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“Morley didn’t think much of him,” said Reilly. “He tried to get la Nevill to turn him down.”
“That might have annoyed Carter?”
“Probably annoyed him frightfully,” agreed Mr. Reilly cheerfully.
He paused and then added:
“Excuse me, this is a suicide you are investigating, not a murder?”
Japp said sharply:
“If it were a murder, would you have anything to suggest?”
“Not I! I’d like it to be Georgina! One of those grim females with temperance on the brain. But I’m afraid Georgina is full of moral rectitude. Of course I could easily have nipped upstairs and shot the old boy myself, but I didn’t. In fact, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Morley. But then I can’t conceive of his killing himself.”
He added—in a different voice:
“As a matter of fact, I’m very sorry about it … You mustn’t judge by my manner. That’s just nervousness, you know. I was fond of old Morley and I shall miss him.”
VII
Japp put down the telephone receiver. His face, as he turned to Poirot, was rather grim.
He said:
“Mr. Amberiotis isn’t feeling very well—would rather not see any one this afternoon.
“He’s going to see me—and he’s not going to give me the slip either! I’ve got a man at the Savoy ready to trail him if he tries to make a getaway.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“You think Amberiotis shot Morley?”
“I don’t know. But he was the last person to see Morley alive. And he was a new patient. According to his story, he left Morley alive and well at twenty-five minutes past twelve. That may be true or it may not. If Morley was all right then we’ve got to reconstruct what happened next. There was still five minutes to go before his next appointment. Did someone come in and see him during that five minutes? Carter, say? Or Reilly? What happened? Depend upon it, by half past twelve, or five-and-twenty to one at the latest, Morley was dead—otherwise he’d either have sounded his buzzer or else sent down word to Miss Kirby that he couldn’t see her. No, either he was killed, or else somebody told him something which upset the whole tenor of his mind, and he took his own life.”
He paused.
“I’m going to have a word with every patient he saw this morning. There’s just the possibility that he may have said something to one of them that will put us on the right track.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Mr. Alistair Blunt said he could give me a few minutes at four fifteen. We’ll go to him first. His house is on Chelsea Embankment. Then we might take the Sainsbury Seale woman on our way to Amberiotis. I’d prefer to know all we can before tackling our Greek friend. After that, I’d like a word or two with the American who, according to you ‘looked like murder.’”
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“Not murder—toothache.”
“All the same, we’ll see this Mr. Raikes. His conduct was queer to say the least of it. And we’ll check up on Miss Nevill’s telegram and on her aunt and on her young man. In fact, we’ll check up on everything and everybody!”
VIII
Alistair Blunt had never loomed large in the public eye. Possibly because he was himself a very quiet and retiring man. Possibly because for many years he had functioned as a Prince Consort rather than as a King.
Re
becca Sanseverato, née Arnholt, came to London a disillusioned woman of forty-five. On either side she came of the Royalty of wealth. Her mother was an heiress of the European family of Rothersteins. Her father was the head of the great American banking house of Arnholt. Rebecca Arnholt, owing to the calamitous deaths of two brothers and a cousin in an air accident, was sole heiress to immense wealth. She married a European aristocrat with a famous name, Prince Felipe di Sanseverato. Three years later she obtained a divorce and custody of the child of the marriage, having spent two years of wretchedness with a well-bred scoundrel whose conduct was notorious. A few years later her child died.
Embittered by her sufferings, Rebecca Arnholt turned her undoubted brains to the business of finance—the aptitude for it ran in her blood. She associated herself with her father in banking.
