II
It was a police constable¹ who opened the door of 58. He said respectfully:
“M. Poirot?”
“It’s I, myself.”
“The Chief Inspector² is upstairs. Second floor—you know it?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I was there this morning.”
There were three men in the room. Japp looked up as Poirot entered.
He said:
“Glad to see you, Poirot. We’re just going to move him. Like to see him first?”
A man with a camera who had been kneeling near the body got up.
Poirot came forward. The body was lying near the fireplace.
In death Mr. Morley looked very much as he had looked in life. There was a little blackened
hole just below his right temple. A small pistol lay on the floor near his outflung right hand.
Poirot shook his head gently.
Japp said:
“All right, you can move him now.”
They took Mr. Morley away. Japp and Poirot were left alone.
Japp said:
“We’re through all the routine. Fingerprints³, etc.”
Poirot sat down. He said:
“Tell me.”
Japp pursed his lips. He said:
“He could have shot himself. He probably did shoot himself. There are only his fingerprints on
the gun—but I’m not quite satisfied.”
“What are your objections?”
“Well, to begin with, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why he should shoot himself … He
was in good health, he was making money, he hadn’t any worries that anyone knew of. He wasn’t
mixed up with a woman—at least,” Japp corrected himself cautiously, “as far as we know he
wasn’t. He hasn’t been moody⁴ or depressed⁵ or unlike himself. That’s partly why I was anxious to
hear what you said. You saw him this morning, and I wondered if you’d noticed anything.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Nothing at all. He was—what shall I say—normality itself.”
“Then that makes it odd, doesn’t it? Anyway, you wouldn’t think a man would shoot himself in
the middle of business hours, so to speak. Why not wait till this evening? That would be the

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