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“I ah nah a Frahah—I ah—ah a Benyon.”
“Tchut—tchut—” said Mr. Morley sadly. “We must have the cavity completely dry.” He puffed hot air relentlessly on it.
Then he went on:
“I didn’t realize you were a Belgian. Very interesting. Very fine man, King Leopold, so I’ve always heard. I’m a great believer in the tradition of Royalty myself. The training is good, you know. Look at the remarkable way they remember names and faces. All the result of training—though of course some people have a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. I, myself, for instance. I don’t remember names, but it’s remarkable the way I never forget a face. One of my patients the other day, for instance—I’ve seen that patient before. The name meant nothing to me—but I said to myself at once, ‘Now where have I met you before?’ I’ve not remembered yet—but it will come back to me—I’m sure of it. Just another rinse, please.”
The rinse accomplished, Mr. Morley peered critically into his patient’s mouth.
“Well, I think that seems all right. Just close—very gently … Quite comfortable? You don’t feel the filling at all? Open again, please. No, that seems quite all right.”
Hercule Poirot descended, a free man.
“Well, good-bye, M. Poirot. Not detected any criminals in my house, I hope?”
Poirot said with a smile:
“Before I came up, every one looked to me like a criminal! Now, perhaps, it will be different!”
“Ah, yes, a great deal of difference between before and after! All the same, we dentists aren’t such devils now as we used to be! Shall I ring for the lift for you?”
“No, no, I will walk down.”
“As you like—the lift is just by the stairs.”
Poirot went out. He heard the taps start to run as he closed the door behind him.
He walked down the two flights of stairs. As he came to the last bend, he saw the Anglo-Indian Colonel being shown out. Not at all a bad-looking man, Poirot reflected mellowly. Probably a fine shot who had killed many a tiger. A useful man—a regular outpost of Empire.
He went into the waiting room to fetch his hat and stick which he had left there. The restless young man was still there, somewhat to Poirot’s surprise. Another patient, a man, was reading the Field.
Poirot studied the young man in his newborn spirit of kindliness. He still looked very fierce—and as though he wanted to do a murder—but not really a murderer, thought Poirot kindly. Doubtless, presently, this young man would come tripping down the stairs, his ordeal over, happy and smiling and wishing no ill to anyone.
The page boy entered and said firmly and distinctly:
“Mr. Blunt.”
The man at the table laid down the Field and got up. A man of middle height, of middle age, neither fat nor thin. Well-dressed, quiet.
He went out after the boy.
One of the richest and most powerful men in England—but he still had to go to the dentist just like anybody else, and no doubt felt just the same as anybody else about it!
These reflections passing through his mind, Hercule Poirot picked up his hat and stick and went to the door. He glanced back as he did so, and the startled thought went through his mind that that young man must have very bad toothache indeed.
In the hall Poirot paused before the mirror there to adjust his moustaches, slightly disarranged as the result of Mr. Morley’s ministrations.
He had just completed their arrangement to his satisfaction when the lift came down again and the page boy emerged from the back of the hall whistling discordantly. He broke off abruptly at the sight of Poirot and came to open the front door for him.
A taxi had just drawn up before the house and a foot was protruding from it. Poirot surveyed the foot with gallant interest.
A neat ankle, quite a good quality stocking. Not a bad foot. But he didn’t like the shoe. A brand new patent leather shoe with a large gleaming buckle. He shook his head.
Not chic—very provincial!
The lady got out of the taxi, but in doing so she caught her other foot in the door and the buckle was wrenched off. It fell tinkling on to the pavement. Gallantly, Poirot sprang forward and picked it up, restoring it with a bow.
Alas! Nearer fifty than forty. Pince-nez. Untidy yellow-grey hair—unbecoming clothes—those depressing art greens! She thanked him, dropping her pince-nez, then her handbag.
