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Japp nodded and Miss Morley said:
“Tell her to come here, Alfred.”
“O.K.,” said Alfred, and disappeared. Miss Morley said with a sigh and in obvious capital letters:
“That Boy is a Sad Trial.”
IV
Gladys Nevill was a tall, fair, somewhat anemic girl of about twenty-eight. Though obviously very upset, she at once showed that she was capable and intelligent.
Under the pretext of looking through Mr. Morley’s papers, Japp got her away from Miss Morley down to the little office next door to the surgery.
She repeated more than once:
“I simply cannot believe it! It seems quite incredible that Mr. Morley should do such a thing!”
She was emphatic that he had not seemed troubled or worried in any way.
Then Japp began:
“You were called away today, Miss Nevill—”
She interrupted him.
“Yes, and the whole thing was a wicked practical joke! I do think it’s awful of people to do things like that. I really do.”
“What do you mean, Miss Nevill?”
“Why, there wasn’t anything the matter with Aunt at all. She’d never been better. She couldn’t understand it when I suddenly turned up. Of course I was ever so glad—but it did make me mad. Sending a telegram like that and upsetting me and everything.”
“Have you got that telegram, Miss Nevill?”
“I threw it away, I think, at the station. It just said, Your aunt had a stroke last night. Please come at once.”
“You are quite sure—well—” Japp coughed delicately—“that it wasn’t your friend, Mr. Carter, who sent that telegram?”
“Frank? Whatever for? Oh! I see, you mean—a put-up job between us? No, indeed, Inspector—neither of us would do such a thing.”
Her indignation seemed genuine enough and Japp had a little trouble in soothing her down. But a question as to the patients on this particular morning restored her to her competent self.
“They are all here in the book. I daresay you have seen it already. I know about most of them. Ten o’clock, Mrs. Soames—that was about her new plate. Ten thirty, Lady Grant—she’s an elderly lady—lives in Lowndes Square. Eleven o’clock, M. Hercule Poirot, he comes regularly—oh, of course this is him—sorry, M. Poirot, but I really am so upset! Eleven thirty, Mr. Alistair Blunt—that’s the banker, you know—a short appointment, because Mr. Morley had prepared the filling last time. Then Miss Sainsbury Seale—she rang up specially—had toothache and so Mr. Morley fitted her in. A terrible talker, she is, never stops—the fussy kind, too. Then twelve o’clock, Mr. Amberiotis—he was a new patient—made an appointment from the Savoy Hotel. Mr. Morley gets quite a lot of foreigners and Americans. Then twelve thirty, Miss Kirby. She comes up from Worthing.”
Poirot asked:
“There was here when I arrived a tall military gentleman. Who would he be?”
“One of Mr. Reilly’s patients, I expect. I’ll just get his list for you, shall I?”
“Thank you, Miss Nevill.”
She was absent only a few minutes. She returned with a similar book to that of Mr. Morley.
She read out:
“Ten o’clock, Betty Heath (that’s a little girl of nine). Eleven o’clock, Colonel Abercrombie.”
“Abercrombie!” murmured Poirot. “C’etait ça!”
