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He had just completed their arrangement to his satisfaction when the lift came down again and the page-boy emerged from the back of the hall whistling discordantly. He broke off abruptly at the sight of Poirot and came to open the front door for him.
A taxi had just drawn up before the house and a foot was protruding from it. Poirot surveyed the foot with gallant interest.
A neat ankle, quite a good quality stocking. Not a bad foot. But he didn’t like the shoe. A brand new patent leather shoe with a large gleaming buckle. He shook his head.
Not chic—very provincial!
The lady got out of the taxi, but in doing so she caught her other foot in the door and the buckle was wrenched off. It fell tinkling on to the pavement. Gallantly, Poirot sprang forward and picked it up, restoring it with a bow.
Alas! Nearer fifty than forty. Pince-nez. Untidy yellow-grey hair—unbecoming clothes—those depressing art greens! She thanked him, dropping her pince-nez, then her handbag.
Poirot, polite if no longer gallant, picked them up for her.
She went up the steps of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, and Poirot interrupted the taxi-driver’s disgusted contemplation of a meagre tip.
‘You are free, hein?’
The taxi-driver said gloomily: ‘Oh, I’m free.’
‘So am I,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘Free of care!’
He saw the taxi-man’s air of deep suspicion.
‘No, my friend, I am not drunk. It is that I have been to the dentist and I need not go again for six months. It is a beautiful thought.’
Three, Four, Shut the Door (#u4121a1b1-6283-5e15-84e1-70fde5ba1a4c)
It was a quarter to three when the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot was sitting in an easy-chair happily digesting an excellent lunch.
He did not move when the bell rang but waited for the faithful George to come and take the call.
‘Eh bien?’ he said, as George, with a ‘Just a minute, sir,’ lowered the receiver.
‘It’s Chief Inspector Japp, sir.’
‘Aha?’
Poirot lifted the receiver to his ear.
‘Eh bien, mon vieux,’ he said. ‘How goes it?’
‘That you, Poirot?’
‘Naturally.’
‘I hear you went to the dentist this morning? Is that so?’
Poirot murmured:
‘Scotland Yard knows everything!’
‘Man of the name of Morley. 58, Queen Charlotte Street?’
‘Yes.’ Poirot’s voice had changed. ‘Why?’
‘It was a genuine visit, was it? I mean you didn’t go to put the wind up him or anything of that sort?’
‘Certainly not. I had three teeth filled if you want to know.’
‘What did he seem like to you—manner much as usual?’
‘I should say so, yes. Why?’
Japp’s voice was rigidly unemotional.
‘Because not very much later he shot himself.’
‘What?’
Japp said sharply:
‘That surprises you?’
‘Frankly, it does.’
Japp said:
‘I’m not too happy about it myself … I’d like to have a talk with you. I suppose you wouldn’t like to come round?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Queen Charlotte Street.’
Poirot said:
‘I will join you immediately.’
It was a police constable who opened the door of 58. He said respectfully:
‘M. Poirot?’
‘It’s I, myself.’
‘The Chief Inspector is upstairs. Second floor—you know it?’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘I was there this morning.’
There were three men in the room. Japp looked up as Poirot entered.
He said:
‘Glad to see you, Poirot. We’re just going to move him. Like to see him first?’
A man with a camera who had been kneeling near the body got up.
Poirot came forward. The body was lying near the fireplace.
In death Mr Morley looked very much as he had looked in life. There was a little blackened hole just below his right temple. A small pistol lay on the floor near his outflung right hand.
Poirot shook his head gently.
Japp said:
‘All right, you can move him now.’
They took Mr Morley away. Japp and Poirot were left alone.
Japp said:
‘We’re through all the routine. Finger-prints, etc.’
Poirot sat down. He said:
‘Tell me.’
Japp pursed his lips. He said:
‘He could have shot himself. He probably did shoot himself. There are only his finger-prints on the gun—but I’m not quite satisfied.’
‘What are your objections?’
‘Well, to begin with, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why he should shoot himself … He was in good health, he was making money, he hadn’t any worries that anyone knew of. He wasn’t mixed up with a woman—at least,’ Japp corrected himself cautiously, ‘as far as we know he wasn’t. He hasn’t been moody or depressed or unlike himself. That’s partly why I was anxious to hear what you said. You saw him this morning, and I wondered if you’d noticed anything.’
Poirot shook his head.
‘Nothing at all. He was—what shall I say—normality itself.’
‘Then that makes it odd, doesn’t it? Anyway, you wouldn’t think a man would shoot himself in the middle of business hours, so to speak. Why not wait till this evening? That would be the natural thing to do.’
Poirot agreed.
‘When did the tragedy occur?’
‘Can’t say exactly. Nobody seems to have heard the shot. But I don’t think they would. There are two doors between here and the passage and they have baize fitted round the edges—to deaden the noise from the victims of the dental chair, I imagine.’
‘Very probably. Patients under gas sometimes make a lot of noise.’
‘Quite. And outside, in the street, there’s plenty of traffic, so you wouldn’t be likely to hear it out there.’
‘When was it discovered?’
‘Round about one-thirty—by the page-boy, Alfred Biggs. Not a very bright specimen, by all accounts. It seems that Morley’s twelve-thirty patient kicked up a bit of a row at being kept waiting. About one-ten the boy came up and knocked. There was no answer and apparently he didn’t dare come in. He’d got in a few rows already from Morley and he was nervous of doing the wrong thing. He went down again and the patient walked out in a huff at one-fifteen. I don’t blame her. She’d been kept waiting three-quarters of an hour and she wanted her lunch.’
‘Who was she?’
Japp grinned.
‘According to the boy she was Miss Shirty—but from the appointment book her name was Kirby.’
‘What system was there for showing up patients?’
‘When Morley was ready for his next patient he pressed that buzzer over there and the boy then showed the patient up.’
‘And Morley pressed the buzzer last?’
‘At five minutes past twelve, and the boy showed up the patient who was waiting. Mr Amberiotis, Savoy Hotel, according to the appointment book.’
A faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He murmured:
‘I wonder what our page-boy made of that name!’
‘A pretty hash, I should say. We’ll ask him presently if we feel like a laugh.’
Poirot said:
‘And at what time did this Mr Amberiotis leave?’
‘The boy didn’t show him out, so he doesn’t know … A good many patients just go down the stairs without ringing for the lift and let themselves out.’
Poirot nodded.
Japp went on:
‘But I rang up the Savoy Hotel. Mr Amberiotis was quite precise. He said he looked at his watch as he closed the front door and it was then twenty-five minutes past twelve.’
‘He could tell you nothing of importance?’
‘No, all he could say was that the dentist had seemed perfectly normal and calm in his manner.’
‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘Then that seems quite clear. Between five-and-twenty past twelve and half-past one something happened—and presumably nearer the former time.’
‘Quite. Because otherwise—’
‘Otherwise he would have pressed the buzzer for the next patient.’
