Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

"But then – Oh! You've got me all tangled up. Why are you so anxious to see him?"

"To satisfy myself," said Hercule Poirot.

And he would say no more.

Frank Carter, haggard, white-faced, still feebly inclined to bluster, looked on his unexpected visitor with unconcealed disfavor. He said rudely:

"So it's you, you ruddy little foreigner? What do you want?"

"I want to see you and talk to you."

"Well, you see me all right. But I won't talk. Not without my lawyer. That's right, isn't it? You can't go against that. I've got the right to have my solicitor present before I say a word."

"Certainly you have. You can send for him if you like – but I should prefer that you did not."

"I daresay. Think you're going to trap me into making some damaging admissions, eh?"

"We are quite alone, remember."

"That's a bit unusual, isn't it? Got your Police pals listening in, I've no doubt."

"You are wrong. This is a private interview between you and me."

Frank Carter laughed. He looked cunning and unpleasant. He said:

"Come off it! You don't take me in with that old gag."

"Do you remember a girl called Agnes Fletcher?"

"Never heard of her."

"I think you will remember her, though you may never have taken much notice of her. She was houseparlormaid at 58 Queen Charlotte Street."

"Well, what of it?"

Hercule Poirot said slowly:

"On the morning of the day that Mr. Morley was shot, this girl Agnes happened to look over the banisters from the top floor. She saw you on the stairs – waiting and listening. Presently she saw you go along to Mr. Morley's room. The time was then twenty-six minutes or thereabouts past twelve."

Frank Carter trembled violently. Sweat came out on his brow. His eyes, more furtive than ever, went wildly from side to side. He shouted angrily:

"It's a lie! It's a damned lie! You've paid her – the police have paid her – to say she saw me."

"At that time," said Hercule Poirot, "by your own account, you had left the house and were walking in the Marylebone Road."

"So I was. That girl's lying. She couldn't have seen me. It's a dirty plot. If it's true, why didn't she say so before?"

Hercule Poirot said quietly:

"She did mention it at the time to her friend and colleague the cook. They were worried and puzzled and didn't know what to do. When a verdict of suicide was brought in they were much relieved and decided that it wasn't necessary for them to say anything."

"I don't believe a word of it! They're in it together, that's all. A couple of dirty, lying little…"

He tailed off into furious profanity.

Hercule Poirot waited.

When Carter's voice at last ceased, Poirot spoke again, still in the same calm, measured voice.

"Anger and foolish abuse will not help you. These girls are going to tell their story and it is going to be believed. Because, you see, they are telling the truth. The girl, Agnes Fletcher, did see you. You were there on the stairs at that time. You had not left the house. And you did go into Mr. Morley's room."

He paused and then asked quietly: "What happened then?."

"It's a lie, I tell you!"

Hercule Poirot felt very tired – very old. He did not like Frank Carter. He disliked him very much. In his opinion Frank Carter was a bully, a liar, a swindler – altogether the type of young man the world could well do without. He, Hercule Poirot, had only to stand back and let this young man persist in his lies and the world would be rid of one of its more unpleasant inhabitants…

Hercule Poirot said:

"I suggest that you tell me the truth…"

He realized the issue very clearly. Frank Carter was stupid – but he wasn't so stupid as not to see that to persist in his denial was his best and safest course.

Let him once admit that he had gone into that room at twenty-six minutes past twelve and he was taking a step into grave danger. For after that, any story he told would have a good chance of being considered a lie.

Let him persist in his denial, then. If so, Hercule Poirot's duty would be over. Frank Carter would in all probability be hanged for the murder of Henry Morley – and it might be, justly hanged.

Hercule Poirot had only to get up and go. Frank Carter said again:

"It's a lie!"

There was a pause. Hercule Poirot did not get up and go. He would have liked to do so – very much.

Nevertheless, he remained.

He leaned forward. He said – and his voice held all the compelling force of his powerful personality -

"I am not lying to you. I ask you to believe me. If you did not kill Morley your only hope is to tell me the exact truth of what happened that morning."

The mean, treacherous face looking at him, wavered, became uncertain. Frank Carter pulled at his lip. His eyes went from side to side, terrified frankly animal eyes.

It was touch and go now…

Then suddenly, overborne by the strength of the personality confronting him, Frank Carter surrendered.

He said hoarsely:

"All right, then – I'll tell you. God curse you if you let me down now! I did go in… I went up the stairs and waited till I could be sure of getting him alone. Waited there, up above Morley's landing. Then a gent came out and went down – fat gent. I was just making up my mind to go – when another gent came out of Morley's room and went down too. I knew I'd got to be quick. I went along and nipped into his room without knocking. I was all set to have it out with him. Mucking about, putting my girl against me – damn him -"

He stopped.

"Yes?" said Hercule Poirot, and his voice was still urgent – compelling -

Carter's voice croaked uncertainly.

"And he was lying there – dead. It's true! I swear it's true! Lying just as they said at the inquest. I couldn't believe it at first. I stooped over him. But he was dead all right. His hand was stone cold and I saw the bullet hole in his head with a crust of blood round it."

At the memory of it, sweat broke out on his forehead again.

"I saw then I was in a jam. They'd go and say I'd done it. I hadn't touched anything except his hand and the door-handle. I wiped that with my handkerchief, both sides, as I went out, and I stole down stairs as quickly as I could. There was nobody in the hall and I let myself out and legged it away as fast as I could. No wonder I felt queer."

He paused. His scared eyes went to Poirot.

"That's the truth, I swear that's the truth. He was dead already. You've got to believe me!"

Poirot got up. He said – and his voice was tired and sad – "I believe you."

He moved towards the door.

Frank Carter cried out:

"They'll hang me – they'll hang me for sure if they know that I was in there."

Poirot said:

"By telling the truth you have saved yourself from being hanged."

"I don't see it. They'll say -"

Poirot interrupted him.

"Your story has confirmed what I knew to be the truth. You can leave it now to me."

He went out.

He was not at all happy.

He reached Mr. Barnes' house at Ealing at 6:45. He remembered that Mr. Barnes had called that a good time of day.

Mr. Barnes was at work in his garden.

He said by way of greeting:

"We need rain, M. Poirot – need it badly."

He looked thoughtfully at his guest. He said:

"You don't look very well, M. Poirot?"

"Sometimes," said Hercule Poirot, "I do not like the things I have to do."

Mr. Barnes nodded his head sympathetically.

He said:

"I know."

Hercule Poirot looked vaguely round at the neat arrangement of the small beds. He murmured:

"It is well-planned, this garden. Everything is to scale. It is small but exact."

Mr. Barnes said: