One, Two, Buckle My Shoe by Agatha Christie
“Quite so, sir.”
“Those people are: a cook and 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 was—and one can never entirely neglect the financial aspect. An able and efficient partner—no motive known. A somewhat boneheaded 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, Georges, 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, Georges. 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, Georges, extremely unlikely. And we have not come to the end of our list yet. There are still two other people who 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 at 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 a 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 Georges, 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, as otherwise Mr. Amberiotis would have noticed the corpse.”
He looked encouragingly at George.
“Now, my good Georges, what have you to say about the matter?”
George pondered. He said:
“It strikes me, sir—”
“Yes, Georges?”
“You will have to find another dentist to attend to your teeth in future, sir.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“You surpass yourself, Georges. 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.”
X
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 her 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 six thirty, please.”
“I will be there.”
For a moment the autocratic note wavered:
“I—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 from it 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 absentmindedly with a paper knife. He had the slightly harassed look of a man whose womenfolk have been too much for him.
Jane Olivera was standing by the mantelpiece. A plump middle-aged woman was speaking fretfully as Poirot entered—“and I really think my feelings should be considered in the matter, Alistair.”
“Yes, Julia, of course, of course.”
Alistair Blunt spoke soothingly as he rose to greet Poirot.
“And if you’re going to talk horrors I shall leave the room,” added the good lady.
“I should, mother,” said Jane Olivera.
Mrs. Olivera swept from the room without condescending to take any notice of Poirot.
Alistair Blunt said:
“It’s very 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’s about this missing woman that the papers are full of. Miss Something Seale.”
“Sainsbury Seale? Yes?”
Jane turned once more to Poirot.
“It’s such a pompous name, that’s why I remember. Shall I tell him, or will you, Uncle Alistair?”
“My dear, it’s your story.”
Jane turned once more to Poirot.
“It mayn’t be important in the least—but I thought you ought to know.”
“Yes?”
“It was the last time Uncle Alistair went to the dentist’s—I don’t mean the other day—I mean about three months ago. I went with him to Queen Charlotte Street in the Rolls and it was to take me on to some friends in Regent’s Park and come back for him. We stopped at 58, and Uncle got out, and just as he did, a woman came out of 58—a middle-aged woman with fussy hair and rather arty clothes. She made a beeline for Uncle and said (Jane Olivera’s voice rose to an affected squeak): ‘Oh, Mr. Blunt, you don’t remember me, I’m sure!’ Well, of course, I could see by Uncle’s face that he didn’t remember her in the slightest—”
Alistair Blunt sighed.
“I never do. People are always saying it—”
“He put on his special face,” went on Jane. “I know it well. Kind of polite and make-believe. It wouldn’t deceive a baby. He said in a most unconvincing voice: ‘Oh—er—of course.’ The terrible woman went on: ‘I was a great friend of your wife’s, you know!’”
“They usually say that, too,” said Alistair Blunt in a voice of even deeper gloom.
He smiled rather ruefully.
“It always ends the same way! A subscription to something or other. I got off this time with five pounds to a Zenana Mission or something. Cheap!”
“Had she really known your wife?”
“Well, her being interested in Zenana Missions made me think that, if so, it would have been in India. We were there about ten years ago. But, of course, she couldn’t have been a great friend or I’d have known about it. Probably met her once at a reception.”
Jane Olivera said:
“I don’t believe she’d ever met Aunt Rebecca at all. I think it was just an excuse to speak to you.”
Alistair Blunt said tolerantly:
“Well, that’s quite possible.”
Jane said:
“I mean, I think it’s queer the way she tried to scrape an acquaintance with you, Uncle.”
Alistair Blunt said with the same tolerance:
“She just wanted a subscription.”
Poirot said:
“She did not try to follow it up in any way?”
Blunt shook his head.
Jane said a little unconvincingly:
“Well, I thought M. Poirot ought to be told!”
Poirot said politely:
“Thank you, Mademoiselle.”
He added:
“I must not keep you, Mr. Blunt. You are a busy man.”
Jane said quickly:
“I’ll come down with you.”
Under his moustaches, Hercule Poirot smiled to himself.
On the ground floor, Jane paused abruptly. She said:
“Come in here.”
They went into a small room off the hall.
She turned to face him.
“What did you mean on the telephone when you said that you had been expecting me to call you?”
Poirot smiled. He spread out his hands.
“Just that, Mademoiselle. I was expecting a call from you—and the call came.”
“You mean that you knew I’d ring up about this Sainsbury Seale woman.”
Poirot shook his head.
“That was only the pretext. You could have found something else if necessary.”
Jane said:
“Why the hell should I call you up?”
“Why should you deliver this titbit of information about Miss Sainsbury Seale to me instead of giving it to Scotland Yard? That would have been the natural thing to do.”
“All right, Mr. Know All, how much exactly do you know?”
“I know that you are interested in me since you heard that I paid a visit to the Holborn Palace Hotel the other day.”
She went so white that it startled him. He had not believed that that deep tan could change to such a greenish hue.
He went on, quietly and steadily:
“You got me to come here today because you wanted to pump me—that is the expression, is it not?—yes, to pump me on the subject of Mr. Howard Raikes.”
Jane Olivera said:
“Who’s he, anyway?”
It was not a very successful parry.
Poirot said:
“You do not need to pump me, Mademoiselle. I will tell you what I know—or rather what I guessed. That first day that we came here, Inspector Japp and I, you were startled to see us—alarmed. You thought something had happened to your uncle. Why?”
“Well, he’s the kind of man things might happen to. He had a bomb by post one day—after the Herjoslovakian Loan. And he gets lots of threatening letters.”
Poirot went on:
“Chief Inspector Japp told you that a certain dentist, Mr. Morley, had been shot. You may recollect your answer. You said: ‘But that’s absurd.’”
Jane bit her lip. She said:
“Did I? That was rather absurd of me, wasn’t it?”
“It was a curious remark, Mademoiselle. It revealed that you knew of the existence of Mr. Morley, that you had rather expected something to happen—not to happen to him—but possibly to happen in his house.”
“You do like telling yourself stories, don’t you?”
Poirot paid no attention.
“You had expected—or rather you had feared—that something might happen at Mr. Morley’s house. You had feared that that something would have happened to your uncle. But if so, you must know something that we did not know. I reflected on the people who had been in Mr. Morley’s house that day, and I seized at once on the one person who might possibly have a connection with you—which was that young American, Mr. Howard Raikes.”
“It’s just like a serial, isn’t it? What’s the next thrilling instalment?”
“I went to see Mr. Howard Raikes. He is a dangerous and attractive young man—”
Poirot paused expressively.
Jane said meditatively:
“He is, isn’t he?” She smiled. “All right! You win! I was scared stiff.”
She leaned forward.
“I’m going to tell you things, M. Poirot. You’re not the kind one can just string along. I’d rather tell you than have you snooping around finding out. I love that man, Howard Raikes. I’m just crazy about him. My mother brought me over here just to get me away from him. Partly that and partly because she hopes Uncle Alistair might get fond enough of me to leave me his money when he dies.”
She went on:
“Mother is his niece by marriage. Her mother was Rebecca Arnholt’s sister. He’s my great-uncle-in-law. Only he hasn’t got any near relatives of his own, so mother doesn’t see why we shouldn’t be his residuary legatees. She cadges off him pretty freely too.
“You see, I’m being frank with you, M. Poirot. That’s the kind of people we are. Actually we’ve got plenty of money ourselves—an indecent amount according to Howard’s ideas—but we’re not in Uncle Alistair’s class.”
She paused. She struck with one hand fiercely on the arm of her chair.
“How can I make you understand? Everything I’ve been brought up to believe in, Howard abominates and wants to do away with. And sometimes, you know, I feel like he does. I’m fond of Uncle Alistair, but he gets on my nerves sometimes. He’s so stodgy—so British—so cautious and conservative. I feel sometimes that he and his kind ought to be swept away, that they are blocking progress—that without them we’d get things done!”
“You are a convert to Mr. Raikes’ ideas?”
“I am—and I’m not. Howard is—is wilder than most of his crowd. There are people, you know, who—who agree with Howard up to a point. They would be willing to—to try things—if Uncle Alistair and his crowd would agree. But they never will! They just sit back and shake their heads and say: ‘We could never risk that.’ And ‘It wouldn’t be sound economically.’ And ‘We’ve got to consider our responsibility.’ And ‘Look at history.’ But I think that one mustn’t look at history. That’s looking back. One must look forward all the time.”
Poirot said gently:
“It is an attractive vision.”
Jane looked at him scornfully.
“You say that too!”
“Perhaps because I am old. Their old men have dreams—only dreams, you see.”
He paused and then asked in a matter-of-fact voice:
“Why did Mr. Howard Raikes make that appointment in Queen Charlotte Street?”
“Because I wanted him to meet Uncle Alistair and I couldn’t see otherwise how to manage it. He’d been so bitter about Uncle Alistair—so full of—well, hate really, that I felt if he could only see him—see what a nice kindly unassuming person he was—that—that he would feel differently … I couldn’t arrange a meeting here because of mother—she would have spoilt everything.”
Poirot said:
“But after having made that arrangement, you were—afraid.”
Her eyes grew wide and dark. She said:
“Yes. Because—because—sometimes Howard gets carried away. He—he—”
Hercule Poirot said:
“He wants to take a short cut. To exterminate—”
Jane Olivera cried: “Don’t!”
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT
I
Time went on. It was over a month since Mr. Morley’s death, and there was still no news of Miss Sainsbury Seale.
Japp became increasingly wrathful on the subject.
“Dash it all, Poirot, the woman’s got to be somewhere.”
“Indubitably, mon cher.”
“Either she’d dead or alive. If she’s dead, where’s her body? Say, for instance, she committed suicide—”
“Another suicide?”
“Don’t let’s get back to that. You still say Morley was murdered—I say it was suicide.”
“You haven’t traced the pistol?”
“No, it’s a foreign make.”
“That is suggestive, is it not?”
“Not in the way you mean. Morley had been abroad. He went on cruises, he and his sister. Everybody in the British Isles goes on cruises. He may have picked it up abroad. They like to feel life’s
He paused and said:
“Don’t sidetrack me. I was saying that if—only if, mind you—that blasted woman committed suicide, if she’d drowned herself for instance, the body would have come ashore by now. If she was murdered, the same thing.”
“Not if a weight was attached to her body and it was put into the Thames.”
“From a cellar in Limehouse, I suppose! You’re talking like a thriller by a lady novelist.”
“I know—I know. I blush when I say these things!”
“And she was done to death by an international gang of crooks, I suppose?”
Poirot sighed. He said:
“I have been told lately that there really are such things.”
“Who told you so?”
“Mr. Reginald Barnes of Castlegarden Road, Ealing.”
“Well, he might know,” said Japp dubiously. “He dealt with aliens when he was at the Home Office.”
“And you do not agree?”
“It isn’t my branch—oh yes, there are such things—but they’re rather futile as a rule.”
There was a momentary silence as Poirot twirled his moustache.
Japp said:
“We’ve got one or two additional bits of information. She came home from India on the same boat as Amberiotis. But she was second class and he was first, so I don’t suppose there’s anything in that, although one of the waiters at the Savoy thinks she lunched there with him about a week or so before he died.”
“So there may have been a connection between them?”
“There may be—but I can’t feel it’s likely. I can’t see a Missionary lady being mixed up in any funny business.”
“Was Amberiotis mixed up in any ‘funny business,’ as you term it?”
“Yes, he was. He was in close touch with some of our Central European friends. Espionage racket.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Yes. Oh, he wasn’t doing any of the dirty work himself. We wouldn’t have been able to touch him. Organizing and receiving reports—that was his lay.”
Japp paused and then went on:
“But that doesn’t help us with the Sainsbury Seale. She wouldn’t have been in on that racket.”
“She had lived in India, remember. There was a lot of unrest there last year.”
“Amberiotis and the excellent Miss Sainsbury Seale—I can’t feel that they were teammates.”