Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Poirot was silent. Japp said:

"You see?"

Poirot said:

"Amberiotis might have been killed 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 Sal? No, I can tell you, we're still working on that. That woman's got to be somewhere. You can't just 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 Mabel, 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, George."

"Indeed, sir? I am sorry to hear it."

Hercule Poirot poured himself out some chocolate and stirred it 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, George, 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, George, 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."

"Quite so, sir."

"Those people are: a cook and a housemaid, amiable domestics and highly unlikely to do anything of the kind. A devoted sister, also highly unlikely, but who does inherit her brother's money such as it is – and one can never entirely neglect the financial aspect. An able and efficient partner – no motive known. A somewhat bone-headed page boy addicted to cheap crime stories. And lastly, a Greek gentleman of somewhat doubtful antecedents."

George coughed.

"These foreigners, sir -"

"Exactly. I agree perfectly. The Greek gentleman is decidedly indicated. But you see, George, the Greek gentleman also died and apparently it was Mr. Morley who killed him – whether by intention or as the result of an unfortunate error we cannot be sure."

"It might be, sir, that they killed each other. I mean, sir, each gentleman had formed the idea of doing the other gentleman in, though of course each gentleman was unaware of the other gentleman's intention."

Hercule Poirot purred approvingly.

"Very ingenious, George. The dentist murders the unfortunate gentleman who sits in the chair, not realizing that the said victim is at that moment meditating exactly at what moment to whip out his pistol. It could, of course, be so but it seems to me, George, extremely unlikely. And we have not come to the end of our list yet. There are still two other people which might possibly have been in the house at the given moment. Every patient before Mr. Amberiotis was actually seen to leave the house with the exception of one – a young American gentleman. He left the waiting room about twenty minutes to twelve, but no one actually saw him leave the house. We must therefore, count him as a possibility. The other possibility is certain Mr. Frank Carter (not a patient) who came to the house at a little after twelve with the intention of seeing Mr. Morley. Nobody saw him leave, either. Those, my good George, are the facts. What do you think of them?"

"At what time was the murder committed, sir?"

"If the murder was committed by Mr. Amberiotis it was committed at any time between twelve and five and twenty past. If by somebody else, it was committed after twenty-five minutes past twelve, otherwise Mr. Amberiotis would have noticed the corpse."

He looked encouragingly at George.

"Now, my good George, what have you to say about the matter?"

George pondered. He said:

"It strikes me, sir -"

"Yes, George?"

"You will have to find another dentist to attend to your teeth in future, sir."

Hercule Poirot said:

"You surpass yourself, George. That aspect of the matter had not as yet occurred to me!"

Looking gratified, George left the room.

Hercule Poirot remained sipping his chocolate and going over the facts he had just outlined. He felt satisfied that they were as he had stated them. Within that circle of persons was the hand that had actually done the deed – no matter whose the inspiration had been.

Then his eyebrows shot up as he realized that the list was incomplete. He had left out one name.

And no one must be left out – not even the most unlikely person.

There had been one other person in the house at the time of the murder.

He wrote down:

"Mr. Barnes."

George announced:

"A lady to speak to you on the telephone, sir."

A week ago, Poirot had guessed wrongly the identity of a visitor. This time his guess was right.

He recognized the voice at once.

"M. Hercule Poirot?"

"Speaking."

"This is Jane Olivera – Mr. Alistair Blunt's niece."

"Yes, Miss Olivera."

"Could you come to the Gothic House, please? There is something I feel you ought to know"

"Certainly. What time would be convenient?"

"At 6:30, please."

"I will be there."

"I hope I am not interrupting your work?"

"Not at all. I was expecting you to call me.

He put down the receiver quickly. He moved away smiling. He wondered what excuse Jane Olivera had found for summoning him.

On arrival at the Gothic House he was shown straight into the big library overlooking the river.

Alistair Blunt was sitting at the writing table playing absent-mindedly with a paper knife. He had the harrased look of a man whose womanfolk were to much for him.

Jane Olivera was standing by the mantelpiece. A plump middle-aged woman was saying fretfully as Poirot entered, "… I really think my feelings should be considered in the matter, Alistair."

"But Julia, of course, of course," said Alistair while he got up to greet Poirot.

"If you're going to talk horrors I shall leave the room," said the good lady.

"It's a good idea, mother," said Jane Olivera.

Mrs. Olivera swept from the room without condescending to take any notice of Poirot.

Alistair Blunt said:

"It's so good of you to come, M. Poirot. You've met Miss Olivera, I think? It was she who sent for you."

Jane said abruptly:

"It is about this missing woman that the papers are full of. Something Seale."