One, Two, Buckle My Shoe by Agatha Christie Page A

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.
    IX
    Poirot walked home through the deserted streets in a thoughtful frame of mind.
    When he got in, he rang up Japp.
    “Forgive my troubling you, my friend, but did you ever do anything in the matter of tracing that telegram that was sent to Gladys Nevill?”
    “Still harping on the subject? Yes, we did, as a matter of fact. There was a telegram and rather clever - the Aunt lives at Richbourne in Somerset. The telegram was handed in at Richbarn - you know, the London suburb.”
    Hercule Poirot said appreciatively:
    “That was clever - yes, that was clever. If the recipient happened to glance at where the telegram was handed in, the word would look sufficiently like Richbourne to carry conviction.”
    He paused.
    “Do you know what I think, Japp?”
    “Well?”
    “There are signs of brains in this business.”
    “Hercule Poirot wants it to be murder, so it's got to be murder.”
    “How do you explain that telegram?”
    “Coincidence. Someone was hoaxing the girl.”
    “Why should they?”
    “Oh, my goodness, Poirot, why do people do things? Practical jokes, hoaxes. Misplaced sense of humor, that's all.”
    “And somebody felt like being funny just on the day that Morley was going to make a mistake over an injection.”
    “There may have been a certain amount of cause and effect. Because Miss Nevill was away, Morley was more rushed than usual and consequently was more likely to make a mistake.”
    “I am still not satisfied.”
    “I daresay - but don't you see where your view is leading you? If anybody got la Nevill out of the way, it was probably Morley himself. Making his killing of Amberiotis deliberate and not an accident.”
    Poirot was silent. Japp said:
    “You see?”
    Poirot said:
    “Amberiotis might have been killed some other way.”
    “Not he. Nobody came to see him at the Savoy. He lunched up in his room. And the doctors say the stuff was definitely injected, not taken by mouth - it wasn't in the stomach. So there you are. It's a clear case.”
    “That is what we are meant to think.”
    “The A.C. is satisfied anyway.”
    “And he is satisfied with the disappearing lady?”
    “The Case of the Vanishing Sal? No, I can tell you, we're still working on that. That woman's got to be somewhere. You can't just walk out into the street and disappear.”
    “She seems to have done so.”
    “For the moment. But she must be somewhere, alive or dead, and I don't think she is dead.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because we'd have found her body by now.”
    “Oh, my Japp, do bodies always come to light so soon?”
    “I suppose you're hinting that she's been murdered now and that we'll find her in a quarry, cut up in little pieces like Mrs. Ruxton?”
    “After all, mon ami, you do have missing persons who are not found.”
    “Very seldom, old boy. Lots of women disappear, yes, but we usually find 'em, all right. Nine times out of ten it's a case of good old sex. They're somewhere with a man. But I don't think it could be