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“Tell me.”
Japp pursed his lips. He said:
“He could have shot himself. He probably did shoot himself. There are only his fingerprints on the gun—but I?
??m not quite satisfied.”
“What are your objections?”
“Well, to begin with, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why he should shoot himself … He was in good health, he was making money, he hadn’t any worries that anyone knew of. He wasn’t mixed up with a woman—at least,” Japp corrected himself cautiously, “as far as we know he wasn’t. He hasn’t been moody or depressed or unlike himself. That’s partly why I was anxious to hear what you said. You saw him this morning, and I wondered if you’d noticed anything.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Nothing at all. He was—what shall I say—normality itself.”
“Then that makes it odd, doesn’t it? Anyway, you wouldn’t think a man would shoot himself in the middle of business hours, so to speak. Why not wait till this evening? That would be the natural thing to do.”
Poirot agreed.
“When did the tragedy occur?”
“Can’t say exactly. Nobody seems to have heard the shot. But I don’t think they would. There are two doors between here and the passage and they have baize fitted round the edges—to deaden the noise from the victims of the dental chair, I imagine.”
“Very probably. Patients under gas sometimes make a lot of noise.”
“Quite. And outside, in the street, there’s plenty of traffic, so you wouldn’t be likely to hear it out there.”
“When was it discovered?”
“Round about one thirty—by the page boy, Alfred Biggs. Not a very bright specimen, by all accounts. It seems that Morley’s twelve thirty patient kicked up a bit of a row at being kept waiting. About one ten the boy came up and knocked. There was no answer and apparently he didn’t dare come in. He’d got in a few rows already from Morley and he was nervous of doing the wrong thing. He went down again and the patient walked out in a huff at one fifteen. I don’t blame her. She’d been kept waiting three-quarters of an hour and she wanted her lunch.”
“Who was she?”
Japp grinned.
“According to the boy she was Miss Shirty—but from the appointment book her name was Kirby.”
“What system was there for showing up patients?”
“When Morley was ready for his next patient he pressed that buzzer over there and the boy then showed the patient up.”
“And Morley pressed the buzzer last?”
“At five minutes past twelve, and the boy showed up the patient who was waiting. Mr. Amberiotis, Savoy Hotel, according to the appointment book.”
A faint smile came to Poirot’s lips. He murmured:
“I wonder what our page boy made of that name!”
“A pretty hash, I should say. We’ll ask him presently if we feel like a laugh.”
Poirot said:
“And at what time did this Mr. Amberiotis leave?”
“The boy didn’t show him out, so he doesn’t know … A good many patients just go down the stairs without ringing for the lift and let themselves out.”
Poirot nodded.
