One, two, buckle my shoe - Agatha Christie [19]
In front of him was a square sheet of paper with neat headings and comments. Against some of them were query marks.
First came:
Amberiotis. Espionage. In England for that purpose? Was in India last year. During period of riots and unrest. Could be a Communist agent.
There was a space, and then the next heading:
Frank Carter? Morley thought him unsatisfactory. Was discharged from his employment recently. Why?
After that came a name with merely a question mark:
Howard Raikes?
Next came a sentence in inverted commas.
‘But that’s absurd!’???
Hercule Poirot’s head was poised interrogatively. Outside the window a bird was carrying a twig to build its nest. Hercule Poirot looked rather like a bird as he sat there with his egg-shaped head cocked to one side.
He made another entry a little farther down:
Mr Barnes?
He paused and then wrote:
Morley’s office? Mark on carpet. Possibilities.
He considered that last entry for some time.
Then he got up, called for his hat and stick and went out.
III
Three-quarters of an hour later Hercule Poirot came out of the underground station at Ealing Broadway and five minutes after that he had reached his destination — No. 88, Castlegardens Road.
It was a small semi-detached house, and the neatness of the front garden drew an admiring nod from Hercule Poirot.
‘Admirably symmetrical,’ he murmured to himself.
Mr Barnes was at home and Poirot was shown into a small, precise dining-room and here presently Mr Barnes came to him.
Mr Barnes was a small man with twinkling eyes and a nearly bald head. He peeped over the top of his glasses at his visitor while in his left hand he twirled the card that Poirot had given the maid.
He said in a small, prim, almost falsetto voice:
‘Well, well, M. Poirot? I am honoured, I am sure.’
‘You must excuse my calling upon you in this informal manner,’ said Poirot punctiliously.
‘Much the best way,’ said Mr Barnes. ‘And the time is admirable, too. A quarter to seven — very sound time at this period of the year for catching anyone at home.’ He waved his hand. ‘Sit down, M. Poirot. I’ve no doubt we’ve got a good deal to talk about. 58, Queen Charlotte Street, I suppose?’
Poirot said:
‘You suppose rightly — but why should you suppose anything of the kind?’
‘My dear sir,’ said Mr Barnes, ‘I’ve been retired from the Home Office for sometime now — but I’ve not gone quite rusty yet. If there’s any hush-hush business, it’s far better not to use the police. Draws attention to it all!’
Poirot said:
‘I will ask yet another question. Why should you suppose this is a hush-hush business?’
‘Isn’t it?’ asked the other. ‘Well, if it isn’t, in my opinion it ought to be.’ He leant forward and tapped with his pince-nez on the arm of the chair. ‘In Secret Service work it’s never the little fry you want — it’s the big bugs at the top — but to get them you’ve got to be careful not to alarm the little fry.’
‘It seems to me, Mr Barnes, that you know more than I do,’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘Don’t know anything at all,’ replied the other, ‘just put two and two together.’
‘One of those two being?’
‘Amberiotis,’ said Mr Barnes promptly. ‘You forget I sat opposite him in the waiting-room for a minute or two. He didn’t know me. I was always an insignificant chap. Not a bad thing sometimes. But I knew him all right — and I could guess what he was up to over here.’
‘Which was?’
Mr Barnes twinkled more than ever.
‘We’re very tiresome people in this country. We’re conservative, you know, conservative to the backbone. We grumble a lot, but we don’t really want to smash our democratic government and try new-fangled experiments. That’s what’s so heart-breaking to the wretched foreign agitator who’s working full time and over! The whole trouble is — from their point of view — that we really are, as a country, comparatively solvent. Hardly any other country in Europe is at the moment! To upset England — really