Poirot, polite if no longer gallant, picked them up for her.
She went up the steps of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, and Poirot interrupted the taxi driver’s disgusted contemplation of a meagre tip.
“You are free, hein?”
The taxi driver said gloomily: “Oh, I’m free.”
“So am I,” said Hercule Poirot. “Free of care!”
He saw the taxi man’s air of deep suspicion.
“No, my friend, I am not drunk. It is that I have been to the dentist and I need not go again for six months. It is a beautiful thought.”
THREE, FOUR, SHUT THE DOOR
I
It was a quarter to three when the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot was sitting in an easy chair happily digesting an excellent lunch.
He did not move when the bell rang but waited for the faithful George to come and take the call.
“Eh bien?” he said, as George, with a “Just a minute, sir,” lowered the receiver.
“It’s Chief Inspector Japp, sir.”
“Aha?”
Poirot lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Eh bien, mon vieux,” he said. “How goes it?”
“That you, Poirot?”
“Naturally.”
“I hear you went to the dentist this morning? Is that so?”
Poirot murmured:
“Scotland Yard knows everything!”
“Man of the name of Morley. 58, Queen Charlotte Street?”
“Yes.” Poirot’s voice had changed. “Why?”
“It was a genuine visit, was it? I mean you didn’t go to put the wind up him or anything of that sort?”
“Certainly not. I had three teeth filled if you want to know.”
“What did he seem like to you—manner much as usual?”
“I should say so, yes. Why?”
Japp’s voice was rigidly unemotional.
“Because not very much later he shot himself.”