'With a pistol he was not known to possess?' queried Poirot.
'He may have possessed it all the same. Relations don't know everything. You'd be surprised sometimes, the things they don't know!'
'That is true, yes.'
Japp said:
'Well, there you are. It's a perfectly logical explanation of the whole thing.'
Poirot said:
'You know, my friend, it does not quite satisfy me. It is true that patients have been known to react unfavorably to these local anaesthetics. Adrenaline idiosyncrasy is well known. In combination with procaine toxic effects have followed quite small doses. But the doctor or dentist who employed the drug does not usually carry his concern as far as killing himself!'
'Yes, but you're talking of cases where the employment of the anaesthetic was normal. In that case no particular blame attaches to the surgeon concerned. It is the idiosyncrasy of the patient that has caused death. But in this case it's pretty clear that there was a definite overdose. They haven't got the exact amount yet – these quantitive analyses seem to take a month of Sundays – but it was definitely more than the normal dose. That means that Morley must have made a mistake.'
'Even then,' said Poirot, 'it was a mistake. It would not be a criminal matter.'
'No, but it wouldn't do him any good in his profession. In fact, it would pretty well ruin him. Nobody's going to go to a dentist who's likely to shoot lethal doses of poison into you just because he happens to be a bit absent- minded.'
'It was a curious thing to do, I admit.'
'These things happen – they happen to doctors – they happen to chemists. Careful and reliable for years, and then – one moment's inattention – and the mischief's done and the poor devils are for it. Morley was a sensitive man. In the case of a doctor, there's usually a chemist or a dispenser to share the blame – or to shoulder it altogether. In this case Morley was solely responsible.'
Poirot demurred.
'Would he not have left some message behind him? Saying what he had done? And that he could not face the consequences? Something of that kind? Just a word for his sister?'
'No, as I see it, he suddenly realized what had happened – and just lost his nerve and took the quickest way out.'
Poirot did not answer.
Japp said:
'I know you, old boy. Once you've got your teeth into a case of murder, you like it to be a case of murder! I admit I'm responsible for setting you on the track this time. Well, I made a mistake. I admit it freely.'
Poirot said:
'I still think, you know, that there might be another explanation.'
'Plenty of other explanations, I daresay. I've thought of them – but they're all too fantastic. Let's say that Amberiotis shot Morley, went home, was filled with remorse and committed suicide, using some stuff he'd pinched from Morley's surgery. If you think that's likely, I think it's damned unlikely. We've got a record of Amberiotis at the Yard. Quite interesting. Started as a little hotelkeeper in Greece, then he mixed himself up in politics. He's done espionage work in Germany and in France – and made very pretty little sums of money. But he wasn't getting rich quick enough that way, and he's believed to have done a spot or two of blackmail. Not a nice man, our Mr. Amberiotis. He was out in India last year and is believed to have bled one of the native princes rather freely. The difficult thing has been ever to prove anything against him. Slippery as an eel! Then there is another possibility. He might have been blackmailing Morley over something or other. Morley, having a golden opportunity, plugs an overdose of adrenaline and procaine into him, hoping that the verdict will be an unfortunate accident – adrenaline idiosyncrasy – something of that sort. Then, after the man's gone away Morley gets a fit of remorse and does himself in. That's possible, of course, but I can't somehow see Morley as a deliberate murderer. No, I'm pretty sure it was what I first said – a genuine mistake, made on a morning when he was overworked. We'll have to leave it at that, Poirot. I've talked to the A.C. and he's quite clear on it.'
'I see,' said Poirot, with a sigh. 'I see…'
Japp said kindly, 'I know what you feel, old boy. But you can't have a nice juicy murder every time! So long. All I can say by way of apology is the old phrase: 'Sorry you have been troubled'!'
He rang off.
II
Hercule Poirot sat at his handsome modern desk. He liked modern furniture. Its squareness and solidity were more agreeable to him than the soft contours of antique models.
In front of him was a square sheet of paper with neat headings and comments. Against some of them were query marks.
First came:
Amberiotis. Espionage. In England for that purpose? Was in India last year. During period of riots and unrest. Could be a communist agent.
There was a space and then the next heading:
Frank Carter? Morley thought him unsatisfactory. Was discharged from his employment recently. Why?
After that came a name with merely a question mark:
Howard Raikes?
Next came a sentence in quotes:
'But that's absurd!'???
Hercule Poirot's head was poised interrogatively. Outside the window a bird was carrying a twig to build its nest. Hercule Poirot looked rather like a bird as he sat there with his egg-shaped head cocked on one side.
He made another entry a little further down.
Mr. Barnes?
He paused and then wrote:
Morley's office? Mark on carpet. Possibilities.
He considered that last entry for some time.
Then he got up, called for his hat and stick and went out.
III
Three-quarters of an hour later Hercule Poirot came out of the underground station at Ealing Broadway and five minutes after that he had reached his destination – 88 Castlegardens Road.
It was a small, semidetached house, and the neatness of the front garden drew an admiring nod from Hercule Poirot.
'Admirably symmetrical,' he murmured to himself. Mr. Barnes was at home and Poirot was shown into a small precise dining room and here presently Mr. Barnes came to him.
Mr. Barnes was a small man with twinkling eyes and a nearly bald head. He peeped over the top of his glasses at his visitor while in his left hand he twirled the card that Poirot had given the maid.
He said in a small, prim, almost falsetto voice:
'Well, well, M. Poirot? I am honored, I am sure.'
'You must excuse my calling upon you in this informal manner,' said Poirot punctiliously.
'Much the best way,' said Mr. Barnes. 'And the time is admirable, too. A quarter to seven – very sound time at this period of the year for catching anyone at home.' He waved his hand. 'Sit down, M. Poirot. I've no doubt we've got a good deal to talk about. Number 58 Queen Charlotte Street, I suppose?'
