Finally Mr. Morley drew back, satisfied.
"Nothing very serious. Just a couple of fillings - and a trace of decay on that upper molar. We can get it all done, I think, this morning."
He turned on a switch and there was a hum. Mr. Morley unhooked the drill and fitted a needle to it with loving care.
"Guide me," he said briefly, and started the dread work.
It was not necessary for Poirot to avail himself of this permission, to raise a hand, to wince, or even to yell. At exactly the right moment, Mr. Morley stopped the drill, gave the brief command "Rinse," applied a little dressing, selected a new needle and continued. The ordeal of the drill was terror rather than pain.
Presently, while Mr. Morley was preparing the filling, conversation was resumed.
"Have to do this myself this morning," he explained. "Miss Nevill has been called away. You remember Miss Nevill?"
Poirot untruthfully assented.
"Called away to the country by the illness of a relative. Sort of thing that does happen on a busy day. I'm behind-hand already this morning. The patient before you was late. Very vexing when that happens. It throws the whole morning out. Then I have to fit in an extra patient because she is in pain. I always allow a quarter of an hour in a morning in case that happens. Still, it adds to the rush."
Mr. Morley peered into his little mortar as he ground. Then he resumed his discourse.
"I'll tell you something that I've always noticed, M. Poirot. The big people - the important people - they're always on time - never keep you waiting. Royalty, for instance. Most punctilious. And these big City men are the same. Now this morning I've got a most important man coming - Alistair Blunt!"
Mr. Morley spoke the name in a voice of triumph.
Poirot, prohibited from speech by several rolls of cotton wool and a glass tube that gurgled under his tongue, made an indeterminate noise.
Alistair Blunt! Those were the names that thrilled nowadays. Not Dukes, not Earls, not Prime Ministers. No, plain Mr. Alistair Blunt. A man whose face was almost unknown to the general public - a man who only figured in an occasional quiet paragraph.
Not a spectacular person.
Just a quiet nondescript Englishman who was the head of the greatest banking firm in England. A man of vast wealth. A man who said Yes and No to Governments. A man who lived a quiet, unobtrusive life and never appeared on a public platform or made speeches. Yet a man in whose hands lay supreme power.
Mr. Morley's voice still held a reverent tone as he stood over Poirot ramming the filling home.
"Always comes to his appointments absolutely on time. Often sends his car away and walks back to his office. Nice, quiet, unassuming fellow. Fond of golf and keen on his garden. You'd never dream he could buy up half Europe! Just like you and me."
A momentary resentment rose in Poirot at this off-hand coupling of names. Mr. Morley was a good dentist, yes, but there were other good dentists in London. There was only one Hercule Poirot.
"Rinse, please," said Mr. Morley.
"It's the answer, you know, to their Hitlers and Musollinis and all the rest of them," went on Mr. Morley, as he proceeded to tooth number two. "We don't make a fuss over here. Look how democratic our King and Queen are. Of course a Frenchman like you, accustomed to the Republican idea -"
"I ah hah a Frahah - I ah - ha a Benyon."
"Tchut - tchut - " said Mr. Morley sadly. "We must have the cavity completely dry." He puffed hot air relentlessly on it.
Then he went on:
"I didn't realize you were a Belgian. Very interesting. Very fine man, King Leopold, so I've always heard. I'm a great believer in the tradition of Royalty myself. The training is good, you know. Look at the remarkable way they remember names and faces. All the result of training - though of course some people have a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. I, myself, for instance. I don't remember names, but it's remarkable the way I never forget a face. One of my patients the other day, for instance - I've seen that patient before. The name meant nothing to but I said to myself at once, 'Now where have I met you before?' I've not remembered yet - but it will come back to me - I'm sure of it. Just another rinse, please."
The rinse accomplished, Mr. Morley peered critically into his patient's mouth.
"Well, I think that seems all right. Just close - very gently... Quite comfortable? You don't feel the filling at all? Open again, please. No, that seems quite all right."
The table swung back, the chair swung round.
Hercule Poirot descended, a free man.
"Well, good-bye, M. Poirot. Not detected any criminals in my house, I hope?"
Poirot said with a smile:
"Before I came up, everyone looked to me like a criminal! Now, perhaps, it will be different!"
"Ah, yes, a great deal of difference between before and after! All the same, we dentists aren't such devils now as we used to be! Shall I ring for the elevator for you?"
"No, no, I will walk down."
"As you like - the elevator is just by the stairs."
Poirot went out. He heard the faucets start to run as he closed the door behind him.
He walked down the two flights of stairs. As he came to the last bend, he saw the Anglo-Indian Colonel being shown out. Not at all a bad looking man, Poirot reflected mellowly. Probably a fine shot who had killed many a tiger. A useful man - a regular outpost of Empire.
He went into the waiting room to fetch his hat and stick which he had left there. The restless young man was still there somewhat to Poirot's surprise. Another patient, a man, was reading the Field.
Poirot studied the young man in his newborn spirit of kindliness. He still looked very fierce - and as though he wanted to do a murder - but not really a murderer - thought Poirot kindly. Doubtless, presently, this young man would come tripping down the stairs, his ordeal over, happy and smiling and wishing no ill to anyone.
The page boy entered and said firmly and distinctly:
"Mr. Blunt."
The man at the table laid down the Field and got up. A man of middle height, of middle age, neither fat nor thin. Well dressed, quiet.
He went out after the boy.
One of the richest and most powerful men in England - but he still had to go to the dentist just like anybody else, and no doubt felt just the same as anybody else about it!
These reflections passing through his mind, Hercule Poirot picked up his hat and stick and went to the door. He glanced back as he did so, and the startled thought went through his mind that that young man must have a very bad toothache indeed.
In the hall Poirot paused before the mirror there to adjust his moustaches, slightly disarranged as the result of Mr. Morley's ministrations.
He had just completed their arrangement to his satisfaction when the elevator 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 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, again 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 meager 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."
Chapter 2
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR
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 by 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 stir him up 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 so 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."
II
It was a police constable who opened the door of Number 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 up 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 1:30 - by the page boy, Alfred Biggs. Not a very bright specimen, by all accounts. It seems that Morley's 12:30 patient kicked up a bit of a row at being kept waiting. About 1:10 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 1:15. 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."
"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 elevator and let themselves out."
