One, two, buckle my shoe - Agatha Christie [15]
‘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, glancing round, ‘I really don’t know where we could go to be private. So difficult — just tea-time — 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