One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

He had just completed their arrangement to his satisfaction when the lift 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 on 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, 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 meagre 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.’

Three, Four, Shut the Door (#u4121a1b1-6283-5e15-84e1-70fde5ba1a4c)

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 of 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 put the wind up him 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 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.’

It was a police constable who opened the door of 58. He said respectfully:

‘M. Poirot?’

‘It’s I, myself.’

‘The Chief Inspector is upstairs. Second floor—you know it?’

Hercule Poirot said: