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“Who’s been saying so?”
“You did come round, did you not?”
“What if I did? I wanted to see Miss Nevill here.”
“But they told you she was away.”
“Yes, and that made me pretty suspicious, I can tell you. I told that red-headed oaf I’d wait and see Morley myself. This business of putting Gladys against me had gone on long enough. I meant to tell Morley that, instead of being a poor unemployed rotter, I’d landed a good job and that it was about time Gladys handed in her notice and thought about her trousseau.”
“But you did not actually tell him so?”
“No, I got tired of waiting in that dingy mausoleum. I went away.”
“What time did you leave?”
“I can’t remember.”
“What time did you arrive then?”
“I don’t know. Soon after twelve, I should imagine.”
“And you stayed half an hour—or longer—or less than half an hour?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. I’m not the sort of chap who’s always looking at a clock.”
“Was there anyone in the waiting room while you were there?”
“There was an oily fat bloke when I went in, but he wasn’t there long. After that I was alone.”
“Then you must have left before half past twelve—for at that time a lady arrived.”
“Daresay I did. The place got on my nerves as I tell you.”
Poirot eyed him thoughtfully.
The bluster was uneasy—it did not ring quite true. And yet that might be explained by mere nervousness.
Poirot’s manner was simple and friendly as he said:
“Miss Nevill tells me that you have been very fortunate and have found a very good job indeed.”
“The pay’s good.”
“Ten pounds a week, she tells me.”
“That’s right. Not too dusty, is it? Shows I can pull it off when I set my mind to it.”
He swaggered a little.
“Yes, indeed. And the work is not too arduous?”
Frank Carter said shortly:
“Not too bad.”
“And interesting?”
“Oh, yes, quite interesting. Talking of jobs, I’ve always been interested to know how you private detectives go about things? I suppose there’s not much of the Sherlock Holmes touch really, mostly divorce nowadays?”
