Agatha Christie - Hickory Dickory Dock

"You don't know who did?"

"The obvious answer is Nigel Chapman. But it seems to me a little too obvious. Nigel is intelligent. He would not use his own ink."

"And if not Nigel, who then?"

"That is more difficult. But I think Celia knew who it was-or at least guessed."

"Did she tell you so?"

"Not in so many words, but she came to my room on the evening of the day she died, before going down to dinner.

She came to tell me that though she was responsible for the thefts she had not sabotaged my work. I told her that I accepted that assurance. I asked her if she knew who had done so?"

"And what did she say?"

"She said," Elizabeth paused a moment, as though to be sure of the accuracy of what she was about to say, "She said, 'I can't really be sure, because I don't see why… It might have been a mistake or an accident… I'm sure whoever did it is very unhappy about it, and would really like to own up.' Celia went on, 'There are some things I don't understand, like the electric lighl bulbs the day the police came.'" Sharpe interrupted.

"What's tills about the police and electric light bulbs?"

"I don't know. All Celia said was: 'I didn't take them out.' And then she said: 'I wondered if it had anything to do with the passport?' I said, 'What passport are you talking about?' And she said, 'I think someone might have a forged passport.'"

The Inspector was silent for a moment or two.

Here at last some vague pattern seemed to be taking shape. A passport.

He asked, "What more did she say?"

"Nothing more. She just said: 'Anyway I shall know more about it tomorrow.'"

"She said that, did she? 'I shall know more about it tomorrow.' That's a very significant remark, Miss Johnston."

"Yes." The Inspector was silent again as he reflected.

Something about a passport-and a visit from the police… Before coming to Hickory Road, he had carefully looked up the files. A fairly close eye was kept on hostels which housed foreign students. 26 Hickory Road had a good record. Such details as there were, were meagre and unsuggestive. A West African student wanted by the Sheffield police for living on a woman's earnings; the student in question had been at Hickory Road for a few days and had then gone elsewhere, and had in due course been gathered in and since deported. There had been a routine check of all hostels and boarding houses for a Eurasian "wanted to assist the police" in the murder of a publican's wife near Cambridge. That had been cleared up when the young man in question had walked into the police station at Hull and had given himself up for the crime. There had been an inquiry into a student's distribution of subversive pamphlets. All these occurrences had taken place some time ago and could not possibly have had any connection with the death of Celia Austin.

He sighed and looked up to find Elizabeth Johnston's davit intelligent eyes watching him. On an impulse, he said, "Tell me, Miss Johnston, have you ever had a feeling-an impression-of something wrong about this place?" She looked surprised.

"In what way-wrong?"

"I couldn't really say. I'm thinking of something Miss Sally Finch said to me."

"Oh-Sally Finch!" There was an intonation in her voice which he found hard to place. He felt interested and went on: "Miss Finch seemed to me a good observer, both shrewd and practical. She was very insistent on there being somethin,-odd about this place-though she found it difficult to define just what it was." Elizabeth said sharply, "That is her American way of thought. They are all the same, these Americans, nervous, apprehensive, suspecting every kind of foolish thing!

Look at the fools they make of themselves with their witch hunts, their hysterical spy mania, their obsession over communism. Sally Finch is typical." The Inspector's interest grew. So Elizabeth disliked Sally Finch. Why? Because Sally was an American?

Or did Elizabeth dislike Americans merely because Sally Finch was an American, and had she some reason of her own for disliking the attractive red-head? Perhaps it was just simple female jealousy.

He resolved to try a line of approach that he had sometimes found useful. He said smoothly, "As you may appreciate, Miss Johnston, in an establishment like this, the level of intelligence varies a great deal. Some people-most people, we just ask for facts. But when we come across someone with a high level of intelligence-" He paused. The inference was flattering. Would she respond?

After a brief pause, she did.

"I think I understand what you mean, Inspector.

The intellectual level here is not, as you say, very high. Nigel Chapman has a certain quickness of intellect, but his mind is shallow. Leonard Batesen is a plodder-no more. Valerie Hobhouse has a good quality of mind, but her outlook is commercial, and she's too lazy to use her brains on anything worth while. What you want is the detachment of a trained mind."

"Such as yours, Miss Johnston." She accepted the tribute without a protest. He realised, with some interest, that behind her modest pleasant manner, here was a young woman who was positively arrogant in her appraisement of her own qualities.

"I'm inclined to agree with your estimate of your fellow students, Miss Johnston. Chapman is clever but childish. Valerie Hobhouse has brains but a bland attitude to life. You, as you say, have a trained mind. That's why I'd value your views-the views of a powerful detached intellect." For a moment he was afraid he had overdone it, but he need have had no fears.

"There is nothing wrong about this place, Inspector. Pay no attention to Sally Finch. This is a decent well run hostel. I am certain that you will find no trace of any subversive activities." Inspector Sharpe felt a little surprised.

"It wasn't really subversive activities I was thinking about."

"Oh-I see" She was a little taken aback.

"I was linking up what Celia said about a passport. But looking at it impartially and weighing up all the evidence, it seems quite certain to me that the reason for Celia's death was what I should express as a private onesome sex complication, perhaps. I'm sure it had nothing to do with what I might call the hostel as a hostel, or anything "going on" here.

Nothing, I am sure, is going on. I should be aware of the fact If it were so, my perceptions are very keen."

"I see. Well, thank you, Miss Johnston. You've been very kind and helpful." Elizabeth Johnston went out. Inspector Sharpe sat staring at the closed door and Sergeant Cobb had to speak to him twice before he roused himself.

"Eh?"

"I said that's the Iggallyt, sir."

"Yes, and what have we got? Precious little. But I'll tell you one thing, Cobb. I'm coming back here tomorrow with a search warrant. We'll go away talking pretty now and they'll think it's all over.

But there's some thing going on in this place. Tomorrow I'll turn it upside down, it's not so easy when you don't know what you're looking for, but there's a chance that I'll find something to give me a clue. That's a very interesting girl who just went out. She's got the ego of a neaeaIpoleon, and I strongly suspect that she knows something."

HERCULE POIROT, at work upon his correspondence, paused in the middle of a sentence that he was dictating. Mbss Lemon looked up questioningly.

"Yes, Mr. Poirot?"

"My mind wanders!" Poirot waved a hand. "After all, this letter is not important. Be so kind, Miss Lemon, as to get me your sister upon the telephone."

"Yes, Mr. Poirot." A few moments later Poirot crossed the room and took the receiver from his secretary's hand. "Allo!" he said.

"Yes, Mr. Poirot?" Mrs. Hubbard sounded rather breathless.

"I trust, Mrs. Hubbard, that I am not disturbing you?"

"I'm past being disturbed," said Mrs. Hubbard.

"There have been agitations, yes?" Poirot asked delicately.