Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Mr. Barnes said:

"I do. It's not easy to get at one of these big men, you know. They're fairly well protected. The car stunt is risky and doesn't always succeed. But a man is defenseless enough in a dentist's chair."

He took off his pince-nez, polished them and put them on again. He said:

"That's my theory! Morley wouldn't do the job. He knew too much, though, so they had to put him out."

"They?" asked Poirot.

"When I say they – I mean the organization that's behind all this. Only one person actually did the job, of course."

"Which person?"

"Well, I could make a guess," said Mr. Barnes, "but it's only a guess and I might be wrong."

Poirot said quietly:

"Reilly?"

"Of course! He's the obvious person. I think that probably they never asked Morley to do the job himself. What he was to do, was to turn Blunt over to his partner at the last minute. Sudden illness, something of that sort. Reilly would have done the actual business – and there would have been another regrettable accident – death of a famous banker – unhappy young dentist in court in such a state of dither and misery that he would have been let down lightly. He'd have given up dentistry afterwards – and settled down somewhere on a nice income of several thousands a year."

Mr. Barnes looked across at Poirot.

"Don't think I'm romancing," he said. "These things happen."

"Yes, yes, I know they happen."

Mr. Barnes went on, tapping a book with a lurid jacket that lay on a table close at hand:

"I read a lot of these spy yarns. Fantastic, some of them. But curiously enough they're not any more fantastic than the real thing. There are beautiful adventuresses, and dark sinister men with foreign accents, and gangs and international associations and supercrooks! I'd blush to see some of the things I know set down in print – nobody would believe them for a minute!"

Poirot said:

"In your theory, where does Amberiotis come in?"

"I'm not quite sure. I think he was meant to take the rap. He's played a double game more than once and I daresay he was framed. That's only an idea, mind."

Hercule Poirot said quietly:

"Granting that your ideas are correct – what will happen next?"

Mr. Barnes rubbed his nose.

"They'll try to get him again," he said. "Oh, yes. They'll have another try. Time's short. Blunt has got people looking after him, I daresay. They'll have to be extra careful. It won't be a man hiding in a bush with a pistol. Nothing so crude as that. You tell 'em to look out for the respectable people – the relations, the old servants, the chemist's assistant who makes up a medicine, the wine merchant who sells him his port. Getting Alistair Blunt out of the way is worth a great many millions, and it's wonderful what people will do for – say, a nice little income of four thousand a year!"

"As much as that?"

"Possibly more… "

Poirot was silent a moment, then he said:

"I have had Reilly in mind from the first."

"Irish? I.R.A.?"

"Not that so much but there was a mark, you see, on the carpet, as though the body had been dragged along it. But if Morley was shot by a patient he would be shot in the surgery and there would be no need to move the body. That is why, from the first, I suspected that he had been shot, not in the surgery, but in his office – next door. That would mean that it was not a patient who shot him, but some member of his own household."

"Neat," said Mr. Barnes appreciatively.

Hercule Poirot got up and held out a hand.

"Thank you," he said. "You have helped me a great deal."

On his way home, Poirot called in at the Glengowrie Court Hotel.

As a result of that visit he rang up Japp very early the following morning.

"Bonjour, mon ami. The inquest is today, is it not?"

"It is. Are you going to attend?"

"I do not think so."

"It won't really be worth your while, I expect."

"Are you calling Miss Sainsbury Seale as a witness?"

"The lovely Mabelle – why can't she just spell it plain Mabel? These women get my goat! No, I'm not calling her. There's no need."

"You have heard nothing from her?"

"No, why should I?"

Hercule Poirot said:

"I wondered, that was all. Perhaps it may interest you to learn that Miss Sainsbury Seale walked out of the Glengowrie Court Hotel just before dinner the night before last – and did not come back."

"What? She's hooked it?"

"That is a possible explanation."

"But why should she? She's quite all right, know. Perfectly genuine and aboveboard. I cabled to Calcutta about her – that was before I knew the reason for Amberiotis' death, otherwise I shouldn't have bothered – and I got the reply last night. Everything O.K. She's been known there for years, and her whole account of herself is true – except that she slurred over her marriage a bit. Married a Hindu student and then found he'd got a few attachments already. So she resumed her maiden name and took to good works. She's hand in gloves with the missionaries – teaches elocution and helps in amateur dramatic shows. In fact, what I call a terrible woman – but definitely above suspicion of being mixed up in a murder. And now you say she's walked out on us! I can't understand it."

He paused a minute and then went on doubtfully:

"Perhaps she just got fed up with that hotel? I could have easily."

Poirot said:

"Her luggage is still there. She took nothing with her."

Japp swore.

"When did she go?"

"About a quarter to seven."

"What about the hotel people?"

"They're very upset. Manageress looked quite distraught."

"Why didn't they report to the police?"

"Because, mon cher, supposing that a lady does happen to stay out for a night (however unlikely it may seem from her appearance) she will be justifiably annoyed by finding on her return that the police have been called in. Mrs. Harrison, the manageress in question, called up various hospitals in case there had been an accident. She was considering notifying the police when I called. My appearance seemed to her like an answer to prayer. I charged myself with everything, and explained that I would enlist the help of a very discreet police officer."

"The discreet police officer being yours truly, I suppose?"

"You suppose rightly."

Japp groaned:

"All right. I'll meet you at the Glengowrie Court Hotel after the inquest."

Japp grumbled as they were waiting for the manageress.

"What does the woman want to disappear for?"

"It is curious, you admit?"

They had no time for more.

Mrs. Harrison, proprietor of the Glengowrie Court, was with them.

Mrs. Harrison was voluble and almost tearful. She was so worried about Miss Sainsbury Seale. What could have happened to her? Rapidly she went over every possibility of disaster. Loss of memory, sudden illness, hemorrhage, run down by an omnibus, robbery and assault -

She paused at last for breath, murmuring:

"Such a nice type of woman – and she seemed so happy and comfortable here."

She took them, at Japp's request, up to the chaste bedroom occupied by the missing lady. Everything was neat and orderly. Clothes hung in the wardrobe, night-clothes were folded ready on the bed, in a corner were Miss Sainsbury Seale's two modest suitcases.

A row of shoes stood under the dressing table – some serviceable Oxfords, two pairs of rather meretricious glacé fancy shoes with court heels and ornamented with bows of leather, some plain black satin evening shoes, practically new, and a pair of moccasins. Poirot noted that the evening shoes were a size smaller than the day ones – a fact that might be put down to corns or to vanity. He wondered whether Miss Sainsbury Seale had found time to sew the second buckle on her shoe before she went out. He hoped so. Slovenliness in dress always annoyed him.