One, Two, Buckle My Shoe, Page 2

  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.”

  Hercule Poirot descended, a free man.

  “Well, good-bye, 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

  I

  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.”

  II

  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. Fingerprints, 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 fingerprints 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 washbasin 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.”

  III

  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?”