Agatha Christie - Hickory Dickory Dock

"I see. What message?" Geronimo said sulkily, "Only that there is gentleman downstairs to see la Signora Hubbard."

"All right. Go along in, sonny, and tell her." He walked past Geronimo down the passage and then, taking a leaf out of the Italian's book, turned sharply, and tiptoed noiselessly back. Might as well know if little monkey face had been telling the truth.

He arrived in time to hear Geronimo say, "The gentleman who came to supper the other night, the gentleman with the moustaches, he is downstairs waiting to see you."

"Eh? What?" Mrs. Hubbard sounded abstracted. "Oh, thank you, Geronimo. I'll be down in a minute or two.

"Gentleman with the moustaches, eh," said Sharpe to himself, grinning. "I bet I know who that is." He went downstairs and into the Common Room. "Hullo, Mr. Poirot," he said. "It's a long time since we met." Poirot rose without visible discomposure from a kneeling position by the bottom shelf near the fireplace.

"Aha," he said. "But surely-yes, it is Inspector Sharpe, is it not? But you were not formerly in this division?"

"Transferred two years ago. Remember that business down at Crays Hill?"

"Ah yes. That is a long time ago now. You are still a young man, Inspector"

"Getting on, getting on."

"And I am an old one. Alas!" Poirot sighed.

"But still active, eh, Mr. Poirot. Active in certain ways, shall we say?"

"Now what do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I'd like to know why you came along here the other night to give a lecture on criminology to students." Poirot smiled.

"But there is such a simple explanation. Mrs. Hubhard here is the sister of my much valued secretary, Miss Lemon. So when she asked me-"

"When she asked you to look into what had been going on here, you came along. That's it really, isn't it?"

"You are quite correct."

"But why? That's what I want to know. What was there in it for you?"

"To interest me, you mean?"

"That's what I mean. Here's a silly kid who's been pinching a few things here and there. Happens all the time. Rather small beer for you, Mr. Poirot, isn't it?" Poirot shook his head. "Why not? What isn't simple about it?"

"It is not so simple as that." Poirot sat down on a chair. With a slight frown he dusted the knees of his trousers. "I wish I knew," he said simply.

Sharpe frowned.

"I don't understand," he said.

"No, and I do not understand. The things that were taken" he shook his head. "They did not make a pattern-they did not make sense. It is like seeing a trail of footprints and they are not all made by the same feet. There is, quite clearly, the print of what you have called "a silly kid"-but there is more than that. Other things happened that were meant to fit in with the pattern of Celia Austin-but they did not fit in. They were meaningless, apparently purposeless.

There was evidence, too, of malice. And Celia was not malicious."

"She was a kleptomaniac?"

"I should very much doubt it."

"Just an ordinary petty thief, then?"

"Not in the way you mean. I give it to you as my opinion that all this pilfering of petty objects was done to attract the attention of a certain young man."

"Colin McNabb?"

"She was desperately in love with Colin McNabb. Colin never noticed her. Instead of a nice, pretty, well behaved young girl, she displayed herself as an interesting young criminal. The result was successful. Colin McNabb immediately fell for her, as they say, in a big way."

"He must be a complete fool, then."

"Not at all. He is a keen psychologist."

"Oh," Inspector Sharpe groaned. "One of those! I understand now." A faint grin showed on his face. "Pretty smart of the girl."

"Surprisingly so." Poirot repeated, musingly, "Yes, surprisingly so." Inspector Sharpe looked alert.

"Meaning by that, Mr. Poirot?"

"That I wondered-I still wonder-if the idea had been suggested to her by someone else?"

"For what reason?"

"How do I know? Altruism? Some ulterior motive? One is in the dark."

"Any ideas as to who it might have been who gave her the tip?"

"No-unless-but no"

"All the same," said Sharpe, pondering, "I don't quite get it. If she's been simply trying this kleptomania business on, and it's succeeded, why the hell go and commit suicide?"

"The answer is that she should not have committed suicide." The two men looked at each other.

Poirot murmured: "You really are quite sure that she did?"

"It's clear as day, Mr. Poirot There's no reason to believe otherwise and-" The door opened and Mrs. Hubbard came in.

She looked flushed and triumphant. Her chin stuck out aggressively.

"I've got it," she said triumphantly. "Good morning, Mr. Poirot. I've got it, Inspector Sharpe. It came to me quite suddenly. Why that suicide note looked wrong, I mean. Celia couldn't possibly have written it."

"Why not, Mrs. Hubbard?"

"Because it's written in ordinary blue black ink. And Celia filled her pen with green ink-that ink over there," Mrs. Hubbard nodded towards the shelf, "at breakfast time yesterday morning." Inspector Sharpe, a somewhat different Inspector Sharpe, came back into the room which he had left abruptly after Mrs. Hubbard's statement.

"Quite right," he said. "I've checked up. The only pen in the girl's room, the one that was by her bed, has green ink in it. Now that green ink" Mrs. Hubbard held up the nearly empty bottle.

Then she explained, clearly and concisely, the scene at the breakfast table.

"I feel sure," she ended, "that the scrap of paper was torn out of the letter she had written to me yesterday-and which I never opened."

"What did she do with it? Can you remember?" Mrs. Hubbard shook her head.

"I left her alone in here and went to do my housekeeping. She must, I think, have left it lying somewhere in here, and forgotten about it."

"And somebody found it… and opened it somebody-" He broke off.

"You realize," he said, "what this means? I haven't been very happy about this torn bit of paper all along. There was quite a pile of lecture notepaper in her room commuch more natural to write a suicide note on one of them. This means that somebody saw the possibility of using the opening phrase of her letter to you-to suggest something very different. To suggest suicide-" He paused and then said slowly, "This means-"

"Murder," said Hercule Poirot.

THOUGH PERSONALLY DEPRECATING the five o'clock as inhibiting the proper appreciation of the supreme meal of the day, dinner, Poirot was now getting quite accustomed to serving it.

The resourceful George had on this occasion produced large cups, a pot of really strong Indian tea and, in addition to the hot and buttery square crumpets, bread and jam and a large square of rich plum cake.

All this for the delectation of Inspector Sharpe who was leaning back contentedly sipping his third cup of tea.

"You don't mind my coming along like this, M. Poirot? I've got an hour to spare until the time when the students will be getting back. I shall want to question them all and, frankly, it's not a business I'm looking forward to. You met some of them the other night and I wondered If you could give me any useful on the foreigners, anyway."

"You think I am a good judge of foreigners? But, mon cher, there were no Belgians amongst them."

"No Belg- Oh, I see what you mean! You mean that as you're a Belgian, all the other nationalities are as foreign to you as they are to me. But that's not quite true, is it? I mean you probably know more about the Continental types than I do-though not the Indians and the West Africans and that lot."

"Your best assistance will probably be from Mrs. Hubbard. She has been there for some months in intimate association with these young people and she is quite a good judge of human nature."