Agatha Christie - Hickory Dickory Dock

"Greed was her undoing," said Mr. Poirot. "She was tempted by that fine diamond in Patricia Lane's ring. It was foolish of her because it suggested at once that she was used to handling precious stones-that business of prising the diamond out and replacing it with a zircon. Yes, that certainly gave me ideas about Valerie Hobhouse. She was clever, though, when I taxed her with inspiring Celia, she admitted it and explained it in a thoroughly sympathetic way."

"But murder!" said Mrs. Hubbard.

"Cold-blooded murder. I can't really believe it even now." Inspector Sharpe looked gloomy. "We aren't in a position to charge her with the murder of Celia Austin yet," he said. "We've got her cold on the smuggling, of course. No difficulties about that. But the murder charge is more tricky. The public prosecutor doesn't see his way.

There's motive, of course, and opportunity. She probably knew all about the bet and Nigel's possession of morphia, but there's no real evidence, and there are the two other deaths to take into account. She could have poisoned Mrs. Nicoletis all right-but on the other hand, she definitely did not kill Patricia Lane.

Actually she's about the only person who's completely in the clear. Geronimo says positively that she left the house at six o'clock.

He sticks to that. I don't know whether she bribed him"

"No," said Poirot, shaking his head. "She did not bribe him."

"And we've the evidence of the chemist at the corner of the road. He knows her quite well and he sticks to it that she came in at five minutes past six and bought face powder and aspirin and used the telephone. She left his shop at quarter past six and took a taxi from the rank outside." Poirot sat up in his chair.

"But that," he said, "is magnificent! It is just what we want!"

"What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean that she actually telephoned from the box at the chemist's shop." Inspector Sharpe looked at him in an exasperated fashion.

"Now, see here, Mr. Poirot. Let's take the known facts. At eight minutes past six, Patricia Lane is alive and telephoning to the police station from this room. You agree to that?"

"I do not think she was telephoning from this room."

"Well then, from the hall downstairs."

"Not from the hall either." Inspector Sharpe sighed.

"I suppose you don't deny that a call was put through to the police station? You don't think that I and my Sergeant and Police Constable Nye, and Nigel Chapman were the victims of mass hallucination?"

"Assuredly not. A call was put through to you. I should say at a guess that it was put through from the public call box at the chemist's on the corner." Inspector Sharpe's jaw dropped for a moment.

"You mean that Valerie Hobhouse put through that call? That she pretended to speak as Patricia Lane, and that Patricia Lane was already dead?"

"That is what I mean, yes." The Inspector was silent for a moment, then he brought down his fist with a crash on the table.

"I don't believe it. The voice-I heard it myself"

"You heard it, yes. A girl's voice-breathless, agitated. But you didn't know Patricia Lane's voice well enough to say definitely that it was her voice."

"I didn't, perhaps. But it was Nigel Chapman who actually took the call. You can't tell me that Nigel Chapman could be deceived. It isn't so easy to disguile a voice over the telephone, or to counterfeit somebody else's voice. Nigel Chapman would have known if it wasn't Pat's voice speaking."

"Yes," said Poirot. - "Nigel Chapman would have known. Nigel Chapman knew quite well that it wasn't Patricia. Who should know better than he, since he had killed her with a blow on the back of the head only a short while before." It was a moment or two before the Inspector recovered his voice.

"Nigel Chapman? Nigel Chapman? But when we found her dead-he cried-cried like a child."

"I daresay," said Poirot. "I think he was as fond of that girl as he could be of anybody-but that wouldn't save her-not if she represented a menace to his interests. All along, Nigel Chapman has stood out as the obvious probability. Who had morphia in his possession? Nigel Chapman.

Who has the shallow brilliant intellect to plan, and the audacity to carry out fraud and murder?

Nigel Chapman. Who do we know to be both ruthless and vain? Nigel Chapman. He has all the hallmarks of the killer; the overweening vanity, the spitefulness, the growing recklessness that led him to draw attention to himself in every conceivable way using the green ink in a stupendous double bluff, and finally overreaching himself by the silly deliberate mistake of putting Len Bateson's hairs in Patricia's fingers, oblivious of the fact that as Patricia was struck down from behind, she could not possibly have grasped her assailant by the hair. They are like that, these murderers-carried away by their own egoism, by their admiration of their own cleverness, relying on their charm-for he has charm, this Nigel-he has all the charm of a spoiled child who has never grown up, who never will grow up-who sees only one thing, Himself, and what he wants!"

"But why, Mr. Poirot? Why murder? Celia Austin, perhaps, but why Patricia Lane?"

"That," said Poirot, "we have got to find out."

"I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU for a long time," said old Mr. Endicott to Hercule Poirot. He peered at the other keenly. "It's very nice of you to drop in."

"Not really," said Hercule Poirot. "I want something."

"Well, as you know, I'm deeply in your debt. You cleared up that nasty Abemethy business for me."

"I am surprised really to find you here. I thought you had retired." The old lawyer smiled grimly. His firm was a most respectable and old established one.

"I came in specially today to see a very old client. I still attend to the affairs of one or two old friends."

"Sir Arthur Stanley was an old friend and client, was he not?"

"Yes. We've undertaken all his legal work since he was quite a young man. A very brilliant man, Poirot quite an exceptional brain."

"His death was announced on the six o'clock news yesterday, I believe."

"Yes. The funeral's on Friday. He's been ailing some time. A malignant growth, I understand."

"Lady Stanley died some years ago?"

"Two and a half years ago, roughly." The keen eyes below the bushy brows looked sharply at Poirot.

"How did she die?" The lawyer repried promptly.

"Overdose of sleeping stuff. Medinal as far as'remember."

"There was an inquest?"

"Yes. The verdict was that she took it accidentally."

"Did she?" Mr. Endicott was silent for a moment.

"I won't insult you," he said. "I've no doubt you've got a good reason for asking.

Medinal's a rather dangerous drug, I understand, because there's not a big margin between an effective dose and a lethal one. If the patient gets drowsy and forgets she's taken a dose and takes another-well, it can have a fatal result." Poirot nodded.

"Is that what she did?"

"Presumably. There was no suggestion of suicide, or suicidal tendencies."

"And no suggestion of-anything else?"

Again that keen glance was shot at him. "Her husband gave evidence."

"And what did he say?"

"He made it clear that she did sometimes got confused after taking her nightly dose and ask for another."

"Was he lying?"

"Really, Poirot, what an outrageous question. Why should you suppose for a minute that I should know?" Poirot smiled. The attempt at bluster did not deceive him.

"I suggest, my friend, that you know very well. But for the moment I will not embarrass you by asking you what you know.

Instead I will ask you for an opinion. The opinion of one man about another. Was Arthur Stanley the kind of man who would do away with his wife if he wanted to marry another woman?" Mr. Endicott jumped as though he had been stung by a wasp.