VIII
Frank Carter was a fair young man of medium height. His appearance was cheaply smart. He
talked readily and fluently. His eyes were set rather close together and they had a way of shifting
uneasily from side to side when he was embarrassed.
He was inclined to be suspicious and slightly hostile.
“I’d no idea we were to have the pleasure of lunching with you, M. Poirot. Gladys didn’t tell me
anything about it.”
He shot her a rather annoyed glance as he spoke¹.
“It was only arranged yesterday,” said Poirot, smiling. “Miss Nevill is very upset by the
circumstances of Mr. Morley’s death and I wondered if we put our heads together—”
Frank Carter interrupted him rudely.
“Morley’s death? I’m sick of Morley’s death! Why can’t you forget him, Gladys? There wasn’t
anything so wonderful about him that I can see.”
“Oh, Frank, I don’t think you ought to say that. Why, he left me a hundred pounds. I got the
letter about it last night.”
“That’s all right,” admitted Frank grudgingly². “But after all, why shouldn’t he? He worked you
like a nigger—and who pocketed all the fat fees? Why, he did!”
“Well, of course he did—he paid me a very good salary.”
“Not according to my ideas! You’re too humble³ altogether, Gladys, my girl, you let yourself be
put upon, you know. I sized Morley up all right. You know as well as I do that he tried his best to
get you to give me the chuck.”
“He didn’t understand.”
“He understood all right. The man’s dead now—otherwise I can tell you I’d have given him a
piece of my mind.”
“You actually came round to do so on the morning of his death, did you not?” Hercule Poirot
inquired gently.
Frank Carter said angrily:
“Who’s been saying so?”
“You did come round, did you not?”
“What if I did? I wanted to see Miss Nevill here.”
“But they told you she was away.”
“Yes, and that made me pretty suspicious, I can tell you. I told that red-headed oaf I’d wait and
see Morley myself. This business of putting Gladys against me had gone on long enough. I meant
to tell Morley that, instead of being a poor

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