One, Two, Buckle My Shoe. Agatha Christie
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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