Hickory Dickory Dock

‘Who’s this private eye?’ ‘Never heard of him.’ ‘Oh, I have. There was a man condemned to death for the murder of a charwoman and this detective got him off at the last moment by finding the real person.’ ‘Sounds crummy to me.’ ‘I think it might be rather fun.’ ‘Colin ought to enjoy it. He’s mad on criminal psychology.’ ‘I would not put it precisely like that, but I’ll not deny that a man who has been closely acquainted with criminals might be interesting to interrogate.’

Dinner was at seven-thirty and most of the students were already seated when Mrs Hubbard came down from her sitting-room (where sherry had been served to the distinguished guest) followed by a small elderly man with suspiciously black hair and a moustache of ferocious proportions which he twirled continuously.

‘These are some of our students, M. Poirot. This is M. Hercule Poirot who is kindly going to talk to us after dinner.’

Salutations were exchanged and Poirot sat down by Mrs Hubbard and busied himself with keeping his moustaches out of the excellent minestrone which was served by a small active Italian manservant from a big tureen.

This was followed by a piping hot dish of spaghetti and meat balls and it was then that a girl sitting on Poirot’s right spoke shyly to him.

‘Does Mrs Hubbard’s sister really work for you?’

Poirot turned to her.

‘But yes indeed. Miss Lemon has been my secretary for many years. She is the most efficient woman that ever lived. I am sometimes afraid of her.’

‘Oh I see. I wondered—’

‘Now what did you wonder, mademoiselle?’

He smiled upon her in paternal fashion, making a mental note as he did so.

‘Pretty, worried, not too quick mentally, frightened…’ He said:

‘May I know your name and what it is you are studying?’

‘Celia Austin. I don’t study. I’m a dispenser at St Catherine’s Hospital.’

‘Ah, that is interesting work?’

‘Well, I don’t know—perhaps it is.’ She sounded rather uncertain.

‘And these others? Can you tell me something about them, perhaps? I understood this was a home for foreign students, but these seem mostly to be English.’

‘Some of the foreign ones are out. Mr Chandra Lal and Mr Gopal Ram—they’re Indians—and Miss Reinjeer who’s Dutch—and Mr Achmed Ali who’s Egyptian and frightfully political!’

‘And those who are here? Tell me about these.’

‘Well, sitting on Mrs Hubbard’s left is Nigel Chapman. He’s studying Medieval History and Italian at London University. Then there’s Patricia Lane next to him, with the spectacles. She’s taking a diploma in Archaeology. The big red-headed boy is Len Bateson, he’s a medical and the dark girl is Valerie Hobhouse, she’s in a beauty shop. Next to her is Colin McNabb—he’s doing a post-graduate course in Psychiatry.’

There was a faint change in her voice as she described Colin. Poirot glanced keenly at her and saw that the colour had come up in her face.

He said to himself:

‘So—she is in love and she cannot easily conceal the fact.’

He noticed that young McNabb never seemed to look at her across the table, being far too much taken up with his conversation with a laughing red-headed girl beside him.

‘That’s Sally Finch. She’s American—over here on a Fulbright. Then there’s Genevieve Maricaud. She’s doing English, and so is René Halle who sits next to her. The small fair girl is Jean Tomlinson—she’s at St Catherine’s too. She’s a physiotherapist. The black man is Akibombo—he comes from West Africa and he’s frightfully nice. Then there’s Elizabeth Johnston, she’s from Jamaica and she’s studying law. Next to us on my right are two Turkish students who came about a week ago. They know hardly any English.’

‘Thank you. And do you all get on well together? Or do you have quarrels?’

The lightness of his tone robbed the words of seriousness.

Celia said:

‘Oh, we’re all too busy really to have fights—although—’

‘Although what, Miss Austin?’

‘Well—Nigel—next to Mrs Hubbard. He likes stirring people up and making them angry. And Len Bateson gets angry. He gets wild with rage sometimes. But he’s very sweet really.’

‘And Colin McNabb—does he too get annoyed?’

‘Oh no. Colin just raises his eyebrows and looks amused.’

‘I see. And the young ladies, do you have your quarrels?’

‘Oh no, we all get on very well. Genevieve has feelings sometimes. I think French people are inclined to be touchy—oh, I mean—I’m sorry—’

Celia was the picture of confusion.

‘Me, I am Belgian,’ said Poirot solemnly. He went on quickly, before Celia could recover control of herself: ‘What did you mean just now, Miss Austin, when you said that you wondered. You wondered—what?’

She crumbled her bread nervously.

‘Oh that—nothing—nothing really—just, there have been some silly practical jokes lately—I thought Mrs Hubbard—But really it was silly of me. I didn’t mean anything.’

Poirot did not press her. He turned away to Mrs Hubbard and was presently engaged in a three-cornered conversation with her and with Nigel Chapman, who introduced the controversial challenge that crime was a form of creative art—and that the misfits of society were really the police who only entered that profession because of their secret sadism. Poirot was amused to note that the anxious-looking young woman in spectacles who sat beside him tried desperately to explain away his remarks as fast as he made them. Nigel, however, took absolutely no notice of her.

Mrs Hubbard looked benignly amused.

‘All you young people nowadays think of nothing but politics and psychology,’ she said. ‘When I was a girl we were much more lighthearted. We danced. If you rolled back the carpet in the common-room there’s quite a good floor, and you could dance to the wireless, but you never do.’

Celia laughed and said with a tinge of malice:

‘But you used to dance, Nigel. I’ve danced with you myself once, though I don’t expect you remember.’

‘You’ve danced with me,’ said Nigel incredulously. ‘Where?’

‘At Cambridge—in May Week.’

‘Oh, May Week!’ Nigel waved away the follies of youth. ‘One goes through that adolescent phase. Mercifully it soon passes.’

Nigel was clearly not much more than twenty-five now. Poirot concealed a smile in his moustache.

Patricia Lane said earnestly:

‘You see, Mrs Hubbard, there is so much study to be done. With lectures to attend and one’s notes to write up, there’s really not time for anything but what is really worth while.’

‘Well, my dear, one’s only young once,’ said Mrs Hubbard.

A chocolate pudding succeeded the spaghetti and afterwards they all went into the common-room, and helped themselves to coffee from an urn that stood on a table. Poirot was then invited to begin his discourse. The two Turks politely excused themselves. The rest seated themselves and looked expectant.

Poirot rose to his feet and spoke with his usual aplomb. The sound of his own voice was always pleasant to him, and he spoke for three-quarters of an hour in a light and amusing fashion, recalling those of his experiences that lent themselves to an agreeable exaggeration. If he managed to suggest, in a subtle fashion, that he was, perhaps, something of a mountebank, it was not too obviously contrived.

‘And so, you see,’ he finished, ‘I say to this city gentleman that I am reminded of a soap manufacturer I knew in Liége who poisoned his wife in order to marry a beautiful blonde secretary. I say it very lightly but at once I get a reaction. He presses upon me the stolen money I had just recovered for him. He goes pale and there is fear in his eyes. “I will give this money,” I say, “to a deserving charity.” “Do anything you like with it,” he says. And I say to him then, and I say it very significantly, “It will be advisable, monsieur, to be very careful.” He nods, speechless, and as I go out, I see that he wipes his forehead. He has had the big fright, and I—I have saved his life. For though he is infatuated with his blonde secretary he will not now try and poison his stupid and disagreeable wife. Prevention, always, is better than cure. We want to prevent murders—not wait until they have been committed.’

He bowed and spread out his hands.

‘There, I have wearied you long enough.’

The students clapped him vigorously. Poirot bowed. And then, as he was about to sit down, Colin McNabb took his pipe from between his teeth and observed:

‘And now, perhaps, you’ll talk about what you’re really here for!’

There was a momentary silence and then Patricia said reproachfully, ‘Colin.’

‘Well, we can guess, can’t we?’ He looked round scornfully. ‘M. Poirot’s given us a very amusing little talk, but that’s not what he came here for. He’s on the job. You don’t really think, M. Poirot, that we’re not wise to that?’

‘You speak for yourself, Colin,’ said Sally.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ said Colin.

Again Poirot spread out his hands in a graceful acknowledging gesture.

‘I will admit,’ he said, ‘that my kind hostess has confided to me that certain events have caused her—worry.’

Len Bateson got up, his face heavy and truculent.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘what’s all this? Has this been planted on us?’

‘Have you really only just tumbled to that, Bateson?’ asked Nigel sweetly.

Celia gave a frightened gasp and said: Then I was right!’

Mrs Hubbard spoke with decisive authority.

‘I asked M. Poirot to give us a talk, but I also wanted to ask his advice about various things that have happened lately. Something’s got to be done and it seemed to me that the only other alternative is—the police.’

At once a violent altercation broke out. Genevieve burst into heated French. ‘It was a disgrace, shameful, to go to the police!’ Other voices chimed in, for or against. In a final lull Leonard Bateson’s voice was raised with decision.

‘Let’s hear what M. Poirot has to say about our trouble.’

Mrs Hubbard said:

‘I’ve given M. Poirot all the facts. If he wants to ask any questions, I’m sure none of you will object.’

Poirot bowed to her.

‘Thank you.’ With the air of a conjurer he brought out a pair of evening shoes and handed them to Sally Finch.

‘Your shoes, mademoiselle?’

‘Why—yes—both of them? Where did the missing one come from?’

‘From the Lost Property Office at Baker Street Station.’

‘But what made you think it might be there, M. Poirot?’

‘A very simple process of deduction. Someone takes a shoe from your room. Why? Not to wear and not to sell. And since the house will be searched by everyone to try and find it, then the shoe must be got out of the house, or destroyed. But it is not so easy to destroy a shoe. The easiest way is to take it in a bus or train in a parcel in the rush hour and leave it thrust down under a seat. That was my first guess and it proved right—so I knew that I was on safe ground—the shoe was taken, as your poet says, “to annoy, because he knows it teases.”’

Valerie gave a short laugh.

‘That points to you, Nigel, my love, with an unerring finger.’

Nigel said, smirking a little, ‘If the shoe fits, wear it.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sally. ‘Nigel didn’t take my shoe.’

‘Of course he didn’t,’ said Patricia angrily. ‘It’s the most absurd idea.’

‘I don’t know about absurd,’ said Nigel. ‘Actually I didn’t do anything of the kind—as no doubt we shall all say.’

It was as though Poirot had been waiting for just those words as an actor waits for his cue. His eyes rested thoughtfully on Len Bateson’s flushed face, then they swept inquiringly over the rest of the students.

He said, using his hands in a deliberately foreign gesture:

‘My position is delicate. I am a guest here. I have come at the invitation of Mrs Hubbard—to spend a pleasant evening, that is all. And also, of course, to return a very charming pair of shoes to mademoiselle. For anything further—’ he paused. ‘Monsieur—Bateson? yes, Bateson—has asked me to say what I myself think of this—trouble. But it would be an impertinence for me to speak unless I were invited so to do not by one person alone, but by you all.’

Mr Akibombo was seen to nod his black curled head in vigorous asseveration.

‘That is very correct procedure, yes,’ he said. ‘True democratic proceeding is to put matter to the voting of all present.’

The voice of Sally Finch rose impatiently.

‘Oh, shucks,’ she said. ‘This is a kind of party, all friends together. Let’s hear what M. Poirot advises without any more fuss.’

‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Sally,’ said Nigel.

Poirot bowed his head.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Since you all ask me this question, I reply that my advice is quite simple. Mrs Hubbard—or Mrs Nicoletis rather—should call in the police at once. No time should be lost.’

CHAPTER 5

There was no doubt that Poirot’s statement was unexpected. It caused not a ripple of protest or comment, but a sudden and uncomfortable silence.

Under cover of that momentary paralysis, Poirot was taken by Mrs Hubbard up to her own sitting-room, with only a quick polite ‘Good night to you all,’ to herald his departure.

Mrs Hubbard switched on the light, closed the door, and begged M. Poirot to take the arm-chair by the fireplace. Her nice good-humoured face was puckered with doubt and anxiety. She offered her guest a cigarette, but Poirot refused politely, explaining that he preferred his own. He offered her one, but she refused, saying in an abstracted tone: ‘I don’t smoke, M. Poirot.’

Then, as she sat down opposite him, she said, after a momentary hesitation:

‘I dare say you’re right, M. Poirot. Perhaps we should get the police in on this—especially after this malicious ink business. But I rather wish you hadn’t said so—right out like that.’

‘Ah,’ said Poirot, as he lit one of his tiny cigarettes and watched the smoke ascend. ‘You think I should have dissembled?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s nice to be fair and above board about things—but it seems to me it might have been better to keep quiet, and just ask an officer to come round and explain things privately to him. What I mean is, whoever’s been doing these stupid things—well, that person’s warned now.’

‘Perhaps, yes.’

‘I should say quite certainly,’ said Mrs Hubbard, rather sharply. ‘No perhaps about it! Even if he’s one of the servants or a student who wasn’t here this evening, the word will get around. It always does.’

‘So true. It always does.’

‘And there’s Mrs Nicoletis, too. I really don’t know what attitude she’ll take up. One never does know with her.’

‘It will be interesting to find out.’

‘Naturally we can’t call in the police unless she agrees—oh, who’s that now?’

There had been a sharp authoritative tap on the door. It was repeated and almost before Mrs Hubbard had called an irritable ‘Come in,’ the door opened and Colin McNabb, his pipe clenched firmly between his teeth and a scowl on his face, entered the room.

Removing the pipe, and closing the door behind him, he said:

‘You’ll excuse me, but I was anxious to just have a word with M. Poirot here.’

‘With me?’ Poirot turned his head in innocent surprise.

‘Ay, with you.’ Colin spoke grimly.

He drew up a rather uncomfortable chair and sat squarely on it facing Hercule Poirot.

‘You’ve given us an amusing talk tonight,’ he said indulgently. ‘And I’ll not deny that you’re a man who’s had a varied and lengthy experience, but if you’ll excuse me for saying so, your methods and your ideas are both equally antiquated.’

‘Really, Colin,’ said Mrs Hubbard, colouring. ‘You’re extremely rude.’

‘I’m not meaning to give offence, but I’ve got to make things clear. Crime and Punishment, M. Poirot—that’s as far as your horizon stretches.’

‘They seem to me a natural sequence,’ said Poirot.

‘You take the narrow view of the Law—and what’s more, of the Law at its most old-fashioned. Nowadays, even the Law has to keep itself cognisant of the newest and most up-to-date theories of what causes crime. It is the causes that are important, M. Poirot.’

‘But there,’ cried Poirot, ‘to speak in your new-fashioned phrase, I could not agree with you more!’

‘Then you’ve got to consider the cause of what has been happening in this house—you’ve got to find out why these things have been done.’

‘But I am still agreeing with you—yes, that is most important.’

‘Because there always is a reason, and it may be, to the person concerned, a very good reason.’

At this point Mrs Hubbard, unable to contain herself, interjected sharply, ‘Rubbish.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Colin, turning slightly towards her. ‘You’ve got to take into account the psychological background.’

‘Psychological balderdash,’ said Mrs Hubbard. ‘I’ve no patience with all that sort of talk!’

‘That’s because you know precisely nothing about it,’ said Colin, in a gravely rebuking fashion. He returned his gaze to Poirot.

‘I’m interested in these subjects. I am at present taking a post-graduate course in psychiatry and psychology. We come across the most involved and astounding cases and what I’m pointing out to you, M. Poirot, is that you can’t just dismiss the criminal with a doctrine of original sin, or wilful disregard of the laws of the land. You’ve got to have an understanding of the root of the trouble if you’re ever to effect a cure of the young delinquent. These ideas were not known or thought of in your day and I’ve no doubt you find them hard to accept—’

‘Stealing’s stealing,’ put in Mrs Hubbard stubbornly.

Colin frowned impatiently.

Poirot said meekly:

‘My ideas are doubtless old-fashioned, but I am perfectly prepared to listen to you, Mr McNabb.’

Colin looked agreeably surprised.

‘That’s very fairly said, M. Poirot. Now I’ll try to make this matter clear to you, using very simple terms.’

‘Thank you,’ said Poirot meekly.

‘For convenience’s sake, I’ll start with the pair of shoes you brought with you tonight and returned to Sally Finch. If you remember, one shoe was stolen. Only one.’

‘I remember being struck by the fact,’ said Poirot.

Colin McNabb leaned forward; his dour but handsome features were lit up by eagerness.

‘Ah, but you didn’t see the significance of it. It’s one of the prettiest and most satisfying examples anyone could wish to come across. We have here, very definitely, a Cinderella complex. You are maybe acquainted with the Cinderella fairy story.’

‘Of French origin—mais oui.’

‘Cinderella, the unpaid drudge, sits by the fire; her sisters, dressed in their finery, go to the Prince’s ball. A Fairy Godmother sends Cinderella too, to that ball. At the stroke of midnight, her finery turns back to rags—she escapes hurriedly, leaving behind her one slipper. So here we have a mind that compares itself to Cinderella (unconsciously, of course). Here we have frustration, envy, the sense of inferiority. The girl steals a slipper. Why?’

‘A girl?’

‘But naturally, a girl. That,’ said Colin reprovingly, ‘should be clear to the meanest intelligence.’

‘Really, Colin!’ said Mrs Hubbard.

‘Pray continue,’ said Poirot courteously.

‘Probably she herself does not know why she does it—but the inner wish is clear. She wants to be the Princess, to be identified by the Prince and claimed by him. Another significant fact, the slipper is stolen from an attractive girl who is going to a ball.’

Colin’s pipe had long since gone out. He waved it now with mounting enthusiasm.

‘And now we’ll take a few of the other happenings. A magpie acquiring of pretty things—all things associated with attractive femininity. A powder compact, lipsticks, ear-rings, a bracelet, a ring—there is a two-fold significance here. The girl wants to be noticed. She wants, even, to be punished—as is frequently the case with very young juvenile delinquents. These things are none of them what you could call ordinary criminal thefts. It is not the value of these things that is wanted. In just such a way do well-to-do women go into department stores and steal things they could perfectly well afford to pay for.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Hubbard belligerently. ‘Some people are just plain dishonest, that’s all there is to it.’

‘Yet a diamond ring of some value was amongst the things stolen,’ said Poirot, ignoring Mrs Hubbard’s interpolation.

‘That was returned.’

‘And surely, Mr McNabb, you would not say that a stethoscope is a feminine pretty pretty?’

‘That had a deeper significance. Women who feel they are deficient in feminine attraction can find sublimation in the pursuit of a career.’

‘And the cookery book?’

‘A symbol of home life, husband and family.’

‘And boracic powder?’

Colin said irritably:

‘My dear M. Poirot. Nobody would steal boracic powder! Why should they?’

‘This is what I have asked myself. I must admit, M. McNabb, that you seem to have an answer for everything. Explain to me, then, the significance of the disappearance of an old pair of flannel trousers—your flannel trousers, I understand.’

For the first time Colin appeared ill at ease. He blushed and cleared his throat.

‘I could explain that—but it would be somewhat involved, and perhaps—er well, rather embarrassing.’

‘Ah, you spare my blushes.’

Suddenly Poirot leaned forward and tapped the young man on the knee.

‘And the ink that is spilt over another student’s papers, the silk scarf that is cut and slashed. Do these things cause you no disquietude?’

The complacence and superiority of Colin’s manner underwent a sudden and not unlikeable change.

‘They do,’ he said. ‘Believe me, they do. It’s serious. She ought to have treatment—at once. But medical treatment, that’s the point. It’s not a case for the police. She’s all tied up in knots. If I…’

Poirot interrupted him.

‘You know then who she is?’

‘Well, I have a very strong suspicion.’

Poirot murmured with the air of one who is recapitulating:

‘A girl who is not outstandingly successful with the other sex. A shy girl. An affectionate girl. A girl whose brain is inclined to be slow in its reactions. A girl who feels frustrated and lonely. A girl…’

There was a tap on the door. Poirot broke off. The tap was repeated.

‘Come in,’ said Mrs Hubbard.

The door opened and Celia Austin came in.

‘Ah,’ said Poirot, nodding his head. ‘Exactly. Miss Celia Austin.’

Celia looked at Colin with agonised eyes.

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I came—I came…’

She took a deep breath and rushed to Mrs Hubbard.

‘Please, please don’t send for the police. It’s me. I’ve been taking those things. I don’t know why. I can’t imagine. I didn’t want to. It just—it just came over me.’ She whirled round on Colin. ‘So now you know what I’m like…and I suppose you’ll never speak to me again. I know I’m awful…’

‘Och! not a bit of it,’ said Colin. His rich voice was warm and friendly. ‘You’re just a bit mixed-up, that’s all. It’s just a kind of illness you’ve had, from not looking at things clearly. If you’ll trust me, Celia, I’ll soon be able to put you right.’

‘Oh Colin—really?’

Celia looked at him with unconcealed adoration.

‘I’ve been so dreadfully worried.’

He took her hand in a slightly avuncular manner.

‘Well, there’s no need to worry any more.’ Rising to his feet he drew Celia’s hand through his arm and looked sternly at Mrs Hubbard.

‘I hope now,’ he said, ‘that there’ll be no more foolish talk of calling in the police. Nothing’s been stolen of any real worth, and what has been taken Celia will return.’