One, Two, Buckle My Shoe by Agatha Christie

in the country all the week, you see.”
    “Ah, on the new job. What is the job, by the way?”
    “Well, I don't exactly know, M. Poirot. Something in the secretarial line, I imagine. Or some government department. I know I have to send letters to Frank's London address and they get forwarded.”
    “That is a little odd, is it not?”
    “Well, I thought so - but Frank says it is often done nowadays.”
    Poirot looked at her for a moment or two without speaking.
    Then he said deliberately:
    “Tomorrow is Sunday, is it not? Perhaps you would both give me the Pleasure of lunching with me - at Logan's Corner House? I should like to discuss this sad business with you both.”
    “Well - thank you, M. Poirot. I - yes, I'm sure we'd like to lunch with you very much.”
    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 slave - 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