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“Mon cher, it will not. Alfred reads detective stories—Alfred is enamoured of crime. Whatever Alfred lets slip will be put down to Alfred’s morbid criminal imagination.”
“Well, perhaps you are right, Poirot. Now we’ve got to hear what Reilly has to say.”
Mr. Reilly’s surgery and office were on the first floor. They were as spacious as the ones above but had less light in them, and were not quite so richly appointed.
Mr. Morley’s partner was a tall, dark young man, with a plume of hair that fell untidily over his forehead. He had an attractive voice and a very shrewd eye.
“We’re hoping, Mr. Reilly,” said Japp, after introducing himself, “that you can throw some light on this matter.”
“You’re wrong then, because I can’t,” replied the other. “I’d say this—that Henry Morley was the last person to go taking his own life. I might have done it—but he wouldn’t.”
“Why might you have done it?” asked Poirot.
“Because I’ve oceans of worries,” replied the other. “Money troubles, for one! I’ve never yet been able to suit my expenditure to my income. But Morley was a careful man. You’ll find no debts, nor money troubles, I’m sure of that.”
“Love affairs?” suggested Japp.
“Is it Morley you mean? He had no joy of living at all! Right under his sister’s thumb he was, poor man.”
Japp went on to ask Reilly details about the patients he had seen that morning.
“Oh, I fancy they’re all square and aboveboard. Little Betty Heath, she’s a nice child—I’ve had the whole family one after another. Colonel Abercrombie’s an old patient, too.”
“What about Mr. Howard Raikes?” asked Japp.
Reilly grinned broadly.
“The one who walked out on me? He’s never been to me before. I know nothing about him. He rang up and particularly asked for an appointment this morning.”
“Where did he ring up from?”
“Holborn Palace Hotel. He’s an American, I fancy.”
“So Alfred said.”
“Alfred should know,” said Mr. Reilly. “He’s a film fan, our Alfred.”
“And your other patient?”
“Barnes? A funny precise little man. Retired Civil Servant. Lives out Ealing way.”
Japp paused a minute and then said:
“What can you tell us about Miss Nevill?”
Mr. Reilly raised his eyebrows.
“The bee-yewtiful blonde secretary? Nothing doing, old boy! Her relations with old Morley were perfectly pewer—I’m sure of it.”
“I never suggested they weren’t,” said Japp, reddening slightly.
“My fault,” said Reilly. “Excuse my filthy mind, won’t you? I thought it might be an attempt on your part to cherchez la femme.
“Excuse me for speaking your language,” he added parenthetically to Poirot. “Beautiful accent, haven’t I? It comes of being educated by nuns.”
Japp disapproved of this flippancy. He asked:
“Do you know anything about the young man she is engaged to? His name is Carter, I understand. Frank Carter.”
