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Japp said:
“I know you, old boy. Once you’ve got your teeth into a case of murder, you like it to be a case of murder! I admit I’m responsible for setting you on the track this time. Well, I made a mistake. I admit it freely.”
Poirot said:
“I still think, you know, that there might be another explanation.”
“Plenty of other explanations, I daresay. I’ve thought of them—but they’re all too fantastic. Let’s say that Amberiotis shot Morley, went home, was filled with remorse and committed suicide, using some stuff he’d pinched from Morley’s surgery. If you think that’s likely, I think it’s damned unlikely. We’ve got a record of Amberiotis at the Yard. Quite interesting. Started as a little hotelkeeper in Greece, then he mixed himself up in politics. He’s done espionage work in Germany and in France—and made very pretty little sums of money. But he wasn’t getting rich quick enough that way, and he’s believed to have done a spot or two of blackmail. Not a nice man, our Mr. Amberiotis. He was out in India last year and is believed to have bled one of the native princes rather freely. The difficult thing has been ever to prove anything against him. Slippery as an eel! There is another possibility. He might have been blackmailing Morley over something or other. Morley, having a golden opportunity, plugs an overdose of adrenaline and novocaine into him, hoping that the verdict will be an unfortunate accident—adrenaline idiosyncrasy—something of that sort. Then, after the man’s gone away Morley gets a fit of remorse and does himself in. That’s possible, of course, but I can’t somehow see Morley as a deliberate murderer. No, I’m pretty sure it was what I first said—a genuine mistake, made on a morning when he was overworked. We’ll have to leave it at that, Poirot. I’ve talked to the A.C. and he’s quite clear on it.”
“I see,” said Poirot, with a sigh. “I see….”
Japp said kindly:
“I know what you feel, old boy. But you can’t have a nice juicy murder every time! So long. All I can say by way of apology is the old phrase: ‘Sorry you have been troubled!’”
He rang off.
II
Hercule Poirot sat at his handsome modern desk. He liked modern furniture. Its squareness and solidity were more agreeable to him than the soft contours of antique models.
In front of him was a square sheet of paper with neat headings and comments. Against some of them were query marks.
First came:
Amberiotis. Espionage. In England for that purpose? Was in India last year. During period of riots and unrest. Could be a Communist agent.
There was a space, and then the next heading:
Frank Carter? Morley thought him unsatisfactory. Was discharged from his employment recently. Why?
After that came a name with merely a question mark:
Howard Raikes?
Next came a sentence in inverted commas.
“But that’s absurd!” ???
Hercule Poirot’s head was poised interrogatively. Outside the window a bird was carrying a twig to build its nest. Hercule Poirot looked rather like a bird as he sat there with his egg-shaped head cocked to one side.
He made another entry a little farther down:
Mr. Barnes?
He paused and then wrote:
Morley’s office? Mark on carpet. Possibilities.
He considered that last entry for some time.
Then he got up, called for his hat and stick and went out.
III
Three-quarters of an hour later Hercule Poirot came out of the underground station at Ealing Broadway and five minutes after that he had reached his destination—No. 88, Castlegardens Road.
It was a small semidetached house, and the neatness of the front garden drew an admiring nod from Hercule Poirot.
