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
I
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."