Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Poirot said:

"Where did you go when you went so abruptly out of the waiting room?"

"Left the house, of course."

"Ah!" Poirot looked up at the ceiling. "But nobody saw you leave, Mr. Raikes."

"Does that matter?"

"It might. Somebody died in that house not long afterwards, remember."

Raikes said carelessly:

"Oh, you mean the dentist fellow."

Poirot's tone was hard as he said:

"Yes, I mean the dentist fellow."

Raikes stared. He said:

"You trying to pin that on me? Is that the game? Well, you can't do it. I've just read the account of the inquest yesterday. The poor devil shot himself because he'd made a mistake with a local anaesthetic and one of his patients died."

Poirot went on unmoved:

"Can you prove that you left the house when you say you did? Is there anyone who can say definitely where you were between twelve and one?"

The other's eyes narrowed.

"So you are trying to pin it on me? I suppose Blunt put you up to this?"

Poirot sighed. He said:

"You will pardon me, but it seems an obsession with you – this persistent harping on Mr. Alistair Blunt. I am not employed by him, I never have been employed by him. I am concerned, not with his safety, but with the death of a man who did good work in his chosen profession."

Raikes shook his head.

"Sorry," he said. "I don't believe you. You're Blunt's private dick all right." His face hardened as he leaned across the table. "But you can't save him, you know. He's got to go – he and everything he stands for! There's got to be a new deal – the old corrupt system of finance has got to go – this cursed net of bankers all over the world like a spider's web. They've got to be swept away. I've nothing against Blunt personally – but he's the type of man I hate. He's mediocre – he's smug. He's the sort you can't move unless you use dynamite. He's the sort of man who says, 'You can't disrupt the foundations of civilization.' Can't you, though? Let him wait and see! He's an obstruction in the way of progress and he's got to be removed. There's no room in the world today for men like Blunt – men who hark back to the past – men who want to live as their fathers lived or even as their grandfathers lived! You've got a lot of them here in England – crusted old die-hards – useless worn-out symbols of a decayed era. And my God, they've got to go! There's got to be a new world. Do you get me – a new world, see?"

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."

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 usual 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," 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 and of course the inquest made it worse -"

"I'm afraid it must have."

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 – 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 a somebody else?"

Miss Nevill blushed.

"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."