Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

"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 marvelous 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."

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 they 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 slave – 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.

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 humor, 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."