Poirot sighed and rose. He said:
“I see, Mr. Raikes, that you are an idealist.”
“What if I am?”
“Too much of an idealist to care about the death of a dentist.”
Mr. Raikes said scornfully:
“What does the death of one miserable dentist matter?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“It does not matter to you. It matters to me. That is the difference between us.”
VII
Poirot arrived home to be informed by George that a lady was waiting to see him.
“She is—ahem—a little nervous, sir,” said George.
Since the lady had given no name Poirot was at liberty to guess. He guessed wrong, for the young woman who rose agitatedly from the sofa as he entered was the late Mr. Morley’s secretary, Miss Gladys Nevill.
“Oh, dear, M. Poirot. I am so sorry to worry you like this—and really I don’t know how I had the courage to come—I’m afraid you’ll think it very bold of me—and I’m sure I don’t want to take up your time—I know what time means to a busy professional man—but really I have been so unhappy—only I daresay you will think it all a waste of time—”
Profiting by a long experience of the English people, Poirot suggested a cup of tea. Miss Nevill’s reaction was all that could be hoped for.
“Well, really, M. Poirot, that’s very kind of you. Not that it’s so very long since breakfast, but one can always do with a cup of tea, can’t one?”
Poirot, who could always do without one, assented mendaciously. George was instructed to this effect, and in a miraculously short time Poirot and his visitor faced each other across a tea tray.
“I must apologize to you,” said Miss Nevill, regaining her aplomb under the influence of the beverage, “but as a matter of fact the inquest yesterday upset me a good deal.”
“I’m sure it must have done,” said Poirot kindly.
“There was no question of my giving evidence, or anything like that. But I felt somebody ought to go with Miss Morley. Mr. Reilly was there, of course—but I meant a woman. Besides, Miss Morley doesn’t like Mr. Reilly. So I thought it was my duty to go.”
“That was very kind of you,” said Poirot encouragingly.
“Oh, no, I just felt I had to. You see, I have worked for Mr. Morley for quite a number of years now—and the whole thing was a great shock to me—and of course the inquest made it worse—”
“I’m afraid it must have done.”
Miss Nevill leaned forward earnestly.
“But it’s all wrong, M. Poirot. It really is all wrong.”
“What is wrong, Mademoiselle?”
“Well, it just couldn’t have happened—not the way they make out—giving a patient an overdose in injecting the gum, I mean.”
“You think not.”
“I’m sure about it. Occasionally patients do suffer ill effects, but that is because they are physiologically unfit subjects—their heart action isn’t normal. But I’m sure that an overdose is a very rare thing. You see practitioners get so into the habit of giving the regulation amount that it is absolutely mechanical—they’d give the right dose automatically.”
Poirot nodded approvingly. He said:
“That is what I thought myself, yes.”
“It’s so standardized, you see. It’s not like a chemist who is making up different amounts the whole time, or multiplying dosage where an error might creep in through inattention. Or a doctor who writes a great many different prescriptions. But a dentist isn’t like that at all.”
Poirot asked:
“You did not ask to be allowed to make these observations in the Coroner’s Court?”
Gladys Nevill shook her head. She twisted her fingers uncertainly.
“You see,” she broke out at last, “I was afraid of—of making things worse. Of course I know that Mr. Morley wouldn’t do such a thing—but it might make people think that he had done it deliberately.”
Poirot nodded.
Gladys Nevill said:
“That’s why I came to you, M. Poirot. Because with you it—it wouldn’t be official in any way. But I do think somebody ought to know how—how unconvincing the whole thing is!”
“Nobody wants to know,” said Poirot.
She stared at him, puzzled.
Poirot said:
“I should like to know a little more about that telegram you received, summoning you away that day.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what to think about that, M. Poirot. It does seem so queer. You see, it must have been sent by someone who knew all about me—and Aunt—where she lived and everything.”
“Yes, it would seem as though it must have been sent by one of your intimate friends, or by someone who lived in the house and knew all about you.”
“None of my friends would do such a thing, M. Poirot.”
“You have no ideas yourself on the subject?”
The girl hesitated. She said slowly:
“Just at first, when I realized that Mr. Morley had shot himself, I wondered if he could possibly have sent it.”
“You mean, out of consideration for you, to get you out of the way?”
The girl nodded.
“But that really seemed a fantastic idea, even if he had got the idea of suicide in his mind that morning. It’s really very odd. Frank—my friend, you know—was quite absurd at first about it. He accused me of wanting to go off for the day with somebody else—as though I would do such a thing.”
“Is there somebody else?”
“No, of course there isn’t. But Frank has been so different lately—so moody and suspicious. Really, you know, it was losing his job and not being able to get another. Just hanging about is so bad for a man. I’ve been very worried about Frank.”
“He was upset, was he not, to find you had gone away that day?”
“Yes, you see, he came round to tell me he had got a new job—a marvellous job—ten pounds a week. And he couldn’t wait. He wanted me to know right away. And I think he wanted Mr. Morley to know, too, because he’d been very hurt at the way Mr. Morley didn’t appreciate him, and he suspected Mr. Morley of trying to influence me against him.”
“Which was true, was it not?”
“Well, yes, it was, in a way! Of course, Frank has lost a good many jobs and he hasn’t been, perhaps, what most people would call very steady. But it will be different now. I think one can do so much by influence, don’t you, M. Poirot? If a man feels a woman expects a lot of him, he tries to live up to her ideal of him.”
Poirot sighed. But he did not argue. He had heard many hundreds of women produce that same argument, with the same blithe belief in the redeeming power of a woman’s love. Once in a thousand times, he supposed, cynically, it might be true.
He merely said:
“I should like to meet this friend of yours.”
“I’d love to have you meet him, M. Poirot. But just at present Sunday is his only free day. He’s away in the country all the week, you see.”
“Ah, on the new job. What is the job, by the way?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know, M. Poirot. Something in the secretarial line, I imagine. Or some government department. I know I have to send letters to Frank’s London address and they get forwarded.”
“That is a little odd, is it not?”
“Well, I thought so—but Frank says it is often done nowadays.”
Poirot looked at her for a moment or two without speaking.
Then he said deliberately:
“Tomorrow is Sunday, is it not? Perhaps you would both give me the pleasure of lunching with me—at Logan’s Corner House? I should like to discuss this sad business with you both.”
“Well—thank you, M. Poirot. I—yes, I’m sure we’d like to lunch with you very much.”
VIII
Frank Carter was a fair young man of medium height. His appearance was cheaply smart. He talked readily and fluently. His eyes were set rather close together and t
hey had a way of shifting uneasily from side to side when he was embarrassed.
He was inclined to be suspicious and slightly hostile.
“I’d no idea we were to have the pleasure of lunching with you, M. Poirot. Gladys didn’t tell me anything about it.”
He shot her a rather annoyed glance as he spoke.
“It was only arranged yesterday,” said Poirot, smiling. “Miss Nevill is very upset by the circumstances of Mr. Morley’s death and I wondered if we put our heads together—”
Frank Carter interrupted him rudely.
“Morley’s death? I’m sick of Morley’s death! Why can’t you forget him, Gladys? There wasn’t anything so wonderful about him that I can see.”
“Oh, Frank, I don’t think you ought to say that. Why, he left me a hundred pounds. I got the letter about it last night.”
“That’s all right,” admitted Frank grudgingly. “But after all, why shouldn’t he? He worked you like a nigger—and who pocketed all the fat fees? Why, he did!”
“Well, of course he did—he paid me a very good salary.”
“Not according to my ideas! You’re too humble altogether, Gladys, my girl, you let yourself be put upon, you know. I sized Morley up all right. You know as well as I do that he tried his best to get you to give me the chuck.”
“He didn’t understand.”
“He understood all right. The man’s dead now—otherwise I can tell you I’d have given him a piece of my mind.”
“You actually came round to do so on the morning of his death, did you not?” Hercule Poirot inquired gently.
Frank Carter said angrily:
“Who’s been saying so?”
“You did come round, did you not?”
“What if I did? I wanted to see Miss Nevill here.”
“But they told you she was away.”
“Yes, and that made me pretty suspicious, I can tell you. I told that red-headed oaf I’d wait and see Morley myself. This business of putting Gladys against me had gone on long enough. I meant to tell Morley that, instead of being a poor unemployed rotter, I’d landed a good job and that it was about time Gladys handed in her notice and thought about her trousseau.”
“But you did not actually tell him so?”
“No, I got tired of waiting in that dingy mausoleum. I went away.”
“What time did you leave?”
“I can’t remember.”
“What time did you arrive then?”
“I don’t know. Soon after twelve, I should imagine.”
“And you stayed half an hour—or longer—or less than half an hour?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. I’m not the sort of chap who’s always looking at a clock.”
“Was there anyone in the waiting room while you were there?”
“There was an oily fat bloke when I went in, but he wasn’t there long. After that I was alone.”
“Then you must have left before half past twelve—for at that time a lady arrived.”
“Daresay I did. The place got on my nerves as I tell you.”
Poirot eyed him thoughtfully.
The bluster was uneasy—it did not ring quite true. And yet that might be explained by mere nervousness.
Poirot’s manner was simple and friendly as he said:
“Miss Nevill tells me that you have been very fortunate and have found a very good job indeed.”
“The pay’s good.”
“Ten pounds a week, she tells me.”
“That’s right. Not too dusty, is it? Shows I can pull it off when I set my mind to it.”
He swaggered a little.
“Yes, indeed. And the work is not too arduous?”
Frank Carter said shortly:
“Not too bad.”
“And interesting?”
“Oh, yes, quite interesting. Talking of jobs, I’ve always been interested to know how you private detectives go about things? I suppose there’s not much of the Sherlock Holmes touch really, mostly divorce nowadays?”
“I do not concern myself with divorce.”
“Really? Then I don’t see how you live.”
“I manage, my friend, I manage.”
“But you’re right at the top of the tree, aren’t you, M. Poirot?” put in Gladys Nevill. “Mr. Morley used to say so. I mean you’re the sort of person Royalty calls in, or the Home Office or Duchesses.”
Poirot smiled upon her.
“You flatter me,” he said.
IX
Poirot walked home through the deserted streets in a thoughtful frame of mind.
When he got in, he rang up Japp.
“Forgive my troubling you, my friend, but did you ever do anything in the matter of tracing that telegram that was sent to Gladys Nevill?”
“Still harping on the subject? Yes, we did, as a matter of fact. There was a telegram and—rather clever—the aunt lives at Richbourne in Somerset. The telegram was handed in at Richbarn—you know, the London suburb.”
Hercule Poirot said appreciatively:
“That was clever—yes, that was clever. If the recipient happened to glance at where the telegram was handed in, the word would look sufficiently like Richbourne to carry conviction.”
He paused.
“Do you know what I think, Japp?”
“Well?”
“There are signs of brains in this business.”
“Hercule Poirot wants it to be murder, so it’s got to be murder.”
“How do you explain that telegram?”
“Coincidence. Someone was hoaxing the girl.”
“Why should they?”
“Oh, my goodness, Poirot, why do people do things? Practical jokes, hoaxes. Misplaced sense of humour, that’s all.”
“And somebody felt like being funny just on the day that Morley was going to make a mistake over an injection.”
“There may have been a certain amount of cause and effect. Because Miss Nevill was away, Morley was more rushed than usual and consequently was more likely to make a mistake.”
“I am still not satisfied.”
“I daresay—but don’t you see where your view is leading you? If anybody got la Nevill out of the way, it was probably Morley himself. Making his killing of Amberiotis deliberate and not an accident.”
Poirot was silent. Japp said:
“You see?”
Poirot said:
“Amberiotis might have been killed in some other way.”
“Not he. Nobody came to see him at the Savoy. He lunched up in his room. And the doctors say the stuff was definitely injected, not taken by mouth—it wasn’t in the stomach. So there you are. It’s a clear case.”
“That is what we are meant to think.”
“The A.C. is satisfied anyway.”
“And he is satisfied with the disappearing lady?”
“The Case of the Vanishing Seal? No, I can tell you, we’re still working on that. That woman’s got to be somewhere. You just can’t walk out into the street and disappear.”
“She seems to have done so.”
“For the moment. But she must be somewhere, alive or dead, and I don’t think she is dead.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’d have found her body by now.”
“Oh, my Japp, do bodies always come to light so soon?”
“I suppose you’re hinting that she’s been murdered now and that we’ll find her in a quarry, cut up in little pieces like Mrs. Ruxton?”
“After all, mon ami, you do have missing persons who are not found.”
“Very seldom, old boy. Lots of women disappear, yes, but we usually find ’em, all right. Nine times out of ten it’s a case of good old sex. They’re somewhere with a man. But I don’t think it could be that with our Mabelle, do you?”
“One never knows,” said Poirot cautiously. “But I do not think it likely. So you are sure of finding her?”
“We’ll find her all right. We’re publishing a description of her to the Press and we
’re roping in the B.B.C.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “I fancy that may bring developments.”
“Don’t worry, old boy. We’ll find your missing beauty for you—woollen underwear and all.”
He rang off.
George entered the room with his usual noiseless tread. He set down on a little table a steaming pot of chocolate and some sugar biscuits.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“I am in great perplexity of mind, Georges.”
“Indeed, sir? I am sorry to hear it.”
Hercule Poirot poured himself out some chocolate and stirred his cup thoughtfully.
George stood deferentially waiting, recognizing the signs. There were moments when Hercule Poirot discussed his cases with his valet. He always said that he found George’s comments singularly helpful.
“You are aware, no doubt, Georges, of the death of my dentist?”
“Mr. Morley, sir? Yes, sir. Very distressing, sir. He shot himself, I understand.”
“That is the general understanding. If he did not shoot himself, he was murdered.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The question is, if he was murdered, who murdered him?”
“Quite so, sir.”
“There are only a certain number of people, Georges, who could have murdered him. That is to say the people who were actually in, or could have been in, the house at the time.”
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