There are certain humiliating moments in the lives of the greatest of men. It has been said that no
man is a hero to his valet. To that may be added that few men are heroes to themselves at the
moment of visiting their dentist.
Hercule Poirot was morbidly1 conscious of this fact.
He was a man who was accustomed to have a good opinion of himself. He was Hercule Poirot,
superior in most ways to other men. But in this moment he was unable to feel superior in any way
whatever. His morale2 was down to zero. He was just that ordinary, craven figure, a man afraid of
the dentist’s chair.
Mr. Morley had finished his professional ablutions. He was speaking now in his encouraging
professional manner.
“Hardly as warm as it should be, is it, for the time of year?”
Gently he led the way to the appointed spot—to The Chair! Deftly3 he played with its head rest,
running it up and down.
Hercule Poirot took a deep breath, stepped up, sat down and relaxed his head to Mr. Morley’s
professional fiddlings.
“There,” said Mr. Morley with hideous4 cheerfulness. “That quite comfortable? Sure?”
In sepulchral5 tones Poirot said that it was quite comfortable.
Mr. Morley swung his little table nearer, picked up his little mirror, seized an instrument and
prepared to get on with the job.
Hercule Poirot grasped the arms of the chair, shut his eyes and opened his mouth.
“Any special trouble?” Mr. Morley inquired.
Slightly indistinctly, owing to the difficulty of forming consonants6 while keeping the mouth
open, Hercule Poirot was understood to say that there was no special trouble. This was, indeed, the
twice yearly overhaul7 that his sense of order and neatness demanded. It was, of course, possible
that there might be nothing to do … Mr. Morley might, perhaps, overlook that second tooth from
the back from which those twinges had come … He might—but it was unlikely—for Mr. Morley
was a very good dentist.
Mr. Morley passed slowly from tooth to tooth, tapping and probing, murmuring little comments
as he did so.
“That filling is wearing down a little — nothing serious, though. Gums are in pretty good
condition, I’m glad to see.” A pause at a suspect, a twist of the probe—no, on again, false alarm.
He passed to the lower side. One, two—on to three?—No—“The dog,” Hercule Poirot thought in
confused idiom, “has seen the rabbit!”
“A little trouble here. Not been giving you any pain? Hm, I’m surprised.” The probe went on.
Finally Mr. Morley drew back, satisfied.
“Nothing very serious. Just a couple of fillings—and a trace of decay on that upper molar. We
can get it all done, I think, this morning.”
He turned on a switch and there was a hum. Mr. Morley un-hooked the drill and fitted a needle
to it with loving care.
“Guide me,” he said briefly8, and started the dread9 work.
It was not necessary for Poirot to avail himself of this permission, to raise a hand, to wince10, or
even to yell. At exactly the right moment, Mr. Morley stopped the drill, gave the brief command
“Rinse11,” applied12 a little dressing13, selected a new needle and continued. The ordeal14 of the drill was
terror rather than pain.
Presently, while Mr. Morley was preparing the filling, conversation was resumed.
“Have to do this myself this morning,” he explained. “Miss Nevill has been called away. You
remember Miss Nevill?”
Poirot untruthfully assented15.
“Called away to the country by the illness of a relative. Sort of thing that does happen on a busy
day. I’m behindhand already this morning. The patient before you was late. Very vexing16 when that
happens. It throws the whole morning out. Then I have to fit in an extra patient because she is in
pain. I always allow a quarter of an hour in the morning in case that happens. Still, it adds to the
rush.”
Mr. Morley peered into his little mortar17 as he ground. Then he resumed his discourse18.
“I’ll tell you something that I’ve always noticed, M. Poirot. The big people—the important
people—they’re always on time—never keep you waiting. Royalty19, for instance. Most punctilious20.
And these big City men are the same. Now this morning I’ve got a most important man coming—
Alistair Blunt!”
Mr. Morley spoke21 the name in a voice of triumph.
Poirot, prohibited from speech by several rolls of cotton wool and a glass tube that gurgled
under his tongue, made an indeterminate noise.
Alistair Blunt! Those were the names that thrilled nowadays. Not Dukes, not Earls, not Prime
Ministers. No, plain Mr. Alistair Blunt. A man whose face was almost unknown to the general
public—a man who only figured in an occasional quiet paragraph. Not a spectacular person.
Just a quiet nondescript Englishman who was the head of the greatest banking22 firm in England.
A man of vast wealth. A man who said Yes and No to Governments. A man who lived a quiet,
unobtrusive life and never appeared on a public platform or made speeches. Yet a man in whose
hands lay supreme23 power.
Mr. Morley’s voice still held a reverent24 tone as he stood over Poirot ramming25 the filling home.
“Always comes to his appointments absolutely on time. Often sends his car away and walks
back to his office. Nice, quiet, unassuming fellow. Fond of golf and keen on his garden. You’d
never dream he could buy up half Europe! Just like you and me.”
A momentary26 resentment27 rose in Poirot at this offhand28 coupling of names. Mr. Morley was a
good dentist, yes, but there were other good dentists in London. There was only one Hercule
Poirot.
“Rinse, please,” said Mr. Morley.
“It’s the answer, you know, to their Hitlers and Mussolinis and all the rest of them,” went on
Mr. Morley, as he proceeded to tooth number two. “We don’t make a fuss over here. Look how
democratic our King and Queen are. Of course, a Frenchman like you, accustomed to the
Republican idea—”
“I ah nah a Frahah—I ah—ah a Benyon.”
“Tchut—tchut—” said Mr. Morley sadly. “We must have the cavity completely dry.” He puffed29
hot air relentlessly30 on it.
Then he went on:
“I didn’t realize you were a Belgian. Very interesting. Very fine man, King Leopold, so I’ve
always heard. I’m a great believer in the tradition of Royalty myself. The training is good, you
know. Look at the remarkable31 way they remember names and faces. All the result of training—
though of course some people have a natural aptitude32 for that sort of thing. I, myself, for instance.
I don’t remember names, but it’s remarkable the way I never forget a face. One of my patients the
other day, for instance—I’ve seen that patient before. The name meant nothing to me—but I said
to myself at once, ‘Now where have I met you before?’ I’ve not remembered yet—but it will come
back to me—I’m sure of it. Just another rinse, please.”
The rinse accomplished33, Mr. Morley peered critically into his patient’s mouth.
“Well, I think that seems all right. Just close—very gently … Quite comfortable? You don’t feel
the filling at all? Open again, please. No, that seems quite all right.”
Hercule Poirot descended34, a free man.
“Well, good-bye, M. Poirot. Not detected any criminals in my house, I hope?”
Poirot said with a smile:
“Before I came up, every one looked to me like a criminal! Now, perhaps, it will be different!”
“Ah, yes, a great deal of difference between before and after! All the same, we dentists aren’t
such devils now as we used to be! Shall I ring for the lift for you?”
“No, no, I will walk down.”
“As you like—the lift is just by the stairs.”
Poirot went out. He heard the taps start to run as he closed the door behind him.
He walked down the two flights of stairs. As he came to the last bend, he saw the Anglo-Indian
Colonel being shown out. Not at all a bad-looking man, Poirot reflected mellowly35. Probably a fine
shot who had killed many a tiger. A useful man—a regular outpost of Empire.
He went into the waiting room to fetch his hat and stick which he had left there. The restless
young man was still there, somewhat to Poirot’s surprise. Another patient, a man, was reading the
Field.
Poirot studied the young man in his newborn spirit of kindliness36. He still looked very fierce—
and as though he wanted to do a murder—but not really a murderer, thought Poirot kindly37.
Doubtless, presently, this young man would come tripping down the stairs, his ordeal over, happy
and smiling and wishing no ill to anyone.
The page boy entered and said firmly and distinctly:
“Mr. Blunt.”
The man at the table laid down the Field and got up. A man of middle height, of middle age,
neither fat nor thin. Well-dressed, quiet.
He went out after the boy.
One of the richest and most powerful men in England—but he still had to go to the dentist just
like anybody else, and no doubt felt just the same as anybody else about it!
These reflections passing through his mind, Hercule Poirot picked up his hat and stick and went
to the door. He glanced back as he did so, and the startled thought went through his mind that that
young man must have very bad toothache indeed.
In the hall Poirot paused before the mirror there to adjust his moustaches, slightly disarranged as
the result of Mr. Morley’s ministrations.
He had just completed their arrangement to his satisfaction when the lift came down again and
the page boy emerged from the back of the hall whistling discordantly38. He broke off abruptly39 at
the sight of Poirot and came to open the front door for him.
A taxi had just drawn40 up before the house and a foot was protruding41 from it. Poirot surveyed the
foot with gallant42 interest.
A neat ankle, quite a good quality stocking. Not a bad foot. But he didn’t like the shoe. A brand
new patent leather shoe with a large gleaming buckle43. He shook his head.
Not chic—very provincial44!
The lady got out of the taxi, but in doing so she caught her other foot in the door and the buckle
was wrenched45 off. It fell tinkling46 on to the pavement. Gallantly47, Poirot sprang forward and picked
it up, restoring it with a bow.
Alas48! Nearer fifty than forty. Pince-nez. Untidy yellow-grey hair—unbecoming clothes—those
depressing art greens! She thanked him, dropping her pince-nez, then her handbag.
Poirot, polite if no longer gallant, picked them up for her.
She went up the steps of 58, Queen Charlotte Street, and Poirot interrupted the taxi driver’s
disgusted contemplation of a meagre tip.
“You are free, hein?”
The taxi driver said gloomily: “Oh, I’m free.”
“So am I,” said Hercule Poirot. “Free of care!”
He saw the taxi man’s air of deep suspicion.
“No, my friend, I am not drunk. It is that I have been to the dentist and I need not go again for
six months. It is a beautiful thought.”
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1
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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7
overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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rinse
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| v.用清水漂洗，用清水冲洗 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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15
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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19
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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ramming
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| n.打结炉底v.夯实（土等）( ram的现在分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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mellowly
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| 柔软且甜地，成熟地 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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discordantly
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| adv.不一致地，不和谐地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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40
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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43
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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45
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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46
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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48
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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