One, Two, Buckle My Shoe. Агата Кристи
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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