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“There,” said Mr. Morley with hideous cheerfulness. “That quite comfortable? Sure?”
In sepulchral tones Poirot said that it was quite comfortable.
Mr. Morley swung his little table nearer, picked up his little mirror, seized an instrument and prepared to get on with the job.
Hercule Poirot grasped the arms of the chair, shut his eyes and opened his mouth.
“Any special trouble?” Mr. Morley inquired.
Slightly indistinctly, owing to the difficulty of forming consonants while keeping the mouth open, Hercule Poirot was understood to say that there was no special trouble. This was, indeed, the twice yearly overhaul that his sense of order and neatness demanded. It was, of course, possible that there might be nothing to do … Mr. Morley might, perhaps, overlook that second tooth from the back from which those twinges had come … He might—but it was unlikely—for Mr. Morley was a very good dentist.
Mr. Morley passed slowly from tooth to tooth, tapping and probing, murmuring little comments as he did so.
“That filling is wearing down a little—nothing serious, though. Gums are in pretty good condition, I’m glad to see.” A pause at a suspect, a twist of the probe—no, on again, false alarm. He passed to the lower side. One, two—on to three?—No—“The dog,” Hercule Poirot thought in confused idiom, “has seen the rabbit!”
“A little trouble here. Not been giving you any pain? Hm, I’m surprised.” The probe went on.
Finally Mr. Morley drew back, satisfied.
“Nothing very serious. Just a couple of fillings—and a trace of decay on that upper molar. We can get it all done, I think, this morning.”
He turned on a switch and there was a hum. Mr. Morley un-hooked the drill and fitted a needle to it with loving care.
“Guide me,” he said briefly, and started the dread work.
It was not necessary for Poirot to avail himself of this permission, to raise a hand, to wince, or even to yell. At exactly the right moment, Mr. Morley stopped the drill, gave the brief command “Rinse,” applied a little dressing, selected a new needle and continued. The ordeal of the drill was terror rather than pain.
Presently, while Mr. Morley was preparing the filling, conversation was resumed.
“Have to do this myself this morning,” he explained. “Miss Nevill has been called away. You remember Miss Nevill?”
Poirot untruthfully assented.
“Called away to the country by the illness of a relative. Sort of thing that does happen on a busy day. I’m behindhand already this morning. The patient before you was late. Very vexing when that happens. It throws the whole morning out. Then I have to fit in an extra patient because she is in pain. I always allow a quarter of an hour in the morning in case that happens. Still, it adds to the rush.”
Mr. Morley peered into his little mortar as he ground. Then he resumed his discourse.
“I’ll tell you something that I’ve always noticed, M. Poirot. The big people—the important people—they’re always on time—never keep you
waiting. Royalty, for instance. Most punctilious. And these big City men are the same. Now this morning I’ve got a most important man coming—Alistair Blunt!”
Mr. Morley spoke the name in a voice of triumph.
Poirot, prohibited from speech by several rolls of cotton wool and a glass tube that gurgled under his tongue, made an indeterminate noise.
Alistair Blunt! Those were the names that thrilled nowadays. Not Dukes, not Earls, not Prime Ministers. No, plain Mr. Alistair Blunt. A man whose face was almost unknown to the general public—a man who only figured in an occasional quiet paragraph. Not a spectacular person.
Just a quiet nondescript Englishman who was the head of the greatest banking firm in England. A man of vast wealth. A man who said Yes and No to Governments. A man who lived a quiet, unobtrusive life and never appeared on a public platform or made speeches. Yet a man in whose hands lay supreme power.
Mr. Morley’s voice still held a reverent tone as he stood over Poirot ramming the filling home.
“Always comes to his appointments absolutely on time. Often sends his car away and walks back to his office. Nice, quiet, unassuming fellow. Fond of golf and keen on his garden. You’d never dream he could buy up half Europe! Just like you and me.”
A momentary resentment rose in Poirot at this offhand coupling of names. Mr. Morley was a good dentist, yes, but there were other good dentists in London. There was only one Hercule Poirot.
“Rinse, please,” said Mr. Morley.
“It’s the answer, you know, to their Hitlers and Mussolinis and all the rest of them,” went on Mr. Morley, as he proceeded to tooth number two. “We don’t make a fuss over here. Look how democratic our King and Queen are. Of course, a Frenchman like you, accustomed to the Republican idea—”
