One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

by Agatha Christie

  He stressed the words and Alfred frowned with a prodigious effort of memory.

  “I can’t think of anything else, sir. I can’t indeed.”

  Alfred’s tone was rueful.

  “Very good, Alfred. And you are quite sure no one except patients came to the house this morning?”

  “No stranger did, sir. That Miss Nevill’s young man came round—and in a rare taking not to find her here.”

  Japp said sharply:

  “When was that?”

  “Some time after twelve it was. When I told him Miss Nevill was away for the day, he seemed very put out and he said he’d wait and see Mr. Morley. I told him Mr. Morley was busy right up to lunch time, but he said: Never mind, he’d wait.”

  Poirot asked:

  “And did he wait?”

  A startled look came into Alfred’s eyes. He said:

  “Cor—I never thought of that! He went into the waiting room, but he wasn’t there later. He must have got tired of waiting, and thought he’d come back another time.”

  VI

  When Alfred had gone out of the room, Japp said sharply:

  “D’you think it wise to suggest murder to that lad?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “I think so—yes. Anything suggestive that he may have seen or heard will come back to him under the stimulus, and he will be keenly alert to everything that goes on here.”

  “All the same, we don’t want it to get about too soon.”

  “Mon cher, it will not. Alfred reads detective stories—Alfred is enamoured of crime. Whatever Alfred lets slip will be put down to Alfred’s morbid criminal imagination.”

  “Well, perhaps you are right, Poirot. Now we’ve got to hear what Reilly has to say.”

  Mr. Reilly’s surgery and office were on the first floor. They were as spacious as the ones above but had less light in them, and were not quite so richly appointed.

  Mr. Morley’s partner was a tall, dark young man, with a plume of hair that fell untidily over his forehead. He had an attractive voice and a very shrewd eye.

  “We’re hoping, Mr. Reilly,” said Japp, after introducing himself, “that you can throw some light on this matter.”

  “You’re wrong then, because I can’t,” replied the other. “I’d say this—that Henry Morley was the last person to go taking his own life. I might have done it—but he wouldn’t.”

  “Why might you have done it?” asked Poirot.

  “Because I’ve oceans of worries,” replied the other. “Money troubles, for one! I’ve never yet been able to suit my expenditure to my income. But Morley was a careful man. You’ll find no debts, nor money troubles, I’m sure of that.”

  “Love affairs?” suggested Japp.

  “Is it Morley you mean? He had no joy of living at all! Right under his sister’s thumb he was, poor man.”

  Japp went on to ask Reilly details about the patients he had seen that morning.

  “Oh, I fancy they’re all square and aboveboard. Little Betty Heath, she’s a nice child—I’ve had the whole family one after another. Colonel Abercrombie’s an old patient, too.”

  “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 blonde secretary? Nothing doing, old boy! Her relations with old Morley were perfectly pewer—I’m sure of it.”

  “I never suggested they weren’t,” said Japp, reddening 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 she 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.”

  VII

  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 any one 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 four fifteen. 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!”

  VIII

  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.

  Re
becca Sanseverato, née 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. 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 judgements 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 weekends—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.”

  “You were surprised, Mr. Blunt?”

  “Very surprised. Of course I knew very little about him, but I should have thought him a most unlikely person to commit suicide.”

  “He seemed in good health and spirits then, this morning?”

  “I think so—yes.” Alistair Blunt paused, then said with an almost boyish smile: “To tell you the truth, I’m a most awful coward about going to the dentist. And I simply hate that beastly drill thing they run into you. That’s why I really didn’t notice anything much. Not till it was over, you know, and I got up to go. But I must say Morley seemed perfectly natural then. Cheerful and busy.”

  “You have been to him often?”

  “I think this was my third or fourth visit. I’ve never had much trouble with my teeth until the last year. Breaking up, I suppose.”

  Hercule Poirot asked:

  “Who recommended Mr. Morley to you originally?”

  Blunt drew his brows together in an effort of concentration.

  “Let me see now—I had a twinge—somebody told me Morley of Queen Charlotte Street was the man to go to—no, I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. Sorry.”

  Poirot said:

  “If it should come back to you, perhaps you will let one of us know?”

  Alistair Blunt looked at him curiously.

  He said:

  “I will—certainly. Why? Does it matter?”

  “I have an idea,” said Poirot, “that it might matter very much.”

  They were going down the steps of the house when a car drew up in front of it. It was a car of sporting build—one of those cars from which it is necessary to wriggle from under the wheel in sections.

  The young woman who did so appeared to consist chiefly of arms and legs. She had finally dislodged herself as the men turned to walk down the street.

  The girl stood on the pavement looking after them. Then, suddenly and vigorously, she ejaculated, “Hi!”

  Not realizing that the call was addressed to them, neither man turned, and the girl repeated: “Hi! Hi! You there!”

  They stopped and looked round inquiringly. The girl walked towards them. The impression of arms and legs remained. She was tall, thin, and her face had an intelligence and aliveness that redeemed its lack of actual beauty. She was dark with a deeply tanned skin.

  She was addressing Poirot:

  “I know who you are—you’re the detective man, Hercule Poirot!” Her voice was warm and deep, with a trace of American accent.

  Poirot said:

  “At your service, Mademoiselle.”

  Her eyes went on to his companion.

  Poirot said:

  “Chief Inspector Japp.”

  Her eyes widened—almost it seemed with alarm. She said, and there was a slight breathlessness in her voice:

  “What have you been doing here? Nothing—nothing has happened to Uncle Alistair, has it?”

  Poirot said quickly:

  “Why should you think so, Mademoiselle?”

  “It hasn’t? Good.”

  Japp took up Poirot’s question.

  “Why should you think anything had happened to Mr. Blunt, Miss—”

  He paused inquiringly.

  The girl said mechanically:

  “Olivera. Jane Olivera.” Then she gave a slight and rather unconvincing laugh. “Sleuths on the doorstep rather suggest bombs in the attic, don’t they?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Blunt, I’m thankful to say, Miss Olivera.”

  She looked directly at Poirot.

  “Did he call you in about something?”

  Japp said:

  “We called on him, Miss Olivera, to see if he could throw any light on a case of suicide that occurred this morning.”

  She said sharply:

  “Suicide? Whose? Where?”

  “A Mr. Morley, a dentist, of 58, Queen Charlotte Street.”

  “Oh!” said Jane Olivera blankly. “Oh!—” She started ahead of her, frowning. Then she said unexpectedly:

  “Oh, but that’s absurd!” And turning on her heel she left them abruptly and without ceremony, running up the steps of the Gothic House and letting herself in with a key.

  “Well!” said Japp, staring after her, “that’s an extraordinary thing to say.”

  “Interesting,” observed Poirot mildly.

  Japp pulled himself together, glanced at his watch and hailed an approaching taxi.

  “We’ll have time to take the Sainsbury Seale on our way to the Savoy.”

  IX

  Miss Sainsbury Seale was in the dimly lit lounge of the Glengowrie Court Hotel having tea.

  She was flustered by the appearance of a police officer in plain clothes—but her excitement was of a pleasurable nature, he observed. Poirot noticed, with sorrow, that she had not yet sewn the buckle on her shoe.

  “Really, officer,” fluted Miss Sainsbury Seale, g
lancing round, “I really don’t know where we could go to be private. So difficult—just teatime—but perhaps you would care for some tea—and—and your friend—”

  “Not for me, Madam,” said Japp. “This is M. Hercule Poirot.”

  “Really?” said Miss Sainsbury Seale. “Then perhaps—you’re sure—you won’t either of you have tea? No. Well, perhaps we might try the drawing room, though that’s very often full—Oh, I see, there is a corner over there—in the recess. The people are just leaving. Shall we go there—”

  She led the way to the comparative seclusion of a sofa and two chairs in an alcove. Poirot and Japp followed her, the former picking up a scarf and a handkerchief that Miss Sainsbury Seale had shed en route.

  He restored them to her.

  “Oh, thank you—so careless of me. Now please, Inspector—No, Chief Inspector, isn’t it?—do ask me anything you like. So distressing, the whole business. Poor man—I suppose he had something on his mind? Such worrying times we live in!”

  “Did he seem to you worried, Miss Sainsbury Seale?”

  “Well—” Miss Sainsbury Seale reflected, and finally said unwillingly:

  “I can’t really say, you know, that he did! But then perhaps I shouldn’t notice—not under the circumstances. I’m afraid I’m rather a coward, you know.” Miss Sainsbury Seale tittered a little and patted her bird’s-nest-like curls.

  “Can you tell us who else was in the waiting room while you were there?”

  “Now let me see—there was just one young man there when I went in. I think he was in pain because he was muttering to himself and looking quite wild and turning over the leaves of a magazine just anyhow. And then suddenly he jumped up and went out. Really acute toothache he must have had.”

  “You don’t know whether he left the house when he went out of the room?”

  “I don’t know at all. I imagined he just felt he couldn’t wait any longer and must see the dentist. But it couldn’t have been Mr. Morley he was going to, because the boy came in and took me up to Mr. Morley only a few minutes later.”

  “Did you go into the waiting room again on your way out?”

  “No. Because, you see, I’d already put on my hat and straightened my hair up in Mr. Morley’s room. Some people,” went on Miss Sainsbury Seale, warming to her subject, “take off their hats downstairs in the waiting room, but I never do. A most distressing thing happened to a friend of mine who did that. It was a new hat and she put it very carefully on a chair, and when she came down, would you believe it, a child had sat on it and squashed it flat. Ruined! Absolutely ruined!”