One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

by Agatha Christie

  Alistair Blunt looked at him inquiringly.

  But Jane Olivera, rustling the paper, distracted the conversation.

  “A lot of people seem to be out for your blood, Uncle Alistair!”

  “Oh, you’re reading the debate in the House. That’s all right. Only Archerton—he’s always tilting at windmills. And he’s got the most crazy ideas of finance. If we let him have his way, England would be bankrupt in a week.”

  Jane said:

  “Don’t you ever want to try anything new?”

  “Not unless it’s an improvement to the old, my dear.”

  “But you’d never think it would be. You’d always say, ‘This would never work’—without even trying.”

  “Experimentalists can do a lot of harm.”

  “Yes, but how can you be satisfied with things as they are? All the waste and the inequality and the unfairness. Something must be done about it!”

  “We get along pretty well in this country, Jane, all things considered.”

  Jane said passionately:

  “What’s needed is a new heaven and a new earth! And you sit there eating kidneys!”

  She got up and went out by the french window into the garden.

  Alistair looked mildly surprised and a little uncomfortable.

  He said: “Jane has changed a lot lately. Where does she get all these ideas?”

  “Take no notice of what Jane says,” said Mrs. Olivera. “Jane’s a very silly girl. You know what girls are—they go to these queer parties in studios where the young men have funny ties and they come home and talk a lot of nonsense.”

  “Yes, but Jane was always rather a hard-boiled young woman.”

  “It’s just a fashion, Alistair, these things are in the air!”

  Alistair Blunt said:

  “Yes, they’re in the air all right.”

  He looked a little worried.

  Mrs. Olivera rose and Poirot opened the door for her. She swept out frowning to herself.

  Alistair Blunt said suddenly:

  “I don’t like it, you know! Everybody’s talking this sort of stuff! And it doesn’t mean anything! It’s all hot air! I find myself up against it the whole time—a new heaven and a new earth. What does it mean? They can’t tell you themselves! They’re just drunk on words.”

  He smiled suddenly, rather ruefully.

  “I’m one of the last of the Old Guard, you know.”

  Poirot said curiously:

  “If you were—removed, what would happen?”

  “Removed! What a way of putting it!” His face grew suddenly grave. “I’ll tell you. A lot of damned fools would try a lot of very costly experiments. And that would be the end of stability—of common sense, of solvency. In fact, of this England of ours as we know it …”

  Poirot nodded his head. He was essentially in sympathy with the banker. He, too, approved of solvency. And he began to realize with a new meaning just exactly what Alistair Blunt stood for. Mr. Barnes had told him, but he had hardly taken it in then. Quite suddenly, he was afraid….

  II

  “I’ve finished my letters,” said Blunt, appearing later in the morning. “Now, M. Poirot, I’m going to show you my garden.”

  The two men went out together and Blunt talked eagerly of his hobby.

  The rock garden, with its rare alpine plants, was his greatest joy and they spent some time there while Blunt pointed out certain minute and rare species.

  Hercule Poirot, his feet encased in his best patent leather shoes, listened patiently, shifting his weight tenderly from one foot to the other and wincing slightly as the heat of the sun caused the illusion that his feet were gigantic puddings!

  His host strolled on, pointing out various plants in the wide border. Bees were humming and from near at hand came the monotonous clicking of a pair of shears trimming a laurel hedge.

  It was all very drowsy and peaceful.

  Blunt paused at the end of the border, looking back. The clip of the shears was quite close by, though the clipper was concealed from view.

  “Look at the vista down from here, Poirot. The Sweet Williams are particularly fine this year. I don’t know when I’ve seen them so good—and those are Russell lupins. Marvellous colours.”

  Crack! The shot broke the peace of the morning. Something sang angrily through the air. Alistair Blunt turned bewildered to where a faint thread of smoke was rising from the middle of the laurels.

  There was a sudden outcry of angry voices, the laurels heaved as two men struggled together. A high-pitched American voice sang out resolutely:

  “I’ve got you, you damned scoundrel! Drop that gun!”

  Two men struggled out into the open. The young gardener who had dug so industriously that morning was writhing in the powerful grip of a man nearly a head taller.

  Poirot recognized the latter at once. He had already guessed from the voice.

  Frank Carter snarled:

  “Let go of me! It wasn’t me, I tell you! I never did.”

  Howard Raikes said:

  “Oh, no? Just shooting at the birds, I suppose!”

  He stopped—looking at the newcomers.

  “Mr. Alistair Blunt? This guy here has just taken a potshot at you. I caught him right in the act.”

  Frank Carter cried out:

  “It’s a lie! I was clipping the hedge. I heard a shot and the gun fell right here at my feet. I picked it up—that’s only natural, that is, and then this bloke jumped on me.”

  Howard Raikes said grimly:

  “The gun was in your hand and it had just been fired!”

  With a final gesture, he tossed the pistol to Poirot.

  “Let’s see what the dick’s got to say about it! Lucky I got hold of you in time. I guess there are several more shots in that automatic of yours.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “Precisely.”

  Blunt was frowning angrily. He said sharply:

  “Now then Dunnon—Dunbury—what’s your name?”

  Hercule Poirot interrupted. He said:

  “This man’s name is Frank Carter.”

  Carter turned on him furiously.

  “You’ve had it in for me all along! You came spying on me that Sunday. I tell you, it’s not true. I never shot at him.”

  Hercule Poirot said gently:

  “Then, in that case, who did?”

  He added:

  “There is no one else here but ourselves, you see.”

  III

  Jane Olivera came running along the path. Her hair streamlined back behind her. Her eyes were wide with fear. She gasped: “Howard?”

  Howard Raikes said lightly:

  “Hallo, Jane. I’ve just been saving your uncle’s life.”

  “Oh!” She stopped. “You have?”

  “Your arrival certainly seems to have been very opportune, Mr.—er—” Blunt hesitated.

  “This is Howard Raikes, Uncle Alistair. He’s a friend of mine.”

  Blunt looked at Raikes—he smiled.

  “Oh!” he said. “So you are Jane’s young man! I must thank you.”

  With a puffing noise as of a steam engine at high pressure Julia Olivera appeared on the scene. She panted out:

  “I heard a shot. Is Alistair—Why—” She stared blankly at Howard Raikes. “You? Why, why, how dare you?”

  Jane said in an icy voice:

  “Howard has just saved Uncle Alistair’s life, mother.”

  “What? I—I—”

  “This man tried to shoot Uncle Alistair and Howard grabbed him and took the pistol away from him.”

  Frank Carter said violently:

  “You’re bloody liars, all of you.”

  Mrs. Olivera, her jaw dropping, said blankly:

  “Oh!” It took her a minute or two to readjust her poise. She turned first to Blunt.

  “My dear Alistair! How awful! Thank God you’re safe. But it must have been a frightful shock. I—I feel quite faint myself. I wonder—do you think I could have
just a little brandy?”

  Blunt said quickly:

  “Of course. Come back to the house.”

  She took his arm, leaning on it heavily.

  Blunt looked over his shoulder at Poirot and Howard Raikes.

  “Can you bring that fellow along?” he asked. “We’ll ring up the police and hand him over.”

  Frank Carter opened his mouth, but no words came. He was dead white, and his knees were wilting. Howard Raikes hauled him along with an unsympathetic hand.

  “Come on, you,” he said.

  Frank Carter murmured hoarsely and unconvincingly:

  “It’s all a lie….”

  Howard Raikes looked at Poirot.

  “You’ve got precious little to say for yourself for a high-toned sleuth! Why don’t you throw your weight about a bit?”

  “I am reflecting, Mr. Raikes.”

  “I guess you’ll need to reflect! I should say you’ll lose your job over this! It isn’t thanks to you that Alistair Blunt is still alive at this minute.”

  “This is your second good deed of the kind, is it not, Mr. Raikes?”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “It was only yesterday, was it not, that you caught and held the man whom you believed to have shot at Mr. Blunt and the Prime Minister?”

  Howard Raikes said:

  “Er—yes. I seem to be making a kind of habit of it.”

  “But there is a difference,” Hercule Poirot pointed out. “Yesterday, the man you caught and held was not the man who fired the shot in question. You made a mistake.”

  Frank Carter said sullenly:

  “He’s made a mistake now.”

  “Quiet, you,” said Raikes.

  Hercule Poirot murmured to himself:

  “I wonder….”

  IV

  Dressing for dinner, adjusting his tie to an exact symmetry, Hercule Poirot frowned at his reflection in the mirror.

  He was dissatisfied—but he would have been at a loss to explain why. For the case, as he owned to himself, was so very clear. Frank Carter had indeed been caught red-handed.

  It was not as though he had any particular belief in, or liking for, Frank Carter. Carter, he thought dispassionately, was definitely what the English call a “wrong ’un.” He was an unpleasant young bully of the kind that appeals to women, so that they are reluctant to believe the worst, however plain the evidence.

  And Carter’s whole story was weak in the extreme. This tale of having been approached by agents of the “Secret Service”—and offered a plummy job. To take the post of gardener and report on the conversations and actions of the other gardeners. It was a story that was disproved easily enough—there was no foundation for it.

  A particularly weak invention—the kind of thing, Poirot reflected, that a man like Carter would invent.

  And on Carter’s side, there was nothing at all to be said. He could offer no explanation, except that somebody else must have shot off the revolver. He kept repeating that. It was a frame-up.

  No, there was nothing to be said for Carter except, perhaps, that it seemed an odd coincidence that Howard Raikes should have been present two days running at the moment when a bullet had just missed Alistair Blunt.

  But presumably there wasn’t anything in that. Raikes certainly hadn’t fired the shot in Downing Street. And his presence down here was fully accounted for—he had come down to be near his girl. No, there was nothing definitely improbable in his story.

  It had turned out, of course, very fortunately for Howard Raikes. When a man has just saved you from a bullet, you cannot forbid him the house. The least you can do is to show friendliness and extend hospitality. Mrs. Olivera didn’t like it, obviously, but even she saw that there was nothing to be done about it.

  Jane’s undesirable young man had got his foot in and he meant to keep it there!

  Poirot watched him speculatively during the evening.

  He was playing his part with a good deal of astuteness. He did not air any subversive views, he kept off politics. He told amusing stories of his hitchhikes and tramps in wild places.

  “He is no longer the wolf,” thought Poirot. “No, he has put on the sheep’s clothing. But underneath? I wonder….”

  As Poirot was preparing for bed that night, there was a rap on the door. Poirot called, “Come in,” and Howard Raikes entered.

  He laughed at Poirot’s expression.

  “Surprised to see me? I’ve had my eye on you all evening. I didn’t like the way you were looking. Kind of thoughtful.”

  “Why should that worry you, my friend?”

  “I don’t know why, but it did. I thought maybe that you were finding certain things just a bit hard to swallow.”

  “Eh bien? And if so?”

  “Well, I decided that I’d best come clean. About yesterday, I mean. That was a fake show all right! You see, I was watching his lordship come out of 10, Downing Street and I saw Ram Lal fire at him. I know Ram Lal. He’s a nice kid. A bit excitable but he feels the wrongs of India very keenly. Well, there was no harm done, that precious pair of stuffed shirts weren’t harmed—the bullet had missed ’em both by miles—so I decided to put up a show and hope the Indian kid would get clear. I grabbed hold of a shabby little guy just by me and called out that I’d got the villain and hoped Ram Lal was beating it all right. But the dicks were too smart. They were on to him in a flash. That’s just how it was. See?”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “And today?”

  “That’s different. There weren’t any Ram Lals about today. Carter was the only man on the spot. He fired that pistol all right! It was still in his hand when I jumped on him. He was going to try a second shot, I expect.”

  Poirot said:

  “You were very anxious to preserve the safety of M. Blunt?”

  Raikes grinned—an engaging grin.

  “A bit odd, you think, after all I’ve said? Oh, I admit it. I think Blunt is a guy who ought to be shot—for the sake of Progress and Humanity—I don’t mean personally—he’s a nice enough old boy in his British way. I think that, and yet when I saw someone taking a potshot at him I leap in and interfere. That shows you how illogical the human animal is. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

  “The gap between theory and practice is a wide one.”

  “I’ll say it is!” Mr. Raikes got up from the bed where he had been sitting.

  His smile was easy and confiding.

  “I just thought,” he said, “that I’d come along and explain the thing to you.”

  He went out shutting the door carefully behind him.

  V

  “Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man: and preserve me from the wicked man,” sang Mrs. Olivera in a firm voice, slightly off the note.

  There was a relentlessness about her enunciation of the sentiment which made Hercule Poirot deduce that Mr. Howard Raikes was the wicked man immediately in her mind.

  Hercule Poirot had accompanied his host and the family to the morning service in the village church.

  Howard Raikes had said with a faint sneer: “So you always go to church, Mr. Blunt?”

  And Alistair had murmured vaguely something about it being expected of you in the country—can’t let the parson down, you know—which typically English sentiment had merely bewildered the young man, and had made Hercule Poirot smile comprehendingly.

  Mrs. Olivera had tactfully accompanied her host and commanded Jane to do likewise.

  “They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent,” sang the choir boys in shrill treble, “adder’s poison is under their lips.”

  The tenors and basses demanded with gusto:

  “Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the ungodly. Preserve me from the wicked men who are purposed to overthrow my goings.”

  Hercule Poirot essayed in a hesitant baritone.

  “The proud have laid a snare for me,” he sang, “and spread a net with cords: yea, and set traps in my way….”

  His mouth remained
open.

  He saw it—saw clearly the trap into which he had so nearly fallen!

  Like a man in a trance Hercule Poirot remained, mouth open, staring into space. He remained there as the congregation seated themselves with a rustle; until Jane Olivera tugged at his arm and murmured a sharp, “Sit down.”

  Hercule Poirot sat down. An aged clergyman with a beard intoned: “Here beginneth the fifteenth chapter of the First Book of Samuel,” and began to read.

  But Poirot heard nothing of the smiting of the Amalekites.

  A snare cunningly laid—a net with cords—a pit open at his feet—dug carefully so that he should fall into it.

  He was in a daze—a glorious daze where isolated facts spun wildly round before settling neatly into their appointed places.

  It was like a kaleidoscope—shoe buckles, 10-inch stockings, a damaged face, the low tastes in literature of Alfred the page boy, the activities of Mr. Amberiotis, and the part played by the late Mr. Morley, all rose up and whirled and settled themselves down into a coherent pattern.

  For the first time, Hercule Poirot was looking at the case the right way up.

  “For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft and stubborness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord he hath also rejected thee from being king. Here endeth the first lesson,” quavered the aged clergyman all in one breath.

  As one in a dream, Hercule Poirot rose to praise the Lord in the Te Deum.

  THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, MAIDS ARE COURTING

  I

  “M. Reilly, is it not?”

  The young Irishman started as the voice spoke at his elbow.

  He turned.

  Standing next to him at the counter of the Shipping Co. was a small man with large moustaches and an egg-shaped head.

  “You do not remember me, perhaps?”

  “You do yourself an injustice, M. Poirot. You’re not a man that’s easily forgotten.”

  He turned back to speak to the clerk behind the counter who was waiting.

  The voice at his elbow murmured:

  “You are going abroad for a holiday?”

  “It’s not a holiday I’m taking. And you yourself, M. Poirot? You’re not turning your back on this country, I hope?”

  “Sometimes,” said Hercule Poirot, “I return for a short while to my own country—Belgium.”

  “I’m going farther than that,” said Reilly. “It’s America for me.” He added: “And I don’t think I’ll be coming back, either.”