged herself as the men turned to walk down the street.
The girl stood on the pavement looking after them. Then, suddenly and vigorously, she ejaculated, ‘Hi!’
Not realizing that the call was addressed to them, neither man turned, and the girl repeated: ‘Hi! Hi! You there!’
They stopped and looked round inquiringly. The girl walked towards them. The impression of arms and legs remained. She was tall, thin, and her face had an intelligence and aliveness that redeemed its lack of actual beauty. She was dark with a deeply tanned skin.
She was addressing Poirot:
‘I know who you are—you’re the detective man, Hercule Poirot!’ Her voice was warm and deep, with a trace of American accent.
Poirot said:
‘At your service, Mademoiselle.’
Her eyes went on to his companion.
Poirot said:
‘Chief Inspector Japp.’
Her eyes widened—almost it seemed with alarm. She said, and there was a slight breathlessness in her voice:
‘What have you been doing here? Nothing—nothing has happened to Uncle Alistair, has it?’
Poirot said quickly:
‘Why should you think so, Mademoiselle?’
‘It hasn’t? Good.’
Japp took up Poirot’s question. ‘Why should you think anything had happened to Mr Blunt, Miss—’
He paused inquiringly.
The girl said mechanically:
‘Olivera. Jane Olivera.’ Then she gave a slight and rather unconvincing laugh. ‘Sleuths on the doorstep rather suggest bombs in the attic, don’t they?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Mr Blunt, I’m thankful to say, Miss Olivera.’
She looked directly at Poirot.
‘Did he call you in about something?’
Japp said:
‘We called on him, Miss Olivera, to see if he could throw any light on a case of suicide that occurred this morning.’
She said sharply:
‘Suicide? Whose? Where?’
‘A Mr Morley, a dentist, of 58, Queen Charlotte Street.’
‘Oh!’ said Jane Olivera blankly. ‘Oh!—’ She stared ahead of her, frowning. Then she said unexpectedly:
‘Oh, but that’s absurd!’ And turning on her heel she left them abruptly and without ceremony, running up the steps of the Gothic House and letting herself in with a key.
‘Well!’ said Japp, staring after her, ‘that’s an extraordinary thing to say.’
‘Interesting,’ observed Poirot mildly.
Japp pulled himself together, glanced at his watch and hailed an approaching taxi.
‘We’ll have time to take the Sainsbury Seale on our way to the Savoy.’
Miss Sainsbury Seale was in the dimly lit lounge of the Glengowrie Court Hotel having tea.
She was flustered by the appearance of a police officer in plain clothes—but her excitement was of a pleasurable nature, he observed. Poirot noticed, with sorrow, that she had not yet sewn the buckle on her shoe.
‘Really, officer,’ fluted Miss Sainsbury Seale, glancing round, ‘I really don’t know where we could go to be private. So difficult—just tea-time—but perhaps you would care for some tea—and—and your friend?’
‘Not for me, Madam,’ said Japp. ‘This is M. Hercule Poirot.’
‘Really?’ said Miss Sainsbury Seale. ‘Then perhaps—you’re sure—you won’t either of you have tea? No. Well, perhaps we might try the drawing-room, though that’s very often full—Oh, I see, there is a corner over there—in the recess. The people are just leaving. Shall we go there—’
She led the way to the comparative seclusion of a sofa and two chairs in an alcove. Poirot and Japp followed her, the former picking up a scarf and a handkerchief that Miss Sainsbury Seale had shed en route.
He restored them to her.
‘Oh, thank you—so careless of me. Now please, Inspector—No, Chief Inspector, isn’t it?—do ask me anything you like. So distressing, the whole business. Poor man—I suppose he had something on his mind? Such worrying times we live in!’
‘Did he seem to you worried, Miss Sainsbury Seale?’
‘Well—’ Miss Sainsbury Seale reflected, and finally said unwillingly:
‘I can’t really say, you know, that he did! But then perhaps I shouldn’t notice—not under the circumstances. I’m afraid I’m rather a coward, you know.’ Miss Sainsbury Seale tittered a little and patted her bird’s-nest-like curls.
‘Can you tell us who else was in the waiting-room while you were there?’
‘Now let me see—there was just one young man there when I went in. I think he was in pain because he was muttering to himself and looking quite wild and turning over the leaves of a magazine just anyhow. And then suddenly he jumped up and went out. Really acute toothache he must have had.’
‘You don’t know whether he left the house when he went out of the room?’
‘I don’t know at all. I imagined he just felt he couldn’t wait any longer and must see the dentist. But it couldn’t have been Mr Morley he was going to, because the boy came in and took me up to Mr Morley only a few minutes later.’
‘Did you go into the waiting-room again on your way out?’
‘No. Because, you see, I’d already put on my hat and straightened my hair up in Mr Morley’s room. Some people,’ went on Miss Sainsbury Seale, warming to her subject, ‘take off their hats downstairs in the waiting-room, but I never do. A most distressing thing happened to a friend of mine who did that. It was a new hat and she put it very carefully on a chair, and when she came down, would you believe it, a child had sat on it and squashed it flat. Ruined! Absolutely ruined!’
‘A catastrophe,’ said Poirot politely.
‘I blame the mother entirely,’ said Miss Sainsbury Seale judicially. ‘Mothers should keep an eye on their children. The little dears do not mean any harm, but they have to be watched.’
Japp said:
‘Then this young man with toothache was the only other patient you noticed at 58, Queen Charlotte Street.’
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