Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

"What about Mr. Howard Raikes?" asked Japp. Reilly grinned broadly.

"The one who walked out on me? He's never been to me before. I know nothing about him. He rang up and particularly asked for an appointment this morning."

"Where did he ring up from?"

"Holborn Palace Hotel. He's an American, I fancy."

"So Alfred said."

"Alfred should know," said Mr. Reilly. "He's a film fan, our Alfred."

"And your other patient?"

"Barnes? A funny precise little man. Retired civil servant. Lives out Ealing way."

Japp paused a minute and then said:

"What can you tell us about Miss Nevill?"

Mr. Reilly raised his eyebrows.

"The bee-yewtiful blond secretary? Nothing doing, old boy! Her relations with old Morley were perfectly pure – I'm sure of it."

"I never suggested they weren't," said Japp, reclining slightly.

"My fault," said Reilly. "Excuse my filthy mind, won't you? I thought it might be an attempt on your part to cherchez la femme."

"Excuse me for speaking your language," he added parenthetically to Poirot. "Beautiful accent, haven't I? It comes of being educated by nuns."

Japp disapproved of this flippancy. He asked:

"Do you know anything about the young man Miss Nevill is engaged to? His name is Carter, I understand. Frank Carter."

"Morley didn't think much of him," said Reilly. "He tried to get la Nevill to turn him down."

"That might have annoyed Carter?"

"Probably annoyed him frightfully," agreed Mr. Reilly cheerfully.

He paused and then added:

"Excuse me, this is a suicide you are investigating, not a murder?"

Japp said sharply:

"If it were a murder, would you have anything to suggest?"

"Not I! I'd like it to be Georgina! One of those grim females with temperance on the brain. But I'm afraid Georgina is full of moral rectitude. Of course, I could easily have nipped upstairs and shot the old boy myself, but I didn't. In fact, I can't imagine anyone wanting to kill Morley. But then I can't conceive of his killing himself."

He added – in a different voice:

"As a matter of fact, I'm very sorry about it. You mustn't judge by my manner. That's just nervousness, you know. I was fond of old Morley and I shall miss him."

Japp put down the telephone receiver. His face, as he turned to Poirot, was rather grim.

He said:

"Mr. Amberiotis isn't feeling very well – would rather not see anyone this afternoon. He's going to see me – and he's not going to give me the slip either! I've got a man at the Savoy ready to trail him if he tries to make a getaway."

Poirot said thoughtfully:

"You think Amberiotis shot Morley?"

"I don't know. But he was the last person to see Morley alive. And he was a new patient. According to his story, he left Morley alive and well at twenty-five minutes past twelve. That may be true or it may not. If Morley was all right then we've got to reconstruct what happened next. There was still five minutes to go before his next appointment. Did someone come in and see him during that five minutes? Carter, say? Or Reilly? What happened? Depend upon it, by half past twelve, or five and twenty to one at the latest, Morley was dead – otherwise he'd either have sounded his buzzer or else sent down word to Miss Kirby that he couldn't see her. No, either he was killed, or else somebody told him something which upset the whole tenor of his mind, and he took his own life."

He paused.

"I'm going to have a word with every patient he saw this morning. There's just the possibility that he may have said something to one of them that will put us on the right track."

He glanced at his watch.

"Mr. Alistair Blunt said he could give me a few minutes at 4:15. We'll go to him first. His house is on Chelsea Embankment. Then we might take the Sainsbury Seale woman on our way to Amberiotis. I'd prefer to know all we can before tackling our Greek friend. After that, I'd like a word or two with the American who, according to you, 'looked like murder.'"

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

"Not murder – toothache."

"All the same, we'll see this Mr. Raikes. His conduct was queer to say the least of it. And we'll check up on Miss Nevill's telegram and on her aunt and on her young man. In fact, we'll check up on everything and everybody!"

Alistair Blunt had never loomed large in the public eye. Possibly because he was himself a very quiet and retiring man. Possibly because for many years he had functioned as a Prince Consort rather than as a King.

Rebecca Sanseverato, neé Arnholt, came to London a disillusioned woman of forty-five. On either side she came of the Royalty of wealth. Her mother was an heiress of the European family of Rothersteins. Her father was the head of the great American banking house of Arnholt's. Rebecca Arnholt, owing to the calamitous deaths of two brothers and a cousin in an air accident, was sole heiress to immense wealth. She married a European aristocrat with a famous name, Prince Felipe di Sanseverato. Three years later she obtained a divorce and custody of the child of the marriage, having spent two years of wretchedness with a well-bred scoundrel whose conduct was notorious. A few years later her child died.

Embittered by her sufferings, Rebecca Arnholt turned her undoubted brains to the business of finance – the aptitude for it ran in her blood. She associated herself with her father in banking. After his death she continued to be a powerful figure in the financial world with her immense holdings. She came to London – and a junior partner of the London house was sent to Claridge's to see her with various documents. Six months later the world was electrified to hear that Rebecca Sanseverato was marrying Alistair Blunt, a man nearly twenty years younger than herself.

There were the usual jeers – and smiles. Rebecca, her friends said, was really an incurable fool where men were concerned! First Sanseverato – now this young man. Of course he was only marrying her for her money. She was in for a second disaster! But to everyone's surprise the marriage was a success. The people who prophesied that Alistair Blunt would spend her money on other women were wrong. He remained quietly devoted to his wife. Even after her death, ten years later, when as inheritor of her vast wealth he might have been supposed to cut loose, he did not marry again. He lived the same quiet and simple life. His genius for finance had been no less than his wife's. His judgments and dealings were sound – his integrity above question. He dominated the vast Arnholt and Rotherstein interests by his sheer ability.

He went very little into society, had a house in Kent and one in Norfolk where he spent week-ends – not with gay parties, but with a few quiet, stodgy friends. He was fond of golf and played moderately well. He was interested in his garden.

This was the man towards whom Chief Inspector Japp and Hercule Poirot were bouncing along in a somewhat elderly taxi.

The Gothic House was a well-known feature on Chelsea Embankment. Inside it was luxurious with an expensive simplicity. It was not very modern but it was eminently comfortable.

Alistair Blunt did not keep them waiting. He came to them almost at once.

"Chief Inspector Japp?"

Japp came forward and introduced Hercule Poirot. Blunt looked at him with interest.

"I know your name, of course, M. Poirot. And surely – somewhere – quite recently -" He paused, frowning.

Poirot said:

"This morning, Monsieur, in the waiting room of ce pauvre M. Morley."

Alistair Blunt's brow cleared. He said:

"Of course. I knew I had seen you somewhere."

He turned to Japp.

"What can I do for you? I am extremely sorry to hear about poor Morley."