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Poirot sighed. He said:
“You will pardon me, but it seems an obsession with you—this persistent harping on Mr. Alistair Blunt. I am not employed by him, I never have been employed by him. I am concerned, not with his safety, but with the death of a man who did good work in his chosen profession.”
Raikes shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said, “I don’t believe you. You’re Blunt’s private dick all right.” His face darkened as he leaned across the table. “But you can’t save him, you know. He’s got to go—he and everything he stands for! There’s got to be a new deal—the old corrupt system of finance has got to go—this cursed net of bankers all over the world like a spider’s web. They’ve got to be swept away. I’ve nothing against Blunt personally—but he’s the type of man I hate. He’s mediocre—he’s smug. He’s the sort you can’t move unless you use dynamite. He’s the sort of man who says, ‘You can’t disrupt the foundations of civilization.’ Can’t you, though? Let him wait and see! He’s an obstruction in the way of Progress and he’s got to be removed. There’s no room in the world today for men like Blunt—men who hark back to the past—men who want to live as their fathers lived or even as their grandfathers lived! You’ve got a lot of them here in England—crusted old diehards—useless, worn-out symbols of a decayed era. And, my God, they’ve got to go! There’s got to be a new world. Do you get me—a new world, see?”
Poirot sighed and rose. He said:
“I see, Mr. Raikes, that you are an idealist.”
“What if I am?”
“Too much of an idealist to care about the death of a dentist.”
Mr. Raikes said scornfully:
“What does the death of one miserable dentist matter?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“It does not matter to you. It matters to me. That is the difference between us.”
VII
Poirot arrived home to be informed by George that a lady was waiting to see him.
“She is—ahem—a little nervous, sir,” said George.
Since the lady had given no name Poirot was at liberty to guess. He guessed wrong, for the young woman who rose agitatedly from the sofa as he entered was the late Mr. Morley’s secretary, Miss Gladys Nevill.
“Oh, dear, M. Poirot. I am so sorry to worry you like this—and really I don’t know how I had the courage to come—I’m afraid you’ll think it very bold of me—and I’m sure I don’t want to take up your time—I know what time means to a busy professional man—but really I have been so unhappy—only I daresay you will think it all a waste of time—”
Profiting by a long experience of the English people, Poirot suggested a cup of tea. Miss Nevill’s reaction was all that could be hoped for.
“Well, really, M. Poirot, that’s very kind of you. Not that it’s so very long since breakfast, but one can always do with a cup of tea, can’t one?”
Poirot, who could always do without one, assented mendaciously. George was instructed to this effect, and in a miraculously short time Poirot and his visitor faced each other across a tea tray.
“I must apologize to you,” said Miss Nevill, regaining her aplomb under the influence of the beverage, “but as a matter of fact the inquest yesterday upset me a good deal.”
“I’m sure it must have done,” said Poirot kindly.
“There was no question of my giving evidence, or anything like that. But I felt somebody ought to go with Miss Morley. Mr. Reilly was there, of course—but I meant a woman. Besides, Miss Morley doesn’t like Mr. Reilly. So I thought it was my duty to go.”
“That was very kind of you,” said Poirot encouragingly.
“Oh, no, I just felt I had to. You see, I have worked for Mr. Morley for quite a number of years now—and the whole thing was a great shock to me—and of course the inquest made it worse—”
“I’m afraid it must have done.”
Miss Nevill leaned forward earnestly.
“But it’s all wrong, M. Poirot. It really is all wrong.”
“What is wrong, Mademoiselle?”
“Well, it just couldn’t have happened—not the way they make out—giving a patient an overdose in injecting the gum, I mean.”
