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

It was like a kaleidoscope—shoe buckles, 10-inch stockings, a damaged face, the low tastes in literature of Alfred the page boy, the activities of Mr. Amberiotis, and the part played by the late Mr. Morley, all rose up and whirled and settled themselves down into a coherent pattern.

For the first time, Hercule Poirot was looking at the case the right way up.

“For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft and stubborness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord he hath also rejected thee from being king. Here endeth the first lesson,” quavered the aged clergyman all in one breath.

As one in a dream, Hercule Poirot rose to praise the Lord in the Te Deum.

THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN, MAIDS ARE COURTING

I

“M. Reilly, is it not?”

The young Irishman started as the voice spoke at his elbow.

He turned.

Standing next to him at the counter of the Shipping Co. was a small man with large moustaches and an egg-shaped head.

“You do not remember me, perhaps?”

“You do yourself an injustice, M. Poirot. You’re not a man that’s easily forgotten.”

He turned back to speak to the clerk behind the counter who was waiting.

The voice at his elbow murmured:

“You are going abroad for a holiday?”

“It’s not a holiday I’m taking. And you yourself, M. Poirot? You’re not turning your back on this country, I hope?”

“Sometimes,” said Hercule Poirot, “I return for a short while to my own country—Belgium.”

“I’m going farther than that,” said Reilly. “It’s America for me.” He added: “And I don’t think I’ll be coming back, either.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Reilly. You are, then, abandoning your practice in Queen Charlotte Street.”

“If you’d say it was abandoning me, you’d be nearer the mark.”

“Indeed? That is very sad.”

“It doesn’t worry me. When I think of the debts I shall leave behind me unpaid, I’m a happy man.”

He grinned engagingly.

“It’s not I who’ll be shooting myself because of money troubles. Leave them behind you, I say, and start afresh. I’ve got my qualifications and they’re good ones if I say so myself.”

Poirot murmured:

“I saw Miss Morley the other day.”

“Was that a pleasure to you? I’d say it was not. A more sour-faced woman never lived. I’ve often wondered what she’d be like drunk—but that’s what no one will ever know.”

Poirot said:

“Did you agree with the verdict of the Coroner’s Court on your partner’s death?”

“I did not,” said Reilly emphatically.