viii
frank carter was a fair young man of medium height. his appearance was cheaply smart. he
talked readily and fluently. his eyes were set rather close together and they had a way of shifting
uneasily from side to side when he was embarrassed.
he was inclined to be suspicious and slightly hostile.
“i’d no idea we were to have the pleasure of lunching with you, m. poirot. gladys didn’t tell me
anything about it.”
he shot her a rather annoyed glance as he spoke.
“it was only arranged yesterday,” said poirot, smiling. “miss nevill is very upset by the
circumstances of mr. morley’s death and i wondered if we put our heads together—”
frank carter interrupted him rudely.
“morley’s death? i’m sick of morley’s death! why can’t you forget him, gladys? there wasn’t
anything so wonderful about him that i can see.”
“oh, frank, i don’t think you ought to say that. why, he left me a hundred pounds. i got the
letter about it last night.”
“that’s all right,” admitted frank grudgingly. “but after all, why shouldn’t he? he worked you
like a nigger—and who pocketed all the fat fees? why, he did!”
“well, of course he did—he paid me a very good salary.”
“not according to my ideas! you’re too humble altogether, gladys, my girl, you let yourself be
put upon, you know. i sized morley up all right. you know as well as i do that he tried his best to
get you to give me the chuck.”
“he didn’t understand.”
“he understood all right. the man’s dead now—otherwise i can tell you i’d have given him a
piece of my mind.”
“you actually came round to do so on the morning of his death, did you not?” hercule poirot
inquired gently.
frank carter said angrily:
“who’s been saying so?”
“you did come round, did you not?”
“what if i did? i wanted to see miss nevill here.”
“but they told you she was away.”
“yes, and that made me pretty suspicious, i can tell you. i told that red-headed oaf i’d wait and
see morley myself. this business of putting gladys against me had gone on long enough. i meant
to tell morley that, instead of being a poor unemployed rotter, i’d landed a good job and that it
was about time gladys handed in her notice and thought about her trousseau.”
“but you did not actually tell him so?”
“no, i got tired of waiting in that dingy mausoleum. i went away.”
“what time did you leave?”
“i can’t remember.”
“what time did you arrive then?”
“i don’t know. soon after twelve, i should imagine.”
“and you stayed half an hour—or longer—or less than half an hour?”
“i don’t know, i tell you. i’m not the sort of chap who’s always looking at a clock.”
“was there anyone in the waiting room while you were there?”
“there was an oily fat bloke when i went in, but he wasn’t there long. after that i was alone.”
“then you must have left before half past twelve—for at that time a lady arrived.”
“daresay i did. the place got on my nerves as i tell you.”
poirot eyed him thoughtfully.
the bluster was uneasy—it did not ring quite true. and yet that might be explained by mere
nervousness.
poirot’s manner was simple and friendly as he said:
“miss nevill tells me that you have been very fortunate and have found a very good job
indeed.”
“the pay’s good.”
“ten pounds a week, she tells me.”
“that’s right. not too dusty, is it? shows i can pull it off when i set my mind to it.”
he swaggered a little.
“yes, indeed. and the work is not too arduous?”
frank carter said shortly:
“not too bad.”
“and interesting?”
“oh, yes, quite interesting. talking of jobs, i’ve always been interested to know how you
private detectives go about things? i suppose there’s not much of the sherlock holmes touch
really, mostly divorce nowadays?”
“i do not concern myself with divorce.”
“really? then i don’t see how you live.”
“i manage, my friend, i manage.”
“but you’re right at the top of the tree, aren’t you, m. poirot?” put in gladys nevill. “mr.
morley used to say so. i mean you’re the sort of person royalty calls in, or the home office or
duchesses.”
poirot smiled upon her.
“you flatter me,” he said.
