One, two, buckle my shoe - Agatha Christie [29]
George coughed.
‘These foreigners, sir —’
‘Exactly. I agree perfectly. The Greek gentleman is decidedly indicated. But you see, Georges, the Greek gentleman also died and apparently it was Mr Morley who killed him — whether by intention or as the result of an unfortunate error we cannot be sure.’
‘It might be, sir, that they killed each other. I mean, sir, each gentleman had formed the idea of doing the other gentleman in, though of course each gentleman was unaware of the other gentleman’s intention.’
Hercule Poirot purred approvingly.
‘Very ingenious, Georges. The dentist murders the unfortunate gentleman who sits in the chair, not realizing that the said victim is at that moment meditating exactly at what moment to whip out his pistol. It could, of course, be so but it seems to me, Georges, extremely unlikely. And we have not come to the end of our list yet. There are still two other people who might possibly have been in the house at the given moment. Every patient, before Mr Amberiotis, was actually seen to leave the house with the exception of one — a young American gentleman. He left the waiting-room at about twenty minutes to twelve, but no one actually saw him leave the house. We must therefore count him as a possibility. The other possibility is a certain Mr Frank Carter (not a patient) who came to the house at a little after twelve with the intention of seeing Mr Morley. Nobody saw him leave, either. Those, my good Georges, are the facts; what do you think of them?’
‘At what time was the murder committed, sir?’
‘If the murder was committed by Mr Amberiotis, it was committed at any time between twelve and five-and-twenty past. If by somebody else, it was committed after twenty-five minutes past twelve, as otherwise Mr Amberiotis would have noticed the corpse.’
He looked encouragingly at George.
‘Now, my good Georges, what have you to say about the matter?’
George pondered. He said:
‘It strikes me, sir —’
‘Yes, Georges?’
‘You will have to find another dentist to attend to your teeth in future, sir.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘You surpass yourself, Georges. That aspect of the matter had not as yet occurred to me!’
Looking gratified, George left the room.
Hercule Poirot remained sipping his chocolate and going over the facts he had just outlined. He felt satisfied that they were as he had stated them. Within that circle of persons was the hand that had actually done the deed — no matter whose the inspiration had been.
Then his eyebrows shot up as he realized that the list was incomplete. He had left out one name.
And no one must be left out — not even the most unlikely person.
There had been one other person in the house at the time of the murder.
He wrote down:
‘Mr Barnes.’
X
George announced:
‘A lady to speak to you on the telephone, sir.’
A week ago, Poirot had guessed wrongly the identity of a visitor. This time his guess was right.
He recognized her voice at once.
‘M. Hercule Poirot?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Jane Olivera — Mr Alistair Blunt’s niece.’
‘Yes, Miss Olivera.’
‘Could you come to the Gothic House, please? There is something I feel you ought to know.’
‘Certainly. What time would be convenient?’
‘At six-thirty, please.’
‘I will be there.’
For a moment the autocratic note wavered:
‘I — I hope I am not interrupting your work?’
‘Not at all. I was expecting you to call me.’
He put down the receiver quickly. He moved away from it smiling. He wondered what excuse Jane Olivera had found for summoning him.
On arrival at the Gothic House he was shown straight into the big library overlooking the river. Alistair Blunt was sitting at the writing-table playing absent-mindedly with a paper-knife. He had the slightly harassed look of a man whose womenfolk have been too much for him.
Jane Olivera was standing by the mantelpiece. A plump middle-aged woman was speaking fretfully as Poirot entered