One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (Hercule Poirot 23)

“Ah, so the news has brought you along. Have any of the papers mentioned who ‘the friend’ was with the P.M.?”

“No, who was it?”

“Alistair Blunt.”

“Really?”

“And,” went on Japp, “we’ve every reason to believe that the bullet was meant for Blunt and not for the P.M. That is, unless the man was an even more thundering bad shot than he is already!”

“Who did it?”

“Some crazy Hindu student. Half-baked, as usual. But he was put up to it. It wasn’t all his own idea.”

Japp added:

“Quite a sound bit of work getting him. There’s usually a small group of people, you know, watching No. 10. When the shot was fired, a young American grabbed hold of a little man with a beard. He held on to him like grim death and yelled to the police that he’d got the man. Meanwhile the Indian was quietly hooking it—but one of our people nabbed him all right.”

“Who was the American?” asked Poirot curiously.

“Young fellow by the name of Raikes. Why—” He stopped short, staring at Poirot. “What’s the matter?”

Poirot said:

“Howard Raikes, staying at the Holborn Palace Hotel?”

“That’s right. Who—why, of course! I thought the name seemed familiar. He’s the patient who ran away that morning when Morley shot himself….”

He paused. He said slowly:

“Rum—how that old business keeps cropping up. You’ve still got your ideas about it, haven’t you, Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot replied gravely:

“Yes. I still have my ideas….”

V

At the Gothic House, Poirot was received by a secretary, a tall, limp young man with an accomplished social manner.

He was pleasantly apologetic.

“I am so sorry, M. Poirot—and so is Mr. Blunt. He has been called to Downing Street. The result of this—er—incident last night. I rang your flat, but unfortunately you had already left.”

The young man went on rapidly:

“Mr. Blunt commissioned me to ask you if it would be possible for you to spend the weekend with him at his house in Kent. Exsham, you know. If so, he would call for you in the car tomorrow evening.”

Poirot hesitated.

The young man said persuasively:

“Mr. Blunt is really most anxious

to see you.”

Hercule Poirot bowed his head.

He said: “Thank you. I accept.”